Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Kendra decided not to point out that Edgar’s nocturnal adventure would have probably been harmless. She was the one who had led the criminals into the cemetery.

  “Edgar was very brave,” she said.

  The boy smiled.

  “Yes, well. Thank you,” Mr. Allan said gruffly. He had a faint Scottish accent. He frowned at his son. “And you, young man, I’ll have to figure out a suitable punishment for this night!”

  Kendra smiled slightly and started to turn away. But she paused to look back at the boy, transfixed by the small face, the intelligent eyes studying her. Wait. Edgar Allan Poe.

  “Do not be too severe with Master Allan,” the Duke added to the boy’s father. “All boys need a great adventure once in a while.”

  “Ah, yes… well, good evening, Your Grace, Miss Donovan, sir.”

  “Take care of yourself, Edgar,” she managed to say.

  Mr. Allan clamped a hand down on Edgar’s narrow shoulder and pushed him toward the carriage.

  Kendra couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from the small figure as his foster parents—the Allans, she knew, never adopted their foster son—led him to the carriage. Edgar looked back at her over his shoulder, his gaze intense, and then they climbed in the carriage. The coachman shut the door and clambered onto his perch, then set the horses trotting. Kendra watched until the vehicle disappeared around the corner.

  Holy crap.

  “What’s wrong?” It took a few minutes for Alec’s words to penetrate her strange daze.

  “Nothing.” I just met Edgar Allan Poe when he was a child.

  The Bow Street Runner frowned, his gold eyes flat as he looked at her. “It would appear that someone is getting even more nervous. They’re no longer content with just a warning, lass. They want you dead.”

  32

  I’m sorry I ruined your evening,” Kendra said carefully. She was sitting next to Alec and across from the Duke as his carriage barreled down the street toward Grosvenor Square. Sam had stayed behind to deal with Jowls’s body. Now that the danger had passed, she couldn’t stop shivering, even though she still wore Alec’s greatcoat and was sitting close enough to him to be warmed by his body heat. The adrenaline boost was wearing off.

  And, truth be told, she suspected that she was still in shock over her unexpected encounter with one of America’s greatest writers.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the Duke replied, eyeing her with concern. “I cannot believe that someone was so bold as to have you abducted from Hanover Square. In the middle of a party, for God’s sakes. Who would do such a thing? What kind of madman are we dealing with?”

  Kendra felt gratified by his use of pronouns. We, as in we are in this together. Instead of you, as in you are on your own.

  “Why the escalation? Mr. Kelly was correct. This wasn’t a kidnapping. You were meant to die tonight.” In the glow of the brass lamp, Alec’s green eyes blazed. “Who is behind this?”

  She leaned back against the seat, suddenly exhausted. Disjointed thoughts flitted through her brain. “I don’t know,” she finally said, and glanced out the window. The fine mist was thickening into a pea-soup fog. “Aren’t we going back to the Merriweather ball for Lady Atwood and Carlotta?”

  The Duke shook his head. “Lord Blackburn promised to escort them home. Are you certain you are all right, my dear?” He fished out a white handkerchief. “You’ve got blood on your face.”

  “Thanks.” She took the linen square, dabbed at her face, then gingerly touched the injury on her scalp.

  “When we’re home, I shall send for a doctor—”

  “No, I’m fine. Just cut from flying glass when the carriage overturned.”

  “Your cheek is bruised,” the Duke said, inspecting her face.

  “So’s my knee. I’ll live.”

  A muscle twitched along Alec’s jaw as he clasped her hand. He looked into her eyes. “I don’t want you going anywhere alone.”

  “I never do.” Well, almost never. “I’ve got a chaperone.”

  “I’m not talking about your maid,” he snapped.

  “I don’t need a bodyguard shadowing me. I guess you failed to notice, but I saved myself tonight.”

  “And what happens when your luck runs out?” he demanded furiously.

  She snatched her hand back and straightened, glaring at him. “It wasn’t luck that saved me tonight. I am a trained FBI agent. I know how to take care of myself.”

  “You—”

  “Enough, Alec.” The Duke’s voice was calm. “Enough, both of you. All our nerves are overwrought.”

  They fell silent for a moment.

  “Who was the boy?” the Duke spoke up again, his gaze on Kendra. “I saw the way you looked at him. He means something to you?”

  “You could say that,” she replied. “I think I’ve read everything he’s written. He’s a literary genius.”

  The Duke’s eyebrows went up. “Fascinating. He is… or, rather, will one day be a writer?”

  “A writer and a poet. In my time, he’s considered the father of the detective genre and one of the pioneers of science fiction. Edgar Allan Poe will probably become best known for transforming the horror genre…” Her breath caught in her throat. “One of his literary themes was being buried alive. And I just pushed him into a mausoleum!”

  “You think you perhaps inspired his fascination for the topic?” The Duke’s gaze sharpened, intrigued with the possibility.

  Alec shook his head. “Impossible. Kendra read his books in her time before she came here. This boy became who he was and lived his life long before she was even born.”

  She gave him a wry look. Impossible was not a word she could throw around with any certainty anymore.

  “Intriguing,” the Duke breathed. “This would suggest that you were always meant to come to this timeline, my dear. And your fear of changing the future is overblown, because your presence here has already changed whatever future you know.”

  “It’s called a predestination paradox.” She had to take a breath to steady her voice. Even though she was now living in the 19th century, it still gave her a panicky sensation in the pit of her stomach to consider all the theories of time travel. She’d accepted it as a reality—how could she not?—but it remained a bizarre phenomenon. “It suggests that mankind does not have free will, that we are not masters of our own fate.”

  The Duke said quietly, “I rather think we delude ourselves into thinking that we have any control over our own fate.”

  “It defies logic,” Kendra muttered.

  Now the Duke smiled at her. “And that troubles you.”

  “It should trouble everyone.”

  “Not everyone is as averse as you are to the unexplained and the miraculous.”

  Kendra wondered if the conversation had shifted.

  He continued, “However, I don’t think you’re dealing with… what did you call it? A predestination paradox. The child clearly had an interest in the macabre before he met you. Otherwise he would not have been in a graveyard in the middle of the night.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Does that assure you?”

  “I guess it will have to.”

  Alec spoke up, “I’m more concerned with who is trying to kill you than your encounter with the boy. Do you think Mrs. Gavenston sent those men?”

  The Duke stared at them. “Good God, why would Mrs. Gavenston do such a thing?”

  Kendra told him about her encounter with the businesswoman, and her suspicion that Jeremy Pascoe was her son.

  “Dear heavens,” he muttered. “A secret like that might be worth killing for. Though I cannot fathom her murdering her own son to keep him from exposing her.”

  “Except that’s not what happened.”

  “Yes, you said it was a moment of rage. That, too, I cannot fathom.”

  Kendra shook her head. “Whatever happened, we might be conflating Pascoe’s murder with the secrecy surrounding his birth.”

  “Meaning she may not have killed her ow
n son, but she sent two ruffians after you to keep her secret,” the Duke said.

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “You forget that someone took a shot at you before you confronted her about her possible connection to Mr. Pascoe,” Alec said.

  The Duke frowned. “That was a warning. Mrs. Gavenston could have feared you were getting close to the truth and wished to send you a message.”

  “Possible,” Kendra conceded.

  The Duke eyed her closely. “Do you have another theory, my dear?”

  She did, but it was only beginning to form. Like an experiment in a petri dish, she needed to put it aside, let it germinate for a bit. And if she was right…

  “I always have theories, Your Grace,” she said, and turned to look out the dark window to avoid the Duke’s too perceptive gaze.

  * * *

  “Are you certain I shouldn’t send for the doctor? You’re limping,” the Duke said as they moved toward the door of No. 29.

  “I banged up my knee, that’s all. I’ll be fine—no doctor,” Kendra said, but a moment later wondered just how bad she looked when she caught the horrified looks of Harding and one of the footmen as they entered the foyer.

  “Good evening, sir… ah, should I have a bath prepared for you, Miss Donovan?” Harding asked with remarkable aplomb, as though he was used to her coming home with her hair in disarray, her evening gown torn, her face bloodied. Then again, he had seen her in a similar state before.

  The Duke spoke up before Kendra could answer. “Yes, a bath, and rouse Miss Donovan’s maid to put together a poultice for her knee. Have my sister and Carlotta returned?”

  “Not yet, Your Grace.”

  “Very good. Hopefully, they’re enjoying themselves.” The Duke looked at Kendra. “I shall send up a warm brandy for you to drink before you go to bed. You need rest.”

  “Thanks.” She started toward the stairs.

  Alec joined her, putting an arm around her waist. “I shall help Kendra to her room,” he told his uncle.

  “I’m fine,” she began.

  Alec gave her a look. “Do you want me to carry you?”

  “No.”

  “Then be quiet.”

  “Alec shall escort you to your bedchamber door,” the Duke said, placing a slight emphasis on door. He had an almost stern look on his face as he watched them ascend the stairs. “I shall wait for you in the study, nephew. Perhaps we can have a drink before you venture to your own home.”

  “I shall meet you there shortly,” Alec agreed, then lowered his voice for Kendra’s ears alone. “My God, he’s as bad as a mother hen clucking over a chick. It’s not like you’re in a fit state to be ravished.”

  Kendra laughed softly.

  When they reached her door, Alec dropped his arm from her waist and picked up her hand. Kendra had never thought herself to be a hand-holding kind of gal, but heat shot through her as Alec stared at their laced fingers for a long moment.

  “I wish to speak to you about our conversation before you went out into the garden,” he said, fixing an intense gaze upon her.

  Kendra’s stomach clenched at the memory. “Can we forget it?”

  “No.” He kept his eyes on hers. “You do know that there is nothing that I wish more than to marry you?”

  “Alec—”

  “I love you. But I don’t want you to marry me to run from your present circumstances; I want you to be running toward me.”

  She sighed. “It was dumb. I don’t even know why I said it.”

  “Don’t you?” He looked deep into her eyes. “You know that the Duke loves you. That will not change, no matter what happens with Carlotta or who she turns out to be. I wish you would believe that.”

  Kendra swallowed against the lump in her throat. She tried to disengage her hand. “I’d rather not talk about it. I feel stupid enough.”

  “Kendra—” he began, but broke off with a frustrated oath when the door opened.

  Molly gave a startled yelp. “Oh, pardon me. Gor!” Her eyes rounded as she caught sight of Kendra. “W’ot ’appened? Ye look like ye’ve been in a mill, miss!”

  “A boxing analogy is apt,” Kendra admitted drily. She turned to face the maid when Alec released her hand.

  “Oi’ll ’ave a bath brought up.”

  “The Duke has already ordered a bath and a hot brandy. Can you fix a poultice for my knee? It’s swelled up.”

  “Aye, Oi’ll do that.” Molly hesitated, looking at them.

  “It would be nice to get the poultice tonight,” Kendra commented.

  “Oh. Aye.” The maid hurried down the hall, passing two maids carrying steaming buckets of water. They kept their eyes averted as they went through the door.

  Alec leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Take your bath, drink your brandy, and get a good night’s sleep, Kendra. I shall see you tomorrow morning.” He smiled a little, then turned away.

  “Alec?”

  He paused and looked back at her. “Yes?”

  “Thanks for not taking me up on my foolish proposal.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t thank me. I’m already regretting it.”

  33

  The next morning was bleak with gray skies and a cold drizzle. Kendra crawled out of bed, feeling every bruise on her body. Her knee wasn’t quite as swollen—maybe the poultice had worked—but her leg had stiffened overnight. She did a few stretches to ease the tenderness before moving into the dressing room, where she inspected her reflection. The gash on her head had scabbed over and was concealed by her hair, and most of the contusions on her body would be covered by clothes. The only bruise that she couldn’t hide was the one on her cheek.

  “Gor, miss. ’Ow are ye?” Molly asked.

  “A lot better than the other guy.”

  “Gave me nightmares ter think of ye in that graveyard last night. Oi brought ye coffee.”

  “You’re a saint.”

  Molly handed her the cup. “W’ot are ye going ter be doing this mornin’? Stayin’ indoors?”

  Kendra glanced at the rivulets running down the windowpane. “For a while, at least.” She sipped her coffee, thinking. She needed to review her notes again. She was missing something. “Mr. Kelly will probably be arriving soon. And Mr. Muldoon and Lady Rebecca.”

  Her gaze fell on the stack of foolscap that contained Jeremy Pascoe’s writing. She would have to return them to Mrs. Pascoe, she thought, wandering over to the elegant desk to leaf through the pages marked with angry slashes. She remembered Mr. Elwes’s idea of taking Pascoe’s writing and see if he could get it published posthumously. Since she’d never heard of a poet named Jeremy Pascoe, either it never happened, or his work failed to rise above obscurity.

  “Miss?”

  Molly held up a loose-fitting cream sprigged muslin. Kendra set down her cup and the sheaves of foolscap to slip on the morning gown, then let Molly pin up her hair, followed by a green velvet bandeau.

  “Maybe Oi can get some rice powder ter cover yer face.”

  “It’s not going to work.” Kendra inspected the bruise. At least it was on her cheek, not swelling her eye shut.

  Someone knocked at the door. Molly put down the hairbrush and hurried over to the door, peeking out. “Aye? W’ot is it?” Kendra heard a low murmur, then Molly closed the door, and brought over a note. “This was sent for ye. Is it from that Irish scribbler again?”

  Kendra frowned as she opened the piece of paper. “I don’t think so…”

  “W’ot’s it say?”

  But Kendra was already on her feet, moving to the wardrobe. She pulled out her heaviest hooded cloak. “Whoever sent it wants me to meet them. They’re waiting in a carriage down the street.”

  “ ’Oo sent it?” Molly demanded.

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t say.” She went to the dresser, opened her reticule to retrieve the muff pistol. “I’ll find out when I get to the carriage.”

  “But… ye can’t go, miss!” The maid was
alarmed. “It could be a trap. Ye’ve already been shot at and kidnapped!”

  “You don’t have to remind me.”

  “But ye’re goin’ anyways?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry. This time I’m prepared.”

  “Oi’m goin’ with ye.”

  “No.”

  “Miss—”

  “I doubt if the person behind last night’s attack has had a chance to regroup yet. I think this is something else. If I’m wrong, though, I don’t want to worry about you getting caught in the crossfire.”

  “Oh, miss. We ought ter tell ’Is Grace.”

  “I don’t want him caught in the crossfire either.” That didn’t seem to reassure the maid. Kendra sighed. “Look, I really don’t think there’s anything to be concerned about. But if I’m wrong, I’d rather you stay here because then you can alert the Duke if I don’t return in… say, twenty minutes. How does that sound?”

  “Terrible! A lot can ’appen in twenty minutes!”

  If someone wanted her dead, they only needed half a minute to point a gun in her face and pull the trigger. But since that would hardly comfort the maid, Kendra kept quiet. She put on the cloak and pulled the hood over her head. She kept her hand on the pistol.

  “Twenty minutes,” she reminded Molly, walking to the door. She glanced back at the maid’s pale, tense face. “I’m not that easy to kill, you know. I’ve survived more than what happened last night.”

  “Aye, ye’ve been lucky, so far. But everybody’s luck runs out eventually.”

  Kendra’s luck held, at least in allowing her to slip out the servant’s entrance without attracting any attention. She considered that a win as she hurried down the alley and past the mews. Her hood protected her from the light rain, but the cobblestones were slick, and she was careful to avoid the shallow puddles.

  A short time later, she emerged on the street. The rain and early hour had kept servants indoors for the moment. The silence seemed odd. Kendra realized that she’d grown used to the noise at the Yarborough residence, but the bad weather had put a temporary halt to the construction. Now the only sound coming from that area was a light tapping as raindrops hit the oiled canvas tarps stretched across bricks, tools, and stacked timber.