The Hazardous Measure of Love: Time Into Time Book Five

by Louise Allen

  The Hazardous Measure of Love

  Time Into Time Book 5

  Louise Allen

  Copyright © Louise Allen 2021

  All rights reserved.

  First edition 2021.

  The right of Louise Allen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover design by JD Smith Design.

  Requests to publish extracts from this book should be made via www.louiseallenregency.com/contact

  Table of Contents

  Copyright © Louise Allen 2021

  Table of Contents

  The Prescott Family

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Time Into Time – The Series

  About the Author

  The Prescott Family

  Henry, Viscount Tillingham b. 1775. Of Tillingham Hall, Buckinghamshire & St James’s Square, London. Politician. Betrothed to Miss Arabella Jordan.

  His paternal uncles:

  Colonel Archibald Prescott 1753-1803. Army officer. Killed in India. Unmarried.

  Dr Frederick Prescott b. 1755. Fellow of a Cambridge college. Unmarried.

  Mr Alexander Prescott b. 1760. Landowner. Married to Georgina. Father to Marcus, Charles, Bertram and Adrien (who is secretary to Lord Tillingham).

  Mr Horace Prescott b. 1762. Landowner. Married to Prunella. Father to Percy, George and Jerald.

  Chapter One

  Love is space and time measured with the heart.

  Marcel Proust

  When your Significant Other was born in 1779 and you live in the twenty-first century, then life can be just a trifle complicated. I was gradually becoming used to time travel and to existing in two worlds – used to it and perhaps a little bit complacent. I should have been more wary because, when you are at your most relaxed, that's when Fate decides to give you a wake-up call to see just how uncomfortable she can make you.

  I'm Cassandra Lawrence, freelance technical translator, part-time volunteer Special Constable and resident of Welhampstead, a Hertfordshire market town popular with commuters for its forty-minute journey into London by train.

  My beloved happens to be Lucian Franklin, third Earl of Radcliffe, and he has started time travelling too, although he is finding it rather more of a culture shock than I did…

  Welhampstead, Hertfordshire, 20th June, not long ago.

  ‘Who were they?’ Luc demanded. He was damp from the shower, stark naked except for an inadequate (for coverage purposes, although excellent from my point of view) towel and he was blushing.

  A degree of embarrassment was understandable, given that my three friends from the local firm of solicitors had just bounced in with an invitation to a barbeque and had retreated rather more slowly, with John and Frank dragging Lucy, who was getting in an appreciative eyeful, behind them.

  I managed to stop laughing and dragged myself up from the floor in front of the fridge where I had slid in the grip of mild hysteria. Trubshaw, my ginger cat, gave me a disgusted stare and went to sit in a pointed manner by the tin of salmon I had been about to open for him when the junior contingent from Polworth, Prendergast and Ponsonby (est.1760) had waltzed in.

  I explained who they were, apologised for leaving the door ajar when I’d been out to rescue a neighbour from Trubshaw’s loud pleas that he was starving and there was a Horrible Man in his home, and picked up the can again.

  ‘Those are solicitors?’

  The legal profession was presumably rather staider in the early nineteenth century. Certainly P. P. & P. must have been when Luc had deposited various things with them to be delivered to me, more than two hundred years in the future. Fortunately I had left my bag, wallet and so forth behind the first time, so Luc knew where to direct the eventual delivery.

  It was when they brought the first of the sealed tin boxes to my door that I met the junior partners. Whether they believed my tale about an entirely fictitious eccentric ancestress who had confidence that a descendant living in the twenty first century would bear her name and be at that address, I have no idea, but they were politely discreet on the subject.

  Once Trubshaw was placated with salmon I went in search of a comb and something for Luc to wear. My father had left his painting clothes behind when he’d helped me redecorate the main room a while back, so Luc was soon decently, if unglamorously, covered in baggy track pants (too short in the leg) and rather tight sweat shirt, both with extensive paint stains.

  ‘Breakfast?’ I suggested.

  Luc nodded. He was looking decidedly strained around the edges and I can’t say I blamed him. When I had dragged him out of bed in the small hours that morning it was the year 1807. It was urgent because I knew I had to get back to my time – not something I can control – and had to do so through the mirror in his mother’s dressing room. Time travel is so not convenient. When we were in London I had to break into Almack’s Assembly Rooms and use the mirror in the refreshment salon.

  This time, no sooner had I landed back in my car, which I’d left parked in the grounds of Luc’s ancestral home, than Luc had decided to see if his own theory about how he could travel to my time would work. On arrival in the twenty first century he found himself subjected to a hundred-mile drive in a car: his first encounter with the internal combustion engine. Then he had been abused by my cat, ogled by a passing solicitor, been dressed in my father’s oldest clothes – and he still hadn’t had so much as a cup of coffee.

  I peered into the fridge. One of the good things about the time shift was that I returned home moments after I had left it, so the contents were perfectly fresh. I made bacon, eggs and toast, brewed a vast pot of coffee, squeezed some oranges, dragged Luc away from the toaster, which seemed to fascinate him, and sat him down to eat.

  ‘I had better go and buy you some clothes,’ I said when he had demolished the food, ninety percent of the coffee and was beginning to look human again.

  ‘That would be a good idea for next time I am here,’ Luc agreed, sounding distracted. I followed his gaze to the window and spotted a group of our local Goths, arrayed in magnificent gloom, walking past on the other side of the street.

  ‘Funeral mourners?’ He must have caught a glimpse of black fishnets, which would account for the surprise.

  ‘Not exactly.’ I found myself unable to explain on the spur of the moment.

  He turned his chair to face away from the street below and its constant distractions of passing traffic and pedestrians. ‘I am not going to stay, not this time. I need to go back and find out how long I have been away before I risk remaining any longer.’

  W
hen our plates were empty he got up and went to where his own clothes lay on the sofa and pulled them on, then took out the folding case that held the two sketches of his four-year-old twin sons. The boys had written their own messages on the backs. ‘I am certain this is going to work and return me home,’ he said, rubbing his fingertips over the childish scrawl. ‘But I have to be sure of what the effects are. How long will I have been away?’

  ‘Come back as soon as you can.’ I tried not to plead and managed what I hoped was a nonchalant smile, but I doubt I convinced him.

  Luc gave me a disappointingly vague kiss, opened the case, touched the messages again and closed his eyes. For a moment he seemed to waver in the air, then he clutched the case in both hands and vanished with a sound like a deep intake of breath. Papers on my desk fluttered in a breeze I could not feel.

  I waited for a bit, then pulled myself together, coaxed Trubshaw out from under the sofa, tidied up and went out shopping. I’d got a pretty good idea of Luc’s size, although I didn’t risk shoes. Chinos, t-shirts, a sweatshirt and socks, with his own boots, would do to get him out of the house and shopping for himself.

  They were all easy enough to choose, but I had a serious internal debate in front of the underpants section. Boxers, briefs, trunks, hipsters… I decided on black briefs. Luc might be able to cope with the internal combustion engine and toasters, but I suspected that boxers with amusing designs might be a step too far.

  ‘Well, well – and who is the lucky man? At last.’ It had to be my sister Sophie pouncing from behind: no-one else I knew was going to embarrass me in the men’s underwear section of our local department store. Yes, Welhampstead is that kind of market town – we have Mellow’s, (est. 1834) and miraculously managing to keep independent and abreast of local demand across almost two hundred years.

  I knew better than to make a mystery of it to Soph. I wrinkled my nose and shrugged, looked regretful. ‘It’s a bit casual,’ I said. ‘Guy called Luc. I doubt he’s serious.’

  ‘He’s seriously boring in the pants department,’ Soph observed, eying the pack with distain

  ‘I know,’ I sighed. ‘But Trubshaw doesn’t like him and took it out on his underwear, so I feel obliged to replace it. He had to go off commando this morning.’

  ‘Where to?’ Soph trailed me to the cash register. Fortunately, I’d paid for the rest of the clothes in other departments.

  ‘Suffolk.’ Keeping to the truth as much as possible was sensible, I decided. If Luc was going to recur in my time then we had to make his story as simple and Sophie-proof as possible. Luckily my parents weren’t likely to turn up in the near future to inspect him and ask difficult questions. They’d taken early retirement and were energetically ticking off the bucket list of world destinations that two children and demanding careers in finance (Mum) and paediatric medicine (Pa) had restricted.

  ‘Where are the Parents? I lost the thread after Western Canada last month.’

  ‘The Amazon via New York,’ Soph said. ‘No need for panic, Mum isn’t going to turn up and demand to see his bank statement, driving licence and criminal record any time soon.’

  ‘How’s Tony?’ I asked, hoping to distract her while I stuffed the bag with the underwear in on top of the other clothes.

  Soph looked flustered, which is unlike her. ‘Making noises about babies,’ she muttered.

  ‘What? He’s getting broody?’ Tony is Something In The City and that, combined with Soph’s lucrative IT skills, gave them a very nice lifestyle, thank you. (You’ll have gathered by now that I’m the impoverished wild child in the family.)

  ‘Mm. He’s making noises about not getting any younger and I keep catching him gazing into seriously up-market babywear shops and critiquing the royal infants’ wardrobes. And yesterday he asked me which of the bedrooms would make the best nursery.’

  ‘Good grief.’ Well, that’s not exactly what I said, but it conveys the idea. ‘What do you want to do?’

  I expected Sophie, who shops at Olympic Gold level and is so seriously on-trend with her clothes and possessions that I often feel safer in the nineteenth century, to say, No way.

  ‘I’m coming round to the idea,’ she admitted, stunning me to the extent that I stopped dead in the entrance and was tutted at by one of Welhampstead’s legion of Scrummy Scandi nanny/au pairs who had to swerve a double buggy around me.

  ‘Förlåt!’ I called, hoping I’d got the right language. She waved a hand, so I’d guessed right. ‘Are you serious, Soph? I’m going to be an aunt?’ I thought about it. ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Not yet a while. Don’t start knitting.’ She’d relaxed a bit. ‘You know Tony – full medicals for both of us, earnest research on pre-conception diets, long debates on when we must stop drinking. He is going to be The Perfect Father. I’ll have to be Slummy Mummy to balance the poor kid out.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I told her. ‘I volunteer to be the Disgraceful Aunty. Every child should have one.’ I said it lightly, but it gave me a twinge that felt unpleasantly like jealousy. I wanted to be with Luc all the time, have a family with him, and it seemed impossible.

  His first wife had died giving birth to the twins. They had been amiable enough together, I’d gathered, but it had been a “suitable” marriage for an earl, not a love match. So, he was unattached, but there was no way I could stay in his time, because even if I was willing to leave my family for ever, which I wasn’t, whatever it was that sent me back also returned me to my own time without any input from me.

  Nor could I risk time travelling when pregnant, because it was physically quite rough and I had no idea what effect it might have on a baby. As a result, I was on the Pill and, given that however faithful Luc was now, I knew perfectly well that Regency noblemen did not live like monks, we were using condoms as well.

  ‘Come back and have coffee?’ I suggested, only half listening to myself. If Luc could come here when he wanted and if he got checked out for dodgy Regency health issues, then what was to stop us… But no, whatever controlled my trips back in time seemed to have a mind of its own and I couldn’t risk being sent back at random while pregnant, or with an armful of baby. It was too hazardous and I was being self-indulgent.

  I had the key in the door before I realised that I hadn’t checked the place in case Luc had left anything behind but, luckily, he seemed to have dressed in everything he came in.

  ‘You OK, Cassie?’ Soph asked. ‘Only you’ve gone very quiet.’

  ‘Oh yes, fine, just a hangover. Fill the kettle, will you, while I dump this.’ She raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting to inspect my shopping. ‘Deadly dull – some new towels and a face cloth,’ I lied. Honesty can only get you so far.

  ‘Where are you and Tony getting checked over?’ I asked when we settled down with our coffee.

  ‘There’s a new private clinic that’s opened at the Old Hall. Very smooth and you do loads of form-filling on-line first. I think they must get a lot of foreigners coming out from Town because it isn’t compulsory to give your NHS number or anything. In fact they’ll do it quite anonymously.’

  That would be perfect, I thought. I’d see what Luc said. If it meant we could give the condoms the elbow, that would be great, although obviously giving Luc’s overall health a check-up was more important.

  We gossiped for an hour, then she took herself off for some Serious Saturday Shopping and I applied myself to translating a paper on wind turbines from German into English. I’ll say this for it, it certainly got my head out of the nineteenth century.

  * * *

  On Sunday I was on duty as a Special Constable all morning, the highlight of which was disentangling two teenage e-scooter riders from the canal lock gates. Don’t ask – Darrell Farnsworth and his mate Sky are what the Darwin Awards were invented for.

  Pausing only to feed myself and Trubshaw and hurl the washing into the machine, I spent the afternoon with the lovely Mr Aristotle Grimswade, aged proprietor of St Christopher Antiques. He’d sold me the
miniature portrait of Luc that is the catalyst for my time travelling, so I owe him and besides, he was an interesting and very sweet man. He had decided to retire, so was selling off stock, some through local auctions, some on-line, and I was helping him with listings.

  It would have been a good weekend if I hadn’t been so anxious about whether Luc got back home safely and in more or less the same week he’d left in.

  * * *

  First thing Monday there was a ring from the downstairs front door and, when I checked, it was Frank Ponsonby. Now what did he want? I wondered. Frank and I were friends – he had a girlfriend away at York University doing an MA – but he knew me better than either of the other two young solicitors and I was pretty certain he suspected something very odd indeed was going on with the black boxes that had been waiting for me on the office attic shelves for over two hundred years.

  I buzzed him in and went to the door, braced for teasing about Luc, and saw he was not carrying anything larger than a modern brown manila envelope. No box from Luc, then.

  ‘Morning, Cassie. Your latest delivery.’ He handed over the envelope. ‘The original is inside, but as it’s so old I thought I’d better protect it.’

  I peered in and saw a letter – no envelope, but folded and sealed and addressed to me in Luc’s handwriting. ‘Oh. Great, thanks.’ Then I remembered my manners, even though I was itching to open it. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘No, got to get back to the office.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I don’t suppose you are ever going to tell me the truth about these mysterious boxes, are you?’

  ‘I…’ If I could trust anyone, it would be Frank, but I hadn’t told anyone at all in my time. I had in Luc’s – his mother, brother James and friends the Garricks all knew. But that had been a virtual necessity. Telling anyone in my time wasn’t. ‘I would if I could, but I can’t,’ I said finally.