Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II (25 page)

“I’ve a mind to keep your dog,” a gentle voice from the vicinity of the fireplace floated over to her.

Ettie turned her head on the pillow and felt again the dizzying effects of nausea. She groaned and closed her eyes.

A warm, dry hand was pressed against her forehead and the same voice said, “I’m sorry to make you move, but I really think you should try to sit up.”

Ettie groaned again, but nodded her head almost imperceptibly in order to avoid disturbing too much of its contents. She looked up into the cool blue eyes of a very elderly lady. Her face was covered with wrinkles; the fine, dry skin was a testament to a time long before when it had been one of the most perfect complexions in society.

“I’m Abigail Ravensdale, Clementine’s aunt,” the woman told her as she helped Ettie sit up, fluffing pillows and putting them behind her for support.

Ettie felt a little light-headed and took a deep breath in an effort to steady herself.

“Would you like some water?” Abigail asked her. “I’ve added a little lemon and just a touch of sugar. It should help settle your stomach.”

“Thank you, yes.”

Ettie slowly sipped the refreshing drink while looking around at her astonishing surroundings. She found herself in a spacious and lavishly furnished Edwardian-era bedroom. She and Bea occupied a large and beautifully wrought brass bed. It was high off the ground and covered in a down comforter of embroidered splendor. The mattress was soft, and the bed was strewn with pillows of all sizes. On the wall behind her bed was an elaborately draped curtain, with a type of mini canopy hanging from the ceiling that extended only slightly past the headboard. A little crystal lamp dropped down from the spot right above her head; Ettie assumed it was for reading. A heavy wooden vanity with an impressive heart-shaped mirror stood next to a matching wardrobe and dressing screen. A large fireplace occupied the opposite wall and was framed by two armchairs and a rocking chair. The mantle was a jumble of photographs and potted plants. The window looking out onto the gardens was so large it stopped just waist high of being an actual French door.

Most interesting of all were the cupola-shaped skylight in the ceiling and the delicate model aircrafts that floated in the streaming shafts of sunlight within it. They looked like slow-moving dragonflies with transparent wings that caught the light and reflected it back onto the walls and ceiling.

Abigail noticed her interest. “An invention of my husband’s… they are extremely light and propelled by rubber bands. They can fly for hours when there is no wind to disturb them.”

Ettie raised her eyebrows skeptically.

“Oh, it is quite true. A combination of exceptionally light balsa wood, very, very thin membrane for the wings, and quality rubber gives them their buoyancy. And then, of course, how the band is wound will determine the length a craft will stay in the air.” She smiled and laughed. “And that’s about the extent of my knowledge regarding their function. If you are truly interested, you must ask my husband, Matthew. But I warn you, his explanation will be detailed and time-consuming.”

Ettie returned her smile and finally asked, “How did I get here?”

“Clem brought you last night, she and Lord Westchester. I’ve never met him before. Quite handsome, I must say, although the gossip about him leaves much to be desired.”

Ettie felt panic grow in the pit of her stomach. “What time is it?”

“Almost teatime.”

“The next day!”

Abigail nodded sympathetically.

Ettie’s hands covered her face. “Good God,” she groaned.

A light knock at the door claimed their attention as Clem poked her head in. The look of relief on her face was enough to convince Ettie that she had been quite worried. She came tripping into the room dressed in a uniform Ettie assumed to be worn by all hospital volunteers, a high-necked starched white shirt with an overdress of blue and white striped cotton.

“Oh jolly!” she exclaimed, “You’re awake! I’ve just come from the hospital, and your father is doing very well.”

“Did he ask for me?”

“Yes, as did Inspector Hamilton. I told them you were overcome with worry and exhaustion and staying with me as our guest until some progress is made in finding your father’s attacker.”

Ettie bit her lip and shot a side glance at Abigail.

The old woman patted her hand and said, “It’s all right, my dear. Clem told me about your troubles. I’ve had some experience with trouble myself having gotten into a scrape or two in my younger days. I’m not easily shocked, but let’s just keep it under wraps between the three of us, shall we? Matthew’s a dear, but he does have a tendency to overreact.”

“I’m afraid his overreaction might be appropriate in this case,” Ettie admitted. “My mother was recently murdered, my brother has disappeared, and now my father… well, he’s lucky to be alive.”

Abigail nodded sagely. “Yes, I see what you mean. Still, there’s no reason to raise the hue and cry that would ensue should Matthew become involved. And, really, very few people even know you are here. I think, for now, we will manage just fine.”

Ettie was too weary and too grateful to argue.

“Also,” Clem interjected, plopping herself down on the bed, “it doesn’t appear that you specifically are a target.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I believe someone is trying to hurt you, just not your person, at least, not yet.”

Ettie didn’t respond to this, but tugged gently at Bea’s soft ear and said, “I need to speak with the Earl of Westchester.”

“Oh, he’ll be back,” Clem assured her. “We had just left that apartment when you fainted in the street. He could barely walk himself and with his injured shoulder… well, you know. Anyway, he insisted on carrying you to his coach and brought you here. You were talking constantly, at times even raving. He went to get Bea, hoping she would calm you.”

“Did he?” Ettie replied in a small voice.

“He was visibly distressed. Said several times he had seen something like this before. That it was a consequence of some… some…” she hesitated and waved her hand a little helplessly in the air, “I don’t remember the term he used, but after dropping Bea off, assured me he would return later today.”

Ettie rested her head back and sighed deeply.

“We should let you rest, my dear,” Abigail pronounced. “Jamison is on her way up with some broth and tea.”

“Yes,” Clem agreed. “I’ll take Bea down to the kitchens for her dinner. We won’t be but a half hour at most. She really doesn’t like being away from you.” She stood up, and the dog bounded off the bed and headed for the door at Clem’s heels.

Just outside in the hallway, she ran into Jamison with the tea tray. “Miss Clementine,” she said, “the Marquis of Easterly asks that you join him in the blue sitting room.”

“Reginald! Blast!” she exclaimed, “What does
he
want?”

Jamison returned a blank stare, but her mouth was clamped shut in a thin, disapproving line.

Clem saw it and cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Sorry, Jamison, I’ll try to mind my manners.”

“It’s not for me to reprimand you, Miss Clem, but his lordship is a fine young man and deserves a civil tongue in your head. Now open the door for me, please.” She nodded at the closed bedroom door, and Clem opened it to let her through. Shutting it quietly behind Jamison, she made her way down to the blue sitting room, wondering all the while what Reginald wanted with her.

She opened the door to the splendor of his eveningwear and a look of angry disbelief on his face. Clem inhaled sharply, a small hand flying to her lips.

“Oh, Reginald, I am sorry!” she exclaimed. “I’d totally forgotten.”

“I can see that, Clementine” he replied tightly, taking in her hospital uniform and general appearance of disarray. “We will be unpardonably late, but I will wait if you can be prompt in your toilette.” He waved an imperious hand as if to dismiss her and settled himself into a chair.

Clem’s hands balled into fists. She had been truly sorry to have forgotten their plans, but his overbearing manner rankled. She walked into the middle of the sitting room, Bea still close on her heels, and said in a carefully modulated tone, “Again, Reginald, I am sorry to have forgotten, but I cannot go to Helena’s birthday party tonight.”

His façade of grown-up boredom and disdain dropped away almost instantaneously. He practically jumped from the chair and strode over to her.

“Really, Clem! This is beyond anything! Cancelling like this at the last moment is very bad
ton
, I must say!”

“Must you?” she countered, her color up, “I’m sure bad
ton
is the least I’ve been called by that lot!”

He pulled a little back from her, dismay shadowing his eyes. How could she not have known? Clem was interested in so much and noticed almost everything. It was one of the many things he liked about her. He had believed the snide and ugly remarks had not reached her ears—that her intense curiosity had not extended to what others said about her.

He drew in a deep breath and stood up straighter, saying, “Not by me, I hope you know.”

Unaccountably, a lump rose in Clem’s throat, and the sudden tears that stung the corners of her eyes forced her to look down at the carpet. A large doggy head pushed its way under her limp hand, giving Clem an excuse to bend down and hug the dog tightly until her emotions were under control.

“Where did you get that dog?” Reginald asked a little gruffly.

“This is Beatrix,” she replied, standing back up and looking at him. She hesitated, not sure she should mention Ettie’s presence when a footman materialized at the sitting room door and announced, “The Duke of Westchester.”

This was hardly out of the man’s mouth before Charles Drake swept into the room and, not even glancing at Reginald, said, “Is she awake?”

“Ye… yes,” she hesitated, indicating Reginald with a slight tilt of her head.

Charlie noticed the young man for the first time and nodded in greeting. “Easterly, how’d ya do?”

“Your lordship,” Reginald replied looking from one to the other. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Miss Lacy.”

“Our acquaintanceship is of a rather recent… through a mutual friend…” his voice trailed off noncommittally, and he stood at somewhat of a loss for words.

“Ah, Lord Westchester, just the man I was looking for.” Aunt Abigail waltzed in, all smiles and graciousness. “Our visitor is awake and asking for you.”

He bowed to the room in general and preceded her out. At the door, Abigail turned and said, “Please don’t blame Clem for upsetting your plans, Reginald. I’m afraid I was the one who kept her running hither and yon until it was quite driven from her mind.”

Left to themselves Reginald looked at Clem who had the goodness to blush at what was obviously a lie.

“Dear Aunt Abigail,” she began, “I really can’t let her take the blame—”

Reginald cut her off with a spurt of laughter. “You needn’t worry about Aunt Abigail. From what I understand, she was always quite capable of taking care of herself.” He sat down heavily in the chair again and put his head into his hands, mumbling, “The Easterly men are notorious for falling for inappropriate women.”

“What on earth can you mean, Reginald?” Her hackles rose in defense of Aunt Abigail. “She is the most beloved of society figures. And your own mother can hardly be thought in any way unsuitable to her position…” she trailed off, thinking of the rigid and upright Lady Easterly.

“There, you are right,” he replied his head still bowed in his hands, elbows resting on his thighs.

“And there is not a happier man in all of the British Empire than Uncle Matthew…”

“Again, right,” he said, looking up, “Although the same cannot be said of my father.”

*

Charles Drake sat on the edge of the bed sipping a cup of excellent tea. Ettie sat facing him, crossed-legged and propped up on numerous pillows. They were alone. Evening crept over the windowsill and settled in around them. Weak electric lights flickered in sconces about the room, and the fire cast flame-shaped shadows against the walls.

“I think you experienced some form of time distortion sickness. Odell was particularly prone to it himself.”

Ettie had been feeling much better, but with this statement experienced again the nauseating disconnect in her brain. “Which Odell would that be,” she sighed, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against a pillow.

Charlie cast a worried eye over her pale face. “I honestly don’t know.”

Ettie’s mind wandered back over the past few days. She ticked off events in a linear fashion. Day one: She walks down the street dressed like a Victorian showgirl. Day two: Odell promises to tell her what is happening. Day two again: Her mother is murdered, and Odell still promises to explain everything. Day three: Odell disappears—

With a gasp, she sat up straight. Ava! Where the devil was Ava?

“What is it?” Charlie asked, eyeing her carefully for any relapse.

She shook her head as if to clear it. “A friend of mine… Ava. She left several texts and messages for me a few days ago about Odell. I thought it was strange at the time. They really don’t know each other. But now, it makes perfect sense…”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for clarification.

“Ava is a professor of history. She’s been focused for the last couple of years on eighteenth-century feminism, and Odette Swanpoole is kind of her special topic. I can see Odell going to her for information. And if he revealed any of this crazy time travel stuff… well, she could be with him.”

“That’s quite a leap. She may just be busy. It is even possible that in this timeline you are not friends. Or she doesn’t exist.”

Ettie looked sad. “I’d rather think of her with Odell. But whichever it is, I’d like to find her.”

He rubbed his hand along his injured shoulder. It was still sore and stiff, but a few hours sleep and a decent meal had done much to restore his strength. He had made a decision in walking out of that hospital room leaving Arthur Bradley alive. From the jumble of his many dimensional lives, he had identified an ever-present constant: self-interest. Perhaps it was inevitable. Survival was the overriding drive of the little band of feral children in eighteenth-century London. They made alliances, even friendships, but they never lasted. Something always disrupted them: poverty, desperation, the law, sickness, death. He had never known a moment’s rest, a breathing space to examine his path, to choose his own way. Betrayal had always taken him to the same place, no matter who he turned on, whether it was Odette, Odell, or even Sir Archibald.