Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “If yer gonna go as a gentry cove, it wouldn’t look right if ye carried a reticule.”

  Kendra grinned. “True. This is almost perfect.”

  “Almost?”

  “I want to get one more thing. Let’s go shopping.”

  Molly’s eyes widened. “Ye want ter go shopping?”

  “Yes. And I’m swearing you to secrecy. I don’t want anyone in the household to know. We should take a hackney.”

  Molly’s shock turned into wariness. “Oh, no. This ain’t gonna be good.”

  “Don’t be so pessimistic.”

  “W’ot’s that?”

  “Negative. Having a negative attitude ages you, you know.”

  “Oi think being yer maid does that.”

  * * *

  Kendra paused at the doorway to the drawing room later that evening, scanning the occupants in their fancy costumes. Lady Atwood looked downright regal in a sumptuous velvet Elizabethan-style dress the color of a ripe plum, trimmed in gold cord and decorated with pearls. She’d covered her hair with a beautifully embellished attifet headdress, which matched the colors of her gown. Diamonds glittered around her neck and in her ears. Carlotta had chosen to dress as a Flamenco dancer in a striking red and black traje de lunares polka-dot pattern, cascading with ruffles. She’d swept her hair up high into a chignon, anchored by combs, and wore a red rose behind her ear. Like his sister, the Duke wore an Elizabethan costume with a broad-collared shirt and laced leather doublet, slashed to reveal the azure lining. A short black velvet cape fell from his shoulders. On his head was a velvet flat hat decorated with two feathers. Her gaze slid to Alec, who’d dressed entirely in soft black leather. Like a goth huntsman.

  As she gazed at them, she was suddenly assailed by a dizzying sense of déjà vu. This was how it had begun. She’d attended the fancy-dress ball at Aldridge Castle, disguising herself as a lady’s maid, on the night everything changed. Then, her 21st century counterparts had dressed in Regency costume, not bothering to hide their tattoos and multiple piercings.

  “Miss Donovan? Is that you?”

  Carlotta’s voice dragged Kendra back to the present. She was in the Regency era, and everyone was trying to dress in costume from their history.

  “What are you wearing?” Lady Atwood demanded. “I sent a costume to your bedchamber.”

  The costume in question—a milkmaid’s dress from the Elizabethan era (apparently a popular timeline)—was folded neatly and placed on the chair.

  “I had already bought this,” Kendra said.

  “You cannot wear that! Bertie, tell her that she cannot wear… wear inexpressibles!”

  Kendra nearly shook her head in exasperation. Nothing ever changes. The people in every era managed to be offended by something and language was always under assault. Here, it was considered indelicate for a lady to mention by name the garments—breeches, trousers, pantaloons—that would clothe a man’s lower body, so the word inexpressibles had been adopted to mean the same thing.

  “It is rather a bold choice, my dear,” the Duke pointed out mildly.

  That was probably an understatement. The outrage on Lady Atwood’s face was very real. It would take another thirty-five years for early women’s rights advocates to challenge the rules that forbade them from wearing inexpressibles. And it would take many more years of women being ridiculed and arrested for daring to dress themselves in a pair of pants. She knew she was being provocative—Molly and Mrs. Browne had warned her—but it was vital to her plan.

  She also couldn’t tell them that, because then she’d have to explain the plan that she’d come up with—which would open a new set of objections.

  So, she fell back on the only argument she could make. “It’s a costume.”

  “It’s a masculine costume,” snapped Lady Atwood. She staggered back a bit, looking like she was about to succumb to a fit of vapors. “This time you go too far, Miss Donovan. It is beyond the pale.”

  Alec pulled out a stopper on a decanter and splashed sherry into a crystal glass. “You are an Original, darling,” he said, smiling slightly as he brought her the glass.

  “This is not being an Original, Sutcliffe—this is being a hoyden,” his aunt shot back. “Everyone in town shall be at Vauxhall. I don’t think I can take the shame. This is too vexing! And, Sutcliffe, have care with your endearments. Though Miss Donovan’s reputation will most likely be in tatters by the end of this evening for this—this brazen costume, you will be doing her no favors by being overfamiliar with her.”

  Alec gave an abbreviated bow, green eyes gleaming with humor. “Point taken, aunt. Still, I suspect that the Ton will be intrigued by Miss Donovan’s unusual… ah, choice.”

  “Mark my words, we shall be a laughingstock,” the countess predicted. “She will be lucky not to have someone give her a direct cut!”

  “No one would dare,” the Duke said, his upper-class accent sharpening like a scythe. “You make too much of this, Caro.”

  She pointed a finger at him. “And you make too little. There will come a time when our bloodline will not be enough to save us from her eccentricities.” She shot Kendra a scathing look. “If you cared for our family’s good name, you would change immediately.”

  Kendra almost wished she could. She’d known that Lady Atwood wouldn’t like her choice of costumes, but she had no idea how furious she’d be. Carlotta was staring at Kendra, too, with a perplexed expression.

  “Lord and Lady Blackburn and Lady Rebecca,” Harding announced, stepping aside for Rebecca and her parents to enter the drawing room.

  Lord Blackburn was dressed in a similar style to the Duke, and his wife had gone for Elizabeth I. They both regarded Kendra’s costume with surprise and amusement.

  “Now I know why you kept your costume a secret,” Rebecca said, grinning at her and pulling her slightly away from the rest of the group. “How did Lady Atwood react?” she asked in a whisper.

  “How do you think?” Alec raised an eyebrow at her as he arrived to hand her a drink.

  “I didn’t know whether I needed smelling salts or a shield,” Kendra remarked drily. “I probably should have waited for you. I could have used the goddess of wisdom and war on my side. You look great, by the way.” She gazed at the frothy, flowing golden robes Rebecca was wearing. She’d kept her hair auburn hair down, decorated with golden leaves.

  Rebecca smiled, sipping her sherry. “Thank you. I confess, I do not usually enjoy London’s soirees, but I am looking forward to this one. What say you, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra’s eyes strayed to the group across the room. Carlotta looked over at her, and their eyes met. Kendra thought she recognized a certain tension tightening the other woman’s face, although her dark eyes remained inscrutable. Kendra’s heart pumped faster with anticipation.

  “Oh, I’m looking forward to this evening as well. I think it will be very interesting.”

  Alec smiled slightly, raising his glass to clink against hers. “Here’s to an interesting evening, then.”

  38

  Vauxhall Gardens reminded Kendra of Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, with hordes of people and a circus-like atmosphere. Sir Howe’s ball was in one of the pavilions, but the public—not the very poor, who had to pay to get in, but the merchant class, at least—had access to the other entertainments in the gardens. In one section, a musical troupe was performing to raucous cheers of revelers both on the ground and in supper boxes; in another Kendra was startled to see a high-wire act had been set up, tightrope walkers above entertaining the awestruck crowd while jugglers and court jesters drew applause below. The main thoroughfares were lit by thousands of lamps hanging from trees, but there were unlit paths—the close or dark walks that Rebecca had mentioned—that twisted off into carefully designed wilderness, still wet from the recent rain.

  Maybe this wasn’t Carnival. Maybe it was Disneyland.

  The evening temperature had dropped a good ten degrees—another benefit of wearing the male frock coat, Kendra t
hought—but the night sky was clear, with a scattering of diamond-hard stars and the moon floating in an ocean of darkness. The air was filled with laughter and conversation, and carried the scent of smoke, vegetation, flowers, cooking meat, and brine, the latter traced to the Thames that bordered the gardens.

  Kendra wore a look of vague amusement, revealing none of the keyed-up energy coursing through her bloodstream, as she followed her party through the reception line, where Sir Howe, an aging, plump Robin Hood, greeted his guests. The pavilion was set up like any ball. An orchestra was playing on the edge of a dance floor and a separate room was set up for refreshments. Doors opened to a large outdoor area, which was already crowded. Kendra’s gaze traveled beyond the patio to the dark walks, convenient for amorous couples to disappear.

  Perfect, Kendra thought.

  The Duke invited Carlotta out onto the dance floor, followed by Lord and Lady Blackburn. Alec surprised his aunt by asking her to dance. Kendra snagged two champagne flutes from a passing footman, handing one to Rebecca, and they began strolling. Deliberately she maneuvered to a position near the door. I want to make it easy for you.

  “Do you think Mr. Muldoon will come?” Rebecca asked suddenly, sipping her champagne, her gaze roaming the crowd.

  People had dressed as Roman and Greek gods and goddesses, Romany, shepherdesses, chimney-sweepers, milkmaids, Turks, Indians, empresses, Iranians, and a couple of Harlequins.

  Kendra glanced at her. “Do you want him to come?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “It means naught to me. I am simply curious to see if he would be so brazen.”

  “I don’t think Muldoon is too worried about being labeled brazen.” She eyed Rebecca closely. The other woman was wearing a gold domino, but Kendra could see that her face was flushed. “You like him, don’t you?”

  “Like him? I barely know him.”

  “Attraction isn’t necessarily tied to the length of time you know someone. Usually it happens immediately.” She thought of the desire that had flickered to life in her with Alec. It had been as unexpected as it had been unwanted at the time. It’s still unwanted.

  “Attracted? You think I’m attracted to Mr. Muldoon?”

  Kendra smiled. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure it’s a mutual attraction. If Muldoon comes, he’s not coming for the food.”

  Rebecca said nothing for the moment. Kendra couldn’t see her expression beneath the mask.

  “It would be impossible,” Rebecca finally sighed. “We do not belong to the same social circles.”

  The domino shadowed Rebecca’s eyes, but Kendra thought she saw misery. “If you like each other, you shouldn’t let anything stand in your way of being together.”

  There was a short silence, then Rebecca laughed. “Well, that’s rich, coming from you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rebecca turned to fix her with her gaze. “It means that I see the way you and Sutcliffe look at each other. Why haven’t you married?”

  “It’s complicated,” Kendra muttered, taking a gulp of champagne as she wondered how the conversation had gotten turned around on her.

  Rebecca laughed again. “A marriage between you and Sutcliffe is far less complicated than a union between me and Mr. Muldoon. You may be an American, but you are His Grace’s ward, meaning you’re now in the same social sphere as Sutcliffe. You don’t have to sneak into this ball. The Ton will never welcome Mr. Muldoon into their drawing rooms.”

  Kendra wasn’t sure how welcome she was by the Polite World, but she asked, “When did you start caring about what everyone thinks?”

  “I don’t. But…” Rebecca bit her lip. “I would happily live in the country without the dictates of Polite Society. But can you imagine Mr. Muldoon leaving London? For what? To become a farmer? Or, worse, to live off my father?”

  Kendra had nothing to say to that. She hadn’t really thought about it, but she realized now that Rebecca was right. What she knew of the Irishman, he loved his job. And he struck her as a true urbanite. Imagining his ink-stained fingers milking a cow was laughable.

  Rebecca shook her head. “There is more to consider than me and Mr. Muldoon enjoying each other’s company.”

  Kendra let out a sigh. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen how ruthlessly this system separated the classes, not just in work but in love. That would change, of course, but it would take another century and the rise of the merchant class. Rebecca and Muldoon would be long dead. She would be long dead. The thought made her uncomfortable—to live out her life more than a century before she was born.

  The music stopped. Kendra’s gaze moved to the dance floor, where Carlotta was laughing up at the Duke as they wove their way through the crowd. She felt confident that she’d considered all the angles, but no plan was foolproof. She was taking an enormous risk. I might not die of old age here; I might die tonight.

  She drew in a breath, let it out slowly. She edged a little closer to the door. And waited.

  * * *

  It took another hour. Kendra’s eyes were on Rebecca and a masked Romeo on the dance floor. His face was covered but his bright reddish blond curls made her think that Muldoon had indeed crashed the party. Good for him, she thought, although she wished he’d chosen a different costume. Maybe he, like Rebecca, thought any romance between them was ultimately doomed, even if he couldn’t resist a flirtation.

  Her mind flashed to Pascoe and Hester. Not everyone had a happily ever after.

  “Miss Donovan.”

  Kendra turned as Carlotta materialized beside her. “Mrs. Garcia Desoto.”

  The dark eyes glittered at Kendra from inside the eyeholes of her domino mask. “I never said anything before, but I applaud your choice of costume. It’s very courageous.”

  Kendra said nothing.

  After a moment, Carlotta spoke again. “Could I have a word?”

  “You can have several.” Don’t look too eager.

  Carlotta smiled faintly. “Shall we walk?”

  “Of course.”

  She wasn’t surprised when Carlotta headed for the door. She fell into step next to the woman as they threaded their way through the swirling eddies of people that spilled outside the pavilion. The other woman’s tension was palpable. Or was it Kendra’s own? Beneath her clothes, despite the cold night air, she was perspiring, her skin prickling. She tossed a casual glance around the throngs of people and slipped her hands into her pockets as she followed Carlotta across the main path to one of the dark walks.

  “I thought you wanted to have a word with me,” Kendra finally spoke up. “That usually entails words.”

  “Si—yes.” Carlotta licked her lips, glancing around nervously. Trees and hedges lined the winding path. The moonlight and stars helped light the way, but it was increasingly dark the farther they moved from Vauxhall’s busier, well-lit areas. The laughter, voices, and music receded, leaving only the hushed darkness of the path. Kendra heard the rustle of shrubbery—animal or the breeze? Or something more dangerous?

  “I’m sorry, Miss Donovan,” Carlotta said slowly. “I am sorry we could not be friends.”

  “No offense, Mrs. Garcia Desoto, but I don’t think your purpose in His Grace’s household was to become friends.” She paused, forcing the other woman to stop. She let her gaze travel over Carlotta’s frilly costume. Have I miscalculated? She dismissed the thought. Carlotta wasn’t carrying a reticule; there was really no place for her to be carrying a weapon.

  Slowly, she reached up and untied the strings to her domino. “I think it’s time the masks come off, don’t you?”

  Carlotta hesitated, then nodded, removing her mask.

  “How about telling me the truth?” Kendra asked, keeping her gaze steady on Carlotta even as she strained to hear the noises around them. Was that a footfall? The slither of damp leaves as someone moved through the foliage?

  “All right… I’ll tell you the truth.”

  Carlotta started walking again. Luring me where she wants me to
go, Kendra thought.

  After a moment, she followed.

  39

  Timothy Fox—aka Twitch—had never felt so cold. Not even when he’d been one of the thousands of raggedy children scrambling to find shelter in the dead of winter in London Town. It was common enough for children to freeze in the middle of the night, but Twitch had survived.

  He wasn’t so sure that he’d survive this.

  It was that blasted American bitch’s fault. Twitch sat on a single, sagging cot, anxiously biting his dirty fingernails, wondering how it had gone so wrong. He and old Stanley had been hired to kidnap the woman at the swell’s party. That had been risky enough—she was a duke’s ward, after all—but no one had warned them about the woman. They’d expected her to cower in fear, to beg for her life. Instead, she’d fought like a hellcat.

  Timothy lifted a hand to his throat, which still ached from her unexpected jab. He broke into a cold sweat just thinking about how he’d gasped for air like a bleeding codfish. He’d thought he was going to expire on the spot. And then somehow she’d grabbed old Stanley’s pistol and the fucking carriage had overturned…

  It had been a miracle that he’d survived. Stanley too. Except the bitch had killed Stanley. Word on the street was she’d killed him with a blasted shovel. Twitch still couldn’t believe it.

  Now—and this was what really made his insides go all shivery—he’d heard that Bear wanted the men responsible. Last night, he’d stumbled back to his tiny room in Seven Dials. Thank Christ, his early morning visitor had roused him from his deep slumber, helped along with half a bottle of whiskey. The visitor had wanted him for another job… as if he’d do such a thing after the previous night’s disaster.

  He’d then gone to the apothecary to find something for his throat. That’s where he’d first heard about Bear’s displeasure; later, he’d seen several hard-looking men outside his flat. He’d fled Seven Dials to hide out here in Rachel’s room. He’d taken up with the whore only a few weeks before, so he was certain no one would think to link them. At least not immediately. He hoped to be on a mail coach by early light. It was best to leave London Town until Bear’s temper cooled.