Timeless (A Time Travel Romance)

by Jasmine Cresswell

  “Hmm. And the second attempt? The one that occurred when Miss Delaney was with you—tell me about it.”

  “It happened just last weekend. I assumed it was coincidence that the attack came when Robyn was with me, and since we were both leaving on an overseas trip, it never occurred to me that she might be in real danger.”

  Inspector Harris wrote copiously in his notebook. “Is there an ongoing police investigation into the fraud at your Gallery?” he asked finally. “Perhaps I’ll be able to get some useful leads from the detectives working on that case.”

  Zach felt the muscles in his jaw lock tight with tension. “There is no police investigation,” he said curtly. “I was handling the investigation myself.”

  “And have you reached any conclusions so far, Mr. Bowleigh?”

  “None that would be useful to you.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t see,” Zach said, stung to defend himself. “You’re thinking I was criminally irresponsible not to have reported those attacks—”

  “My opinions don’t matter much, Mr. Bowleigh. At the moment, you are doing a more than adequate job of blaming yourself.”

  The detective was infuriating, but he was right. “I shouldn’t have been so damned arrogant,” Zach muttered.

  “Why were you so reluctant to report the fraud to the police, Mr. Bowleigh?”

  “The antiques trade runs on trust. If word gets out that the Bowleigh Gallery is unable to guarantee the authenticity of its inventory, we’ll be out of business in no time flat. Obviously, I made a lousy judgment call in deciding to keep quiet. I seriously underestimated the people I was up against.”

  “That’s assuming the attack on Miss Delaney is related to the previous attacks on you, and to the scam being worked through your Gallery. For all we know, this could be a random shooting.”

  “It seems unlikely, don’t you think?”

  “It certainly does, but I don’t like to leap to conclusions. In police work, that can get you into a lot of trouble.” Inspector Harris smiled blandly. “Perhaps you could fill me in on the answers to a few more routine questions, Mr. Bowleigh. For starters, why were you and Miss Delaney here in Dorset?”

  “We were supposed to evaluate a large collection of English antique china with a view to buying it for the Gallery. Robyn is recognized as an expert in the field of antique porcelain. She wrote her master’s thesis on the output of the British potteries in the eighteenth century.”

  “A very interesting subject, I’m sure. So you and Miss Delaney aren’t personal friends, just business associates?”

  “No, we’re friends as well as colleagues. More than friends. This weekend was...” Zach cleared his throat. “This weekend I’d planned to ask Robyn to marry me.”

  The detective murmured something sympathetic, but he kept right on with his questions. “All right, why don’t we get back to the shooting incident itself. Would you tell me exactly what you saw of this shooting incident, Mr. Bowleigh? I’ve been given very confused accounts from the staff at the hotel.”

  Shooting incident. Robyn’s life hung by a thread, but to the police she was simply the victim in a shooting incident. Official jargon could sometimes be painfully abrasive. Zach rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate.

  “I spotted Robyn almost as soon as I came out of the main hotel entrance. I’m not sure if she saw me. The parking lot at Starke Manor isn’t very big, as you know, but she’d parked her car at the far end of the lot, by the gates, and she was leaning into the rental car to get her suitcase. She didn’t really look in my direction.”

  “But you saw her quite clearly before she was shot?”

  “Oh, yes. I was happy to see she’d arrived safely, a little earlier than we’d expected. I waved to her, but she didn’t wave back. She half turned her head toward me, and I had this fleeting impression that she’d seen me and registered the fact that I was there. Then she suddenly dived forward between the two cars parked on either side of her.”

  Zach fell silent, and the detective prompted him. “Go on, please, Mr. Bowleigh.”

  “I saw Robyn fall, but for a crucial second or two, I didn’t consciously register that someone had fired a gun.”

  “Do you think there was a silencer on the gun?”

  “There must have been, or I’d have heard the shot. It was surprisingly quiet in the parking lot, no people around, no hum of traffic.”

  “Did you see the gunman?”

  “No. Robyn fell forward and the gunman revved up his car engine and started backing out of the parking lot almost at the same moment.”

  “You’re saying the gunman fired from a car.” Inspector Harris looked pleased at this snippet of new information. “Did you get a clear view of the car?”

  “Not really. I reacted without thinking, rushing over to Robyn instead of taking ten seconds to stand still and get a good look at the person who’d shot her.”

  Zach ran his hands through his hair, spiking it between his fingers. “Goddammit, I should have paid more attention. I should have looked at the damn car and seen who was driving.”

  “It was perfectly natural for you to be worried about Miss Delaney at that moment.”

  “Natural, maybe, but not smart,” Zach said, his voice rough.

  “You’re a better witness than most,” the inspector said. “Now think, Mr. Bowleigh. I know you’ve said that you didn’t get a good look at the car, but try again. It’s surprising what the subconscious can store away. Can you tell me anything at all about the car, or the person who was driving it? Color? Size? Anything?”

  “It was blue,” Zach said after a long moment of silence. “New-looking. Probably a Ford, but I couldn’t swear to it. If you can show me pictures of various British models and the paint colors for those years, I may be able to take a stab at naming the year and the model.”

  “That’s very helpful, Mr. Bowleigh, very helpful. Could you cast your mind back and think a bit about who was driving the car? How many people were in it? Male or female? Fat or thin? Young or old?”

  Zach closed his eyes, trying to summon up a memory of the scene. All he could see, playing over and over again in hideous slow motion, was Robyn falling to the ground, and blood gushing over the dark asphalt of the parking lot, mingling with the rain.

  “I think there was only one person in the car,” he said finally. “But there’s a blur in my mind where the picture of the driver ought to be.”

  The detective sighed. “Unfortunately, everybody on the hotel staff seems to have been too far away, and too upset, to have noticed any suspicious cars or drivers.”

  Zach frowned. “She’d driven off before the hotel staff came out into the parking lot, that’s why.”

  The detective’s head jerked up, and Zach stopped, stunned by the realization of what he’d just said.

  “It was a woman driving the car,” he said, his voice harsh with surprise. “She had dark hair, tumbling all over her shoulders.” He felt a surge of excitement as the memory strengthened. “Middle-aged. At least forty, maybe fifty. And wearing dark glasses. Ninety-nine percent of my brain was worrying about Robyn, but one percent was registering the fact that the driver wore sunglasses, even though it was raining.”

  “That’s very helpful, Mr. Bowleigh. Well done, sir. You’re the only witness to give us something concrete to work on.”

  Zach smiled grimly. “Right. With a detailed description like that you can walk straight out of here and make an arrest. Female, middle-aged, dark hair, wearing sunglasses. There can’t be more than ten million women in England who fit the bill.”

  “Not ten million, probably less than five,” the detective said, allowing himself a small smile. “Statistically speaking, we’ve got a lot of blondes and redheads in this country.”

  “Robyn has red hair,” Zach said. “And wonderful green eyes.”

  The detective cast him a sympathetic look. “She sounds a lovely young lady,” he said. “Oh, look, here comes a
doctor. Maybe he’ll have some news for us.”

  “Dr. Forsyth, how is she?” Zach stepped forward, sweat beading along his spine as he waited for the doctor to reply.

  “She’s an extremely lucky young woman,” the doctor said. “In layman’s language, the bullet skimmed across the top of her head, lodging in the bone at the crown of her skull, but not actually penetrating the brain. We removed the bullet because we were afraid that it might dislodge at some point in the future and cause trouble, but in fact, at this precise moment, Miss Delaney’s most serious problems are caused by the fact that she fell forward and hit her head on a concrete parking lot. She has a severe concussion.”

  “What does that mean? Is she going to get better?”

  “It means that we have to wait for her to regain consciousness before we can tell precisely how much damage has been done. However, we’ve run CT scans and we see no evidence of severe injury to the brain either on the scan or during surgery. With a little bit of luck, your girlfriend is going to be up and talking in two or three days.”

  The news was so good that Zach couldn’t totally absorb it. “How about her mental state?” he inquired. “Is she likely to suffer from amnesia or anything like that?”

  “Almost certainly,” Dr. Forsyth replied. “Post- traumatic amnesia is more or less routine with this type of injury. In fact, she may never remember the events leading up to the accident. However, I wouldn’t expect major long-term impairment of her mental faculties. Miss Delaney may need some therapy to regain fully normal functioning, but she isn’t likely to be a vegetable, or permanently comatose, or any of those other nightmares you might associate with serious head injuries.”

  “Thank God!” Zach breathed. “And thank you, Doctor.”

  “My pleasure. I like cases with positive outcomes.”

  “At least I have some good news to pass on to her parents. Could I go and see Robyn now, Dr. Forsyth?”

  “You’d probably better not. She’s hooked up to a dozen monitors and machines, and you could only stare at her through a window. She won’t regain consciousness for several hours, and when she does, she won’t want to chat. Why don’t you go back to your hotel and get a good night’s sleep? Phone us tomorrow first thing, and we’ll give you an update on her status. The receptionist will give you the number to ring.”

  “My God, can’t I see her before then?”

  “You’ll be able to see her tomorrow morning,” the doctor repeated. “At the moment, as I explained to you, there’s nothing for you to look at but machines and bandages. You may as well go back to the hotel and get a good night’s sleep.”

  Zach had spent enough time in England to know that there was absolutely no point in begging, pleading, or demanding to be allowed into the surgical intensive care recovery unit. The doctor might sound mild and low-key, but like the detective, his courteous manner was deceiving. Zach knew he was being ordered out of the hospital.

  He gave way with as good grace as he could muster. “Thanks for everything,” he said, shaking the doctor’s hand. “I have it on the authority of the nurses that you’re one of the best emergency surgeons in the country. I’m really grateful for what you’ve done.”

  Dr. Forsyth actually blushed. “Good heavens, what a compliment! The nursing staff are always the hardest people to impress. Now, how are you going to get home? You came with Robyn in the ambulance, didn’t you?”

  “I’ll give him a lift,” Inspector Harris said. “I’m driving back to the hotel anyway.”

  “Thanks,” Zach said and yawned, suddenly aware that he was so tired his eyes were no longer seeing straight. Ten minutes ago he had been a jangle of live nerve endings and sleep would have been impossible. Now he felt limp and formless, like a sack of cotton batting. He yawned again.

  Dr. Forsyth smiled. “When you get back to the hotel, order a nice double whiskey and a bowl of hot soup. Doctor’s orders. I’ll talk to you first thing tomorrow, Mr. Bowleigh. Good night.”

  Chapter 6

  “I am going to sit in the chair by the fire,” Robyn announced to the maid. “Could you please find me a robe to wear, and some slippers?” She spoke briskly. Fortified by a lunch of chicken broth and excellent crusty bread, she was determined to take charge of her life after too many days of allowing other people to control her actions.

  Mary, who seemed to see her role in life as one of endless anxious protest, clucked nervously. “Ow, my lady, ‘tis too soon for you to leave your bed. You’ll catch your death of cold. The wind has shifted to the north, and ‘tis a bitter day outside.”

  “Then you should tell William to turn up the thermostat,” Robyn said. “Get the furnaces blowing some nice hot air.”

  “Yus, m’lady.” Mary looked bewildered, but Robyn refused to be deceived by the maid’s apparent inability to understand simple English. Of course Mary knew what the word thermostat meant. Earlier today, for a brief moment, Robyn had allowed herself to fall into the trap being set for her. When Mary had said so convincingly that the date was 1746, Robyn had let herself slide into the fantasy being woven around her. But now she was in control again and determined to be on her guard.

  Obviously Mary didn’t believe the year was really 1746. The maid gave no sign of being insane, which she would have to be in order to think she was living more than two hundred years in the past. So since Mary was lying—must be lying—Robyn was forced to conclude the maid was part of a deliberate conspiracy.

  Which led to the question of what, exactly, the conspiracy was intended to achieve. Robyn couldn’t think of any convincing reason why several people, including Zach’s brother, would want to perpetrate a massive fraud on her, but she was confident she would come up with a credible rationale sometime soon. The most likely explanation of her fantastic surroundings was that William’s cruel hoax had something to do with the antiques scam being worked through the Bowleigh Gallery. Robyn couldn’t believe it was pure coincidence that William had imprisoned her in a working model of an eighteenth-century manor house, surrounded by precisely the sort of pseudo-antique furniture that was being illegally sold through the Gallery.

  The maid returned from her foray into the closet, an off-white woolen gown draped over her arm. “Here be your new winter robe, my lady. Shall I help your ladyship to put it on?”

  “I can manage, thank you.” Robyn slipped her aims into the padded, silk-lined sleeves of the robe. The deep pleats of the skirt swirled around her knees, settling into stillness with a smooth whisper of sound. The seams rested comfortably along her shoulder—the perfect size. The woolen cloth was so soft and fine Robyn couldn’t resist stroking the delicate folds of the robe. She had to hand it to William and his cronies; they sure knew how to do a fabulous job of faking antique workmanship. This robe appeared hand-sewn, and the cloth hand-woven. It would fetch a small fortune if it ever went on sale in a New York boutique.

  Realization dawned with the impact of lightning tearing through a dark night sky. “Of course,” Robyn breathed, looking at Mary through new eyes. “Now I understand where I am and what’s going on. This is a factory, isn’t it? This is where you’re turning out all those fabulous fake cabinets that are ending up in the Gallery, right? You’re making furniture, and maybe clothes and artifacts, too. The whole ball of wax, in fact.”

  Mary bobbed her head. “Yus, my lady. Your ladyship has the right of it. We do make furniture and wax for the candles.”

  “You’re admitting it?” Robyn couldn’t conceal her astonishment. “Just like that? No attempt at denial? What in the world do you do about Customs, or do you ship the pieces in as acknowledged reproductions and fake the paperwork later?”

  “I don’ know, my lady. Whatever you say is very true, my lady.”

  Robyn clenched her fists in frustration. “If you’re not going to answer me truthfully, for heaven’s sake say so. Don’t be so damned obsequious! You’re driving me crazy!”

  “No, my lady. I mean yus, my lady.” Averting her gaze, Mary crouc
hed into a kneeling position, so that she could guide Robyn’s feet into a pair of white velvet slippers. Straightening, she extended her arm, but avoided touching Robyn. “Does your ladyship wish to hold on to my arm, or do you prefer to walk to the fireside alone, my lady?”

  “Alone,” Robyn said curtly. She felt a twinge of guilt over her curtness when she saw the maid cringe, then told herself not to be a fool. Mary was playing a role, and Robyn had nothing to feel guilty about, nothing at all. On the contrary, her rudeness was entirely justified, given the appalling way she had been denied adequate medical treatment during her illness.

  Head held high, deliberately ignoring Mary, Robyn walked over to the chair by the hearth, delighted to find that she could cover the distance without needing the support of a single piece of furniture.

  She sat down and glared at the maid. “Okay, if you won’t talk, maybe William can tell me what’s going on here. Why don’t you let him know I’m up and about, and willing to hear the details of whatever nifty scam he’s trying to work. I guess he wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to keep me here unless he has some deal he wants to propose to me.”

  “You want to speak with the master, my lady?” The maid carefully placed an embroidered footstool beneath Robyn’s feet.

  Robyn gritted her teeth. “All right, we’ll play this by your rules. Yes, Mary, I want to speak with William. With your master.”

  “Very good, my lady. Shall I bring a shawl for your ladyship? ‘Tis drafty today, with the wind blowing so fierce.”

  Robyn gripped the arms of the chair and stared hard-eyed at the groveling servant. “Enough, Mary. Cut the English yokel act and just get William in here, okay?”

  “Certainly, my lady. I’ll fetch him instanter.”

  “And cut the phony slang, too. It’s getting tedious.”

  “As you wish, m’lady.” Mary scurried from the room.

  William came in less than five minutes later. He bowed to Robyn, hand on heart, but didn’t approach her, or touch her in any way. This afternoon, he had chosen to wear a more modest outfit than the day before: gray woolen knee breeches, gray silk stockings, and a full-skirted coat of black broadcloth, the lapels buttoned back to reveal an embroidered silver waistcoat. The lace at his cuffs and throat was as flowing and elaborate as before, but he had hidden his hair beneath a layer of white powder, so that he looked like an escaped footman from Disney’s version of Cinderella. Robyn wanted to laugh, to throw his ridiculous appearance back in his face, but the laughter died in her throat and she found herself staring at him, heart pounding just a little too fast.