Teatime with a Knight (Matchmakers in Time Book 2)

by Kit Morgan

  “Did you question the villagers?”

  “The stable master and one of the footmen did. They had nothing to report. Oh, and one of your tenants was going into labour when Emsworth and I were about our business but stay here. Please.”

  She nodded in understanding. “I will. I’m sure Mrs. Pembroke will send one of her children for the midwife. I usually visit after a baby is born.”

  He stood. “Thank you. I want you here if she shows up.”

  “Aldrich, our friends the MacDonalds can find her easily enough.”

  He frowned. “If they were here.”

  “They will be.”

  No sooner had she said it than Aldrich heard footsteps coming up the grand hall. Duncan appeared first, followed by a tall, broad man and a beautiful woman in Scottish dress. These had to be the MacDonalds. “You!” he yelled, pointing at the man. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

  The big man glanced at his wife and back. “Ye needn’t fash yerself, sir. She canna have gone far.”

  Aldrich turned to Duncan. “You’ve heard?”

  “Yes, from one of the tenants on our way here. He said you were searching for Miss Phelps. What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” He hoped the Scot had nothing to do with Tory’s disappearance. “When she didn’t come down to tea, I sent Becky to fetch her. That’s when we discovered she was missing.” Only then did Aldrich notice another man stood behind the newcomers, one he’d never seen before. That he’d entered unnoticed only served to make Aldrich more suspicious.

  He looked the three over carefully. The woman was petite, beautiful and studied Aldrich with interest, her bright green eyes roaming over him peculiarly. Her husband’s gaze was more casual, though the same glowing green. He had the sense something was passing between them – he could almost feel it. The other … was a man, tall and thin but otherwise unremarkable.

  “Ah yes, I believe introductions are in order,” Duncan said. “Aldrich, may I present Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald and their associate Lantzaro Mosgofian.”

  “I’m bloody well aware of who they are,” he said, waving away the couple. “And I don’t care who this other man is unless he can help find Tory.”

  Mr. Mosgofian – what an odd name – glanced at his larger counterpart, who just shrugged. Mr. Mosgofian shrugged back. “We can help you look for her, but first we need to clarify something.” He stepped around the couple to stand in front of Aldrich. “His Grace has informed us that he’s told you what’s going on. Possibly more than he should. We want your word, Sir Aldrich, that you’ll tell no one.”

  “My word?! And when were you planning on telling me, or Miss Phelps for that matter? She’s out there somewhere in a world she doesn’t know and you’re asking me for promises?”

  “Promises mean protection,” Mr. Mosgofian said. “Yours and hers.”

  “And ours,” Mr. MacDonald put in. “Anonymity is imperative in this business.”

  “And what business would that be, Mr. MacDonald?” Aldrich closed the distance between them. The big Scotsman was half a head taller than him and broader, but he didn’t care. He met the man’s gaze with a glare.

  “We’re in the business o’ saving lives, if ye want to know. Yers and Tory’s are but two in the larger scheme o’ things. Now if ye dinna mind, we’d like to get on with it.”

  Aldrich stared at him a moment before taking a step back. He was tired, angry and wanted to hit the man, but what good would it do? If Tory was in danger, a fight would waste valuable time. “How do you plan to look for her?”

  “In our usual way,” the Scot answered.

  Aldrich saw Mosgofian wince and was about to comment when Emsworth rushed in. “Your Grace, Joseph Pembroke is here to see you. He says he has news of Miss Phelps.”

  Mosgofian sighed, glanced at the ceiling and mouthed a relieved, “Thank you.”

  Aldrich ignored the skinny man’s praise to God, reached Emsworth in two strides and took his arm. “Where is he?”

  “In the kitchen, sir. He’s in a dither over his wife. She’s …”

  Aldrich shot out of the drawing room and into the grand hall.

  “… in labour, you know,” Emsworth finished lamely. He gave Duncan and Cozette a helpless shrug.

  “Did he tell ye where the lass is?” Dallan asked.

  “Yes,” Emsworth replied. “Apparently she’s been arrested.”

  Tory sat on the bench and fumed. She’d managed to convince the boy to run to Stantham Hall and get someone – anyone – to come and get her out of prison. If the magistrate was indeed a real magistrate and not some overzealous re-enactor, the last thing she wanted was to get carted off to London. She could be lost forever in a time she knew very little about.

  And now she knew what time it was, thanks to the little fellow. 1880. Over a hundred and forty years in her past. Unbelievable … and yet from her recent experience the most likely possibility. And they never even thought of telling her. If that skinny Mosgofian were here right now, she’d go for his neck.

  She hoped the boy actually did what she asked of him. Darn, she should have promised him a reward or something.

  She turned and looked around the dimly-lit cell. Once night fell, it was swallowed in darkness. She didn’t like the dark – she preferred well-lit streets, electricity, cell phones, microwaves and Wi-Fi and a Starbucks on every corner. If she was stuck here in the 1880s, she’d never see most of those things again. Well, her phone if she ever got her purse back. But if she couldn’t get free of this cell, then what? What if Aldrich never came to rescue her?

  “Omigosh,” she said with a sudden realization. “He … he really does have feelings for me.” Because if there was one thing she knew from all the romance novels she’d read, back in the day a man did profess love for a woman quickly. People married after a kiss in the garden all the time in Victorian stories! “Wow, he’s into me,” she whispered, her smile growing. “He’s really into me.”

  But was he into her enough to bail her out?

  Tory looked at the window above her, which at least let in a little moonlight. She’d missed teatime and dinner – they must have noticed she didn’t show up. When would someone come looking for her? She certainly hoped they would soon, because she could be in real trouble if they didn’t. Perhaps on her way to London, or worse.

  The thought drove her to the bench where she lay down. She was dog tired, the stress of discovering when she was having taken its toll. She tossed her arm over her eyes against the tears that threatened and tried to hold it together but it was hard. Real hard.

  Which made her all the more surprised when she awoke to a grinding-metal sound. It took her a second to realize it was the key turning in the lock of her cell. “Rise and shine, lovey,” the magistrate barked. “Time to go.”

  Tory sat up a little too quickly and almost fell off the bench. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep – she’d only slept at all because she’d exhausted herself with a flood of tears and rage. She hadn’t cried herself to sleep in years. Squinting at the lantern the magistrate hung on a peg near the door, she wondered what time it was. Midnight? Who knew?

  “I said, get up!”

  Tory looked at the village cop, then at the manacles in his hands. “Nope. Forget that – I want to see a lawyer.”

  “’Fraid not, love. Now be a good girl and come along quietly. We’ve a long road ahead.”

  Tory didn’t move. “I said no. You are not putting those on me!”

  “And why not, you cheating wench? Be glad I don’t have a good old-fashioned brank to shut that pretty mouth o’ yours.”

  “Brank? What the heck is … oh, never mind. I’m not going. And if you try to make me, the Duke of Stantham will have your guts for garters.”

  “We’ll see who gets whose guts.” He backed toward the door. “William, get down ‘ere!”

  Footfalls came from the stairwell and a gangly brown-haired teen appeared in the doorway. “Yessir?”

&nb
sp; “Our prisoner ain’t cooperating. I think she needs to learn she ain’t above the law.”

  The teen looked at Tory and winced. “But you told me she said she works for the duke.”

  “She’s a traitor to the crown, a counterfeiter. You’ve seen t’proof in that purse o’ hers! When the duke finds out he’ll be furious. We got t’take her t’London and hand her over. It’s what he’ll want.”

  “No, he won’t!” Tory interrupted. “When he finds out what you did, he’ll skin you alive.” Gosh, she hoped she was right.

  William was hesitating. “Are you sure, Father?”

  The magistrate smirked. “For the likes o’ her, I’ve no doubt. Now help me.”

  Tory locked eyes with the youth as he nodded and said, “Yes, Father.” His expression suddenly grew determined.

  Uh-oh. Skinny teen or not, she was no match for the two of them in a small cell, unarmed. She needed to think of something that would stall them. Oh, if only that little boy had delivered her message – she should have offered him a reward, all right … that was it! “You’re taking me without telling the duke?” she declared. “Better tell him first – he’ll give you a bigger reward!”

  “Aha! So there is a reward,” the magistrate said with a sneer.

  “That’s not what I meant!”

  “No? Y’might as well have signed your confession with that statement, dearie.” He lunged.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tory ached all over. Being gagged, shackled and chained to a large iron ring in a prison wagon didn’t help and her discovery that she was in another century made things far worse – there was no one she could call for help and no way to do it if there was. She was furious and scared at the same time.

  Every moment confirmed that she wasn’t in her own century. She hadn’t heard a single car on the road they traveled, saw no power lines silhouetted in the moonlight through the tiny barred windows of the wagon, no blinking lights in the sky from airplanes or cell towers, no smell of exhaust. What she wouldn’t give for the chatter of a radio station right now.

  But except for the constant clip-clop of horse’s hooves, the jangle of harness and rattling of the wagon, the only sounds came from the wagon’s driver’s seat. The magistrate had brought someone along, not his son, and they were arguing over money. “Half’s what I’ll take for helpin’ ye, Hughes, and not a ha’penny less,” the stranger groused.

  “You’ll get what I promised and no more. Stop trying t’take more’n you deserve.”

  “Deserve? Like you deserve to collect the whole reward, do ye? I’d wager His Grace’d be interested to hear that, ye no tellin’ ‘im first what yer doin’ wi’ his wife’s maid.”

  “She’s a criminal and I’ve got t’proof. No one will argue that, not even the duke. I’m doing him a favor.”

  “Yer doin’ yerself the favor!” The stranger laughed. “Ye greedy dolcop! That’s no dribble-drabble ye’ve got trussed up back there.”

  “Then you should take a closer look!”

  “Maybe I will!”

  And on it went. Tory rolled her eyes as she pulled at her shackled wrists for the umpteenth time. Gagged as she was, she couldn’t call for help, and try as she might she couldn’t free herself. She was at the magistrate’s mercy, and judging from the men’s conversation he hadn’t any. He was after the money he could get for turning her in – she had no idea how much, but it was obviously enough to risk the duke’s wrath when he found out.

  Which he was doing his best to make sure didn’t happen until it was too late. That they were carting her off to London after dark only added to her suspicion that Hughes didn’t want the duke or duchess to find out what he was up to. This meant his son would probably deny knowing where his father went. She could hear it now: “Prisoner? What prisoner? As you can see, we’ve no prisoners here …”

  She shivered despite the warm summer night. She was in a real mess – the law was different here, and Hughes had implied that they hanged counterfeiters. No ten-year sentence only to get out in five on good behavior, not in this century. At least they weren’t going to burn her at the stake as a witch. Unless Hughes hadn’t figured out the cell phone yet. Thank God it was dead.

  Tory pulled and twisted her wrists against the shackles again. How far was it to London? Would anyone know where to find her? Not likely. The thought made her heart sink and her stomach roll. No matter how she looked at it, if no one came to her rescue, she was a goner.

  Duncan paced the library. “Where’s Aldrich?”

  Dallan sniffed the brandy in his glass, raised an appreciative eyebrow and took a small sip. “He’s gone after her, o’ course.”

  “Yes, but where?” Duncan tossed his hands in the air. “He has no idea where she is!”

  “Do you?” Dallan asked.

  Duncan snarled.

  “Yer overreacting, Yer Grace.”

  “We have no idea what’s going on! For all we know that mad ringleader Lany told me about has her.”

  “Nay, he hasna. He’s no due in the vicinity for a week or so, according to our sources. Everything’s going as planned.”

  “Planned?” Duncan said, eyebrows raised. “Do you know where Miss Phelps is?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why aren’t you doing something!”

  Dallan smiled. “I am. I’m staying out of it. Ye ken the lad has to win her on his own, d’ye no?”

  “Win her? What do you mean … oh. Oh, I think I see.”

  “Sir Aldrich is a knight, aye? And a gallant rescue goes a long way, Yer Grace. Ye ought to ken that.”

  “Yes, but in my case Cozette rescued me. Well, she helped.”

  “Which made ye fall more deeply in love with her, did it no?”

  Duncan sighed. “Yes, it did.”

  “Tory needs the lad to do this. He needs to do it. I’ll not interfere unless his warrior’s blood becomes too hot.”

  Duncan plopped into his favorite chair. “Aldrich wouldn’t kill anyone … but you know best.” He picked at the brass studs of the armrest. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me anything more about how all this works? The bloodlines of your wife?” He looked at him. “Of mine?”

  “Our women are special, ye ken. Not o’ this world. We had little choice, you and I – we were destined for them. We could no more stop our pairings than stop the sun from rising. But Aldrich and Tory, they must battle as humans do while falling in love. The doubt, the fear, the risk …”

  Duncan ran his hand through his hair. He’d almost died while courting Cozette. He felt as if he couldn’t live without her, that if she died he’d soon follow and vice-versa. If that wasn’t a good reason to marry her, he didn’t know what was. But Aldrich and Tory were both human with a touch of Muiraran blood – they didn’t have death looming over them if they didn’t marry right away, just normal heartbreak. This whole plan could still fall apart. “What if it doesn’t work? What if they don’t marry and have children? What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Dallan glanced at the glass in his hand and sighed. “Then my wife and I may be the last ones with the ability to travel through time. For if Sir Aldrich and Tory Phelps, among others, dinna marry and sire sons and daughters, there might be no one to come after us to keep the world in balance. To do that, ye have to clean up a lot of messes left behind by bad people throughout the centuries, ye ken.”

  Duncan could only stare. “Dallan, what are you saying?”

  “If they fail, we’ll have to find another to stop men like the ones who want to see them dead, men who have wreaked havoc upon the world through time in order to rule it, or destroy it. And there’s no guarantee we can find one.”

  “One like you? A Time Master?”

  “Aye.”

  Duncan fell back in his chair. “Now you tell me this?!”

  Dallan shrugged. “What can I say? Ye’re no different than I was when first dragged into this business. This is much bigger than ye can possibly imagine, Yer Gra
ce.” He smiled ruefully. “Maybe even bigger than I can imagine.”

  Duncan sighed. “Then I hope and pray he finds her.”

  “Dinna fash yerself, Yer Grace. Everything’s under control.”

  The wagon came to a lurching stop. Tory’s shoulder hit the wall and she groaned into the gag. Ouch! Now what? Maybe she should make some sort of noise, attract attention. She felt the wagon move slightly from side to side and knew the men were climbing down.

  A horse neighed in the distance and she could hear men’s voices. “Water yer horses for ye, guv’nor?” a boy asked.

  Tory struggled to right herself. Maybe she could kick the wall, alert someone to her presence.

  A key was thrust into the door lock and turned with a squeak of tumblers. A man – Hughes’ co-pilot? – swung open the door with a creak of hinges. “Hullo, sweets.” His eyes raked over her. “Now ain’t ye pretty?”

  “Quiet, Bob!” Hughes snapped, stepping around the door. “No speaking with t’prisoner!”

  Bob, Tory repeated in her head. Her situation was becoming more precarious by the minute and one never knew what piece of information might help.

  Bob made a face at Hughes and slammed the door, locking her inside again.

  Tory struggled to her knees and tried to stand. She had to see what was going on. It was dark, but if there were lanterns or torches lit she might get an idea of where she was. Maybe leave a clue … but what clue could she leave? A hairpin? What good would that do? She scanned the interior of the wagon and found nothing in it but her. She struggled again to stand and see out, but her feet kept getting tangled up in her long skirt.

  Feet! That might work! She began to wiggle a slipper off one foot. She’d have to wait until Dumb and Dumber climbed back on the wagon and set off again. Two shoes, two clues. It was all she had, but she’d use them. Then she’d pray – really hard.

  After about ten minutes, the wagon set off again without either of her captors speaking to her. They’d ignored her completely other than Dumber’s earlier leering. Good. She waited until they were out of the village or wherever it was they’d stopped, then struggled to her feet, one slipper in hand. The window was small, but she could easily slip it through the bars. If someone from Stantham Hall was tracking them, they’d see it and know they were on her trail. With her first smile in hours, she shoved the shoe out the window. She’d wait a while, toss out the other shoe and hope.