Timeless (A Time Travel Romance)

by Jasmine Cresswell

  Robyn tried hard not to panic. The walls of William’s bedroom were covered in elaborately carved paneling, a holdover from the previous century. Looking around the room, she guessed there might be three hundred flowers and five hundred scrolls of leaves, interspersed with carved bunches of grapes and exotic birds. Working systematically, pressing every flower, leaf, bird, and grape to find a hidden spring mechanism, she reckoned it would take her an entire day to discover the entrance to the priest’s hole. And that was assuming the mechanism didn’t work on a coded sequence, so that the lock sprang only when, say, the third rose from the left was pressed immediately after the fifth grape from the right. In which case, she might work at pressing flowers and leaves for a lifetime without ever finding the correct sequence.

  William would die from loss of blood before she managed to find him.

  “Dammit,” she muttered. “You’re not going to die until I’ve told you what a total pain in the ass you are. I’m going to find this stupid door and open it in the next ten minutes, okay?”

  From her experience studying the layout of other manor houses, Robyn knew that the priest’s hole was most likely to be built into the space next to the chimneypiece, where a hollow wall was harder to detect. She knew the locking mechanism was usually built into the door itself, since seventeenth-century engineering skills didn’t run to fail-safe long-distance levers. And since the lock often needed to be sprung in a hurry, with soldiers in hot pursuit, the spring-lock device was likely to be located in a carving at, or near, eye level.

  So far, so good. Her graduate-school courses in the history of architecture had provided her with a veritable mine of useful information, Robyn thought wryly. The theory was great, but the trouble was, the Starke priest’s hole could easily be an exception to every one of these general rules.

  Resisting the impulse to dash wildly from one likely spot to the next, Robyn took the panel to the right of the hearth and started a methodical search. On close examination, so many of the marguerites seemed to have oddly raised centers—ideal for concealing a lock—that she decided they had been deliberately carved to disguise and confuse possible searchers, Checking the left-hand panel, she found the same pattern, a tempting hint that the lock was hidden under the heart of one such flower. For a moment she debated concentrating her search only on the marguerites, then decided that was too risky. They were such an obvious lure that they might be a double-blind, with the lock concealed behind something far less obviously suitable.

  In the end, all shortcuts seemed too chancy, and methodical plodding the only safe course. She pressed bumps and notches until her thumbs ached, but no doors sprung open and William still didn’t appear. The clock on the dressing table checked off the seconds, its loud and relentless ticking making Robyn’s palms turn slick with sweat.

  In the distance, she heard the sound of Mary’s voice, calling worriedly from the hallway. “My lady, be you well? My lady, ‘tis long past time to dress for dinner.”

  Robyn ignored the maid, chiefly because she couldn’t think of any conceivable answer that would send Mary away without increasing her curiosity. The clock chimed three-quarters past two o’clock. In fifteen minutes, Jean-Luc would expect to serve the dinner that had already been delayed for an hour, and the absence of master and mistress would become glaringly apparent. From past experience, she doubted if any of the servants would show any immediate initiative, but when dusk turned to darkness Hackett would become sufficiently worried to retrieve his keys of office and march ceremonially upstairs to unlock her door. In other words, unless she wanted to have the entire household alive with gossip, she had less than half an hour in which to find William, dress his wound, and make him comfortable until she could return.

  Robyn was tired, exhausted in fact, and for a moment she allowed herself the luxury of leaning her forehead against the paneled wall and giving way to tears. After twenty seconds of weeping, she realized William didn’t have time for her to indulge in useless bouts of self-pity. She pulled her lace handkerchief from her pocket, wiped her eyes, drew in a determined breath, and prepared to resume pressing flowers, grapes, and vines, the only course open to her.

  The dove with the olive branch in its break was staring at her.

  Robyn’s stomach lurched. For a split second, she was paralyzed with shock, then anger overwhelmed her. She banged her fists on the wall, not caring if she made enough noise to attract the servants.

  “Get out of there!” she yelled. “How could you do this to me? You and Captain Bretton deserve each other! You’re both lower than snakes!”

  The bird’s eye winked, then closed. The wall panel to the left of the hearth swung in on a pivot and a man stepped out of the dark, cavernous recess concealed alongside the chimney. Shorter and more slender than William, he smiled crookedly, inclining his head in an offhand, quizzing acknowledgment.

  “Hello, Bella,” he said. “No need for you to get yourself in such a taking. William is going to be all right, you know. I dressed his wound myself.”

  She stared at him, guessing the answer to her question as soon as she asked it. “Who are you?”

  His face assumed an expression of exaggerated hurt. “Come now, Bella, you can’t have forgotten me, however far your wits have gone begging. I am Zachary, of course. Your much maligned, oft misunderstood brother-in-law.”

  * * *

  “Mr. Bowleigh? This is Inspector Harris of the Dorset police.” The detective’s voice came smoothly across the transatlantic cables, with nothing to suggest that he was calling from several thousand miles away and not from the next office. “I have some news regarding the shooting of Ms. Delaney to share with you, if you have a moment.”

  Zach’s hand tightened around the phone. “I always have time to hear how your investigation is progressing, Inspector. What have you found out?”

  “We had a bit of good luck.” The detective couldn’t conceal his satisfaction. “We’ve found the gun that was used in the attack on Ms. Delaney.”

  “That’s fantastic news!” Zach exclaimed. “How did you manage that, Inspector?”

  “Like I said, a bit of good luck and a lot of routine hard work. We arrested a burglar last week in Poole. When we searched his apartment, we found a stash of stolen articles in his flat, including a handgun, a Swiss-made 9mm pistol. We don’t have many incidents involving guns and shooting in a small town like Poole, not even one a year, so we checked the gun against the bullet that was fired at Ms. Delaney. Turned out to be a perfect match. We’re sure we’ve got the gun that was used to shoot your friend, no question about it.”

  “Are you charging the burglar with the shooting?” Zach asked. “Does he have any possible motive?”

  “None that we can find so far. Besides, he swears he’s innocent, at least as far as shooting Ms. Delaney is concerned. He claims he stole the gun barely a week before we arrested him, and he’s never taken it outside his flat. Hasn’t even tried to fence it because the shop he goes to doesn’t deal in guns.”

  “Was the burglar willing to identify the house he stole the gun from?”

  “He was indeed,” Inspector Harris said. “Led us right to it, and we know he’s telling the truth because guns in this country have to be licensed, so it didn’t take us more than a few hours to trace the name and address of the gun’s legal owner. Turned out to be a woman, a lady called Gloria Hasskins, resident in the very house our chappie said he burglarized.”

  “A woman!” Zach interjected. “Then maybe I was right, after all. It was a woman who shot Robyn. Have you arrested... what did you say her name was?”

  “Hasskins. And no, we haven’t arrested her, nor even spoken to her. That’s the bad news. Unfortunately she wasn’t at home when we went calling. According to her neighbors, she left the country a couple of weeks ago. Went to visit her family in America.”

  “She’s here? In the States?”

  “Seems so.”

  The back of Zach’s neck started to prickle. He rubb
ed it absentmindedly. “So she’s got some sort of a connection over here,” he muttered. “Is she involved in the antiques trade, do you know?”

  “Not professionally. She was an English teacher until last year, when she had a nervous breakdown.”

  “Can the U.S. Immigration people help you to track her down? They have computerized records of all foreigners coming into the country.”

  “We’ve asked for their help, Mr. Bowleigh, and we’re running a background check on her from this end. As a matter of fact, I was hoping her name might ring a few bells with you, that’s why I called.”

  “Hasskins... Gloria Hasskins,” Zach murmured, trying to attach a face to the name. Absolutely nothing clicked. “Is she married?” he asked. “Maybe I knew her by her maiden name.”

  “Married and divorced, that much we already know. Her husband ran off with a woman barely out of her teens and Gloria reverted to her maiden name. She had a nervous breakdown after the divorce, according to her neighbors, and was in and out of mental hospitals for a couple of years. That’s why she gave up teaching. Her husband’s name was Britten if that’s any help.”

  Gloria Britten sounded no more familiar than Gloria Hasskins. Zach sighed. “Something’s connecting, Inspector, but I can’t put the pieces together. I’ll call you at once, if I remember anything. Did you try the Delaneys? I guess it’s possible she’s some sort of relation of theirs.”

  “Yes, I spoke to them both. I’m afraid they couldn’t give me any help at all. The Delaneys came across from Ireland a hundred years ago, and they don’t have any family connections in England. I understand Miss Delaney spent a year or so living in London, but of course her parents don’t know the names of all the friends she made while she was over here.”

  “Something’s nagging at me,” Zach said, frowning in frustration. “But I can’t catch hold of it.”

  “Stop pushing so hard and maybe it will come.” The detective spoke briskly. “Keep me posted, Mr. Bowleigh. If you have any bright ideas, call me anytime, day or night. I don’t want this woman to get away.”

  “Neither do I.”

  The detective hesitated for a moment. “Is there any change in Miss Delaney’s condition? Her father told me she has good days and bad.”

  Zach stared out of his office window. The sky was gray and snow-laden, but the view wasn’t anywhere near as bleak as his mood. “No,” he said quietly. “Robyn’s condition hasn’t improved very much. She has a lot more bad days than good ones,”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the detective said. “Very sorry.”

  “Yeah,” Zach said bitterly. “So am I.”

  Chapter 17

  At another time, Robyn might have been interested in talking to Zachary. She would have liked to find out why William’s younger brother had been prepared to risk his life—and his family’s safety—fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie’s doomed quest to regain his inheritance. But right now, all she could think of was William and his injuries, injuries he’d acquired trying to save Zachary from the consequences of his reckless gallantry.

  “Where is my husband?” she demanded, scarcely noticing the ease with which she claimed the relationship. “I need to take care of his wounds at once or he’ll develop an infection.”

  “Now, Bella, there’s no point in trying to be brave when you know you cannot abide the sight of blood. Besides, the wound is already taken care of. The bullet, thank God, had not lodged in the bone. All William needs now is a little rest.”

  “How can his wound be taken care of when you didn’t even have any hot water,” Robyn muttered, unfastening her satin skirt and stepping out of it as she spoke. “I hope to God you at least used some alcohol.”

  “Yes, I poured brandy on his...” Zachary’s voice collapsed into a strangled gasp. “Bella, have a care! What in the world are you thinking of? My God, what are you doing?”

  “Taking off my hoops, of course.” She let her skirt and steel-girded underdress drop to the floor. She patted her remaining petticoats, trying to get them flat enough for her to squeeze through the narrow entrance to the priest’s hole. The builder hadn’t designed his door to accommodate people who were either fat or wearing fashionable female clothes.

  “For God’s sake, Bella, show some discretion.” Zachary was flushed with embarrassment. “William is only dozing, you know. He’s not in a deep swoon, so he could wake up at any minute.”

  She whirled around, shaking with anger at his not-so-subtle implication. “Are you suggesting that if he were unconscious one of us might choose to take advantage of the situation to indulge in a little romantic dalliance?”

  “Good Lord no! Naturally I meant no such thing.”

  “Right, I’m sure you didn’t. Damn Arabella and her miserable gaggle of lovers.” Robyn pushed into the dark, shallow cubbyhole, not waiting to hear Zachary’s spluttered explanations and apologies. Once inside the door, a single quick glance around was enough to ascertain that the cubicle opened out into a space no more than three feet deep by two feet wide, and William was nowhere inside it. Which must mean that the hidey-hole had been built with a doubly secret inner room, to offer space and greater safety from pursuing enemies. Robyn could barely contain her frustration.

  “Where is he?” she demanded. “Zachary, we don’t have time for you to procrastinate any longer. Show me his hiding place, for God’s sake.”

  Zachary hesitated. “Bella, you know how loose your tongue is, I dare not confide in you. At the moment you know the hiding place exists, but you cannot reveal how to open the otter door, because you do not know where the locking mechanism is concealed. And that is best for you, as you will realize if you reflect for just a moment. If you ever revealed the secret to Captain Bretton, you would put William’s life at risk, as well as mine.”

  She gritted her teeth, forcing herself not to lose control of her temper. “Zachary, listen to me carefully, because I have no time to argue my case more than once. I’m not going to waste time trying to persuade you that I can be trusted. I’m simply going to point out a few indisputable facts, the most important of which is that William and I have already aroused the suspicions of every servant in the house by our prolonged seclusion. If we are not downstairs, ready to eat dinner, in fifteen minutes from now, one of Captain Bretton’s spies—and I am sure this household contains several—will have carried the news of our disappearance to the captain before nightfall.”

  “Let the miserable captain do his worst,” Zachary said, with what Robyn considered excessive bravado. “He has never yet found my hiding place in a half-dozen tries.”

  With supreme difficulty, Robyn managed to refrain from pointing out that the “miserable captain” had, however, terrorized Clementine and the twins, imprisoned several rebels, and tortured poor Harry Dalrymple to death. What’s more, she had no doubt that his failure to find Zachary’s hiding place had been bought at the cost of enormous effort on William’s part, culminating in the chase today when William had taken a bullet in the thigh in order to save his brother.

  “The captain is no fool,” she said with remarkable restraint. “He knows the priest’s hole exists, and he must know that its most likely entrance is either in the library or in this bedroom. He will eventually decide to concentrate his search on those two rooms, and he won’t waste time pressing flower petals and bird beaks like I did. He will simply take an ax to the paneling and chop until he finds what he is looking for. In the circumstances, it seems to me that turning Captain Bretton loose on yet another search of Starke Manor is a far greater risk than revealing to me the secret of how this inner door opens.”

  “Even Captain Bretton would not dare to destroy the property of the Baron of Starke!” Zachary protested.

  “You’re wrong,” Robyn said. “He carries letters from the Duke of Cumberland authorizing him to take all necessary steps to secure King George’s realm from Jacobite traitors. He is hovering right on the brink of deciding that an all-out attack on Starke Manor is a nece
ssary step. Now, are you going to show me how the lock works, or are you going to keep talking and condemn yourself and your brother to almost certain discovery by Captain Bretton?”

  “William is right,” Zachary muttered. “You are not the same woman I used to know.” He didn’t sound as if he considered the changes an improvement.

  “No, I’m not the same woman,” Robyn agreed, nearly frantic with impatience. “Trust me, I don’t suffer from a loose tongue and I won’t reveal the secret of the mechanism, I swear it. For God’s sake, Zachary, open the door.”

  Looking distinctly uneasy, Zachary stepped into the priest’s hole and pressed the top right-hand corner of the dark walnut panel that formed the back wall. Simultaneously, his left hand sought a knot in the wood at waist level. Robyn heard only a faint whirring noise, before the inner wall twisted inward, revealing William standing on the other side, leaning against the wall of a dark but spacious room.

  “She insisted that I open the door, William.” Zachary sounded apologetic.

  “I know. I heard the tail end of your argument.” William’s voice was husky with fatigue, but lie managed a wry smile.

  “Do not feel dashed, Zachary, because you lost your argument with my wife. She wins all her disputes with me, too. I have learned simply to surrender with grace and save myself a great deal of humiliation.” Smiling to take the sting out of his words, William raised Robyn’s hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. His eyes were shadowed with the pain from his wound, but Robyn saw the warmth of affection and pride deep in their blue depths. Her heart turned over with an unexpected leap of joy.

  “H-how are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Disastrously likely to fall flat on my face at the first puff of wind, but I must hurry and change for dinner.” He stepped out into the bedroom, walking with no more than a slight limp. Ever the consummate aristocrat, he bowed to indicate that she should precede him to the dressing closet. “Fortunately, Zachary proved to be a tolerable needle-woman. He has sewn me up quite neatly, and the blood has stopped flowing, thank God.”