"That is beside the point. You do not seem to understand you are destroying any chance at a good marriage. As much as I have tried to divert any breath of scandal, there is still talk.
"Lydia." He drew a steadying breath in an effort to achieve a calmer and completely rational tone. "I want only your happiness. When Father died it fell to me to look after you. I have done my best, but you have thwarted me at every turn. You have turned down any number of respectable matches."
"Most men are interested primarily in my fortune, followed by my face." She shrugged. "I expect more of the man I wed."
Adam ignored her. "You are three and twenty now, practically on the shelf."
“Thank you for noticing, dear brother." Her words dripped with sarcasm. Adam sighed again. "I don't mean to offend, but your behavior is intolerable. I admit, I am partly to blame. I have let you have your way far too often. However, if things do not change . . ." He paused. "I shall be forced to do something we will both regret."
"What?"
"I shall be forced to make a suitable marriage arrangement for you." He addressed her in a formal, lofty tone. "Under the terms of Father's will, I am your guardian and have such authority until you reach the age of thirty."
For one stunned moment, Lydia stared, obviously aghast; then she abruptly burst into peals of laughter. "Oh, fustian, brother. You would never make me wed a man I do not want or love. Yours is an idle threat. And I do not know if marriage is what I want."
Her voice grew thoughtful. "I'm well aware that I have reached an age where most women are already long wed and producing a brood of children. And while that is not unappealing, perhaps it's simply not meant to be."
"No, Lydia." Adam's voice was firm. "To make a good match is your duty and responsibility. I have made my decision." He ignored a twinge of conscience. "If you do not select a proper husband, I shall choose one for you. You have one month."
Lydia's eyes widened with disbelief. "Oh, Adam, you wouldn't!"
"I would and I will, my dear. There are several eligible parties who have spoken to me about you in the past. I'm sure one of them can be brought up to scratch." Noting her genuine dismay, his tone softened. "It's not my wish to see you unhappy, but you leave me no other option. I am sure whomever I select will be someone you can share your life with, and in time, even grow to love."
"Adam, I will not allow this." Lydia’s eyes flashed. "You cannot force me into marriage against my will.”
"No." He considered his words and braced himself for the effect they would have on her. "You're right. What I can do is move you to one of the country estates and place you on limited funds. With your penchant for shopping and your love of social engagements I imagine it would not be nearly so pleasant a life as the one I propose. However, it is entirely up to you."
"You give me little choice, brother." Anger and resentment thickened her voice. Lydia glared and snapped her head away, staring blankly at the vague shadows outside the window, hands clenched tight in her lap.
Adam eyed her cautiously. The journey home continued in silence. He had not expected to feel quite so much like an overbearing, unreasonable cad, but he believed his decision was in Lydia's best interest. He had to do what was necessary to secure her future. In Adam's mind, he had as little choice as the one he just gave his sister.
Reassured somewhat by her silent demeanor, Adam closed his eyes and noted the pain in his head had eased. The unpleasant duty attended to, he relaxed and succumbed to a newfound sense of peace and satisfaction. Perhaps he would give her more than a month to settle on a husband. He could afford to be gracious. He had won the battle and victory in the war loomed ahead. Not until they arrived at their Grosvenor Square home did Lydia speak again. She descended the carriage and turned toward her brother.
"You say I have a month." Her voice rang cool and controlled. "And I must find a husband to meet your requirements?"
“Yes . . ." He cautiously drew the single syllable out. He noted the look in her eye and the sense of victory and peace he'd relished so briefly faded.
"Well then, I will accept your challenge."
Peace and victory vanished altogether.
“It isn't a challenge. It isn't some game, some foolish wager. I am completely serious."
"So am I, dear brother." She looked him squarely in the eyes. "So am I." Lydia turned on her heel and marched toward the steps.
"Bloody hell." Adam groaned under his breath and walked after her, the throbbing in his head returning in full force.
Preoccupied with the latest twist in his quest to assure his sister's happiness, Adam barely noticed the sounds of an approaching coach. He glanced absently at the shrouded streets but saw nothing beyond the glowing halo cast by the gaslight. Dismissing the distant clatter as a figment of the night, he turned his attention back to his sister. Two steps later, the sound of the coach grew louder, sharper, the unmistakable noise of a carriage out of control.
“Lydia, look out!" Adam lunged toward his sister, shoving her out of harm’s way. A bare second later an object smacked into him at full speed. He staggered with the impact.
"Adam, are you hurt?" Lydia said, her voice rising with concern.
"No, but what—“
"Good God, Adam." Lydia gasped. "It's a woman."
Adam knelt by the crumpled figure at his feet, illuminated by the dim light of the street lamp. Although dressed in outrageous clothes, it was indeed a woman.
A lovely woman.
Adam noted the fragile curve of her chin, the pale, nearly translucent skin under a dusting of powder, a slight blush on her cheek. Relieved to find she breathed, Adam gathered the unconscious woman into his arms, strode up the steps and into the house.
"Send for a physician." He barked commands to the servants clustered curiously at the doorway. Carrying her up the broad marble stairway took little effort. Light, tiny, delicate, she fit naturally into his arms. He shifted her weight, drawing her tighter into his embrace. A spicy fragrance wafted around her. Her hair, more red than brown, reached to her shoulders and brushed his face with every step. A gold filigree heart on a slender chain nestled in the hollow at the base of her throat. Matching bobs dangled from her ears. Thick lashes left dark smudges where they rested on her cheeks. Full, wine-red lips parted slightly with each breath. A thought came to him unbidden. Would the color rub off if he pressed his lips to hers, let her breath mingle with his own?
Adam laid his burden gently on the bed in the nearest vacant chamber, surprisingly reluctant to release her. He paused by her bedside, momentarily mesmerized by the rise and fall of full, ripe breasts barely concealed under a scandalously thin yellow garment. Over that, she wore what appeared to be a type of man's leather coat. Flung open, the coat revealed a figure tapering seductively from firm breasts to small waist, the undergarment tucked into heavy blue cotton trousers. Adam’s gaze lingered appreciatively on the swell of her hip, the curves and valleys displayed by the close cut of the odd breeches. He fought a momentary impulse to reach his hand out and run it down the sleek length of her shapely leg. Desire for this stranger surged through him.
Abruptly, Adam stepped away, a puzzled frown furrowing his brow. What was he doing? He was not given to the seduction of helpless women. He examined his feelings objectively. Why this immediate attraction, this shocking, almost irresistible pull to a complete stranger? To a woman he'd never met and not yet spoken to? Not normally an impulsive man, he, in fact, prided himself on keeping his emotions locked firmly under control. Except, of course, where his sister was concerned. And now, apparently, this bit of baggage as well.
His gaze caressed her, the mahogany curls fanning across the pillow, the delightful figure deliciously displayed in the scandalous clothing . . . the shoes.
"What manner of footwear are these?" He leaned over the bed for a closer look. With a tentative finger, he poked the odd-looking soles, the letters N-I-K-E emblazoned on the side.
A servant called from the doorway, interrup
ting Adam's examination. “Milord, the doctor is on his way.”
"Excellent, Wilson." He turned to the butler. "Have her changed into more appropriate attire, perhaps one of Lydia's night rails, and bring her clothes to me in the library. Be quick about it. I would prefer not to have to deal with a doctor's questions. I have enough of my own." With one last, speculative glance at the bed, he strode from the room.
***
Adam threw open the doors of the library. Lydia perched on the edge of the desk studying some kind of large, leather pouch.
"Adam, look, I found this outside, next to the woman. I believe it must be hers."
"Odd-looking thing for a woman to carry." He accepted it from his sister's outstretched hands. "Perhaps it will give us some clue as to who she is and where she's from." He emptied the contents on the desk, spreading the unfamiliar objects over the surface.
"Good lord!" He gasped. "What kind of hoax is this?"
Lydia stared curiously at the display. "What are these things?"
"I have no idea." Adam picked up a leather wallet and, peering inside, pulled out several notes. It appeared to be some kind of currency but it was smaller than anything he'd seen before, the monarch pictured on the bill unknown. He withdrew several cards, somewhat larger than calling cards, made of a hard, thin, smooth, shiny board. All had raised numbers and one had the letters V-I-S-A.
He handed the cards to Lydia. "What do you make of these?"
Her pretty forehead furrowed in a thoughtful frown. "Calling cards, do you think?"
"I rather doubt it. But what purpose they might have escapes me."
Adam arranged them carefully on the desk and next selected a small blue book. Very thin, with a silver coat of arms featuring an eagle and the words Passport and United States of America. Opening it, he found the name Margaret Melissa Masterson, and a likeness of the woman upstairs.
"A very good likeness." He showed it to Lydia. "An excellent artist's work, very lifelike."
Almost too lifelike.
“I would assume this is her name. Here. Margaret Melissa Masterson. And here it says birth date." He tapped a finger on the line and frowned. "But this cannot be accurate. It says—"
“January 12, 1969." Lydia gasped and turned astonished eyes toward her brother. "Can this be true?"
"Of course not. It must be some kind of ruse. Although to what purpose I cannot fathom." He surveyed the hodgepodge of items on the desk with a wary eye. "Perhaps you should retire and I will deal with all this."
Lydia's eyes flashed with indignation. "I most certainly will not. This is fascinating. Even if it is a hoax it is obviously quite well done. I refuse to go to bed until you and I, together, get to the bottom of it all."
"Fine." Resigned to the inevitable, he picked up a black box, roughly the size and shape of a small brick. Words were printed on it here and there, but there was little that made any sense.
Lydia pointed to printing on the box. "I know that's spelled incorrectly but could it be cannon? Could this be some kind of firearm or weapon?"
"I hardly think so." Adam turned the thing over, inspecting each side. "However, it would be wise to set this aside for now."
Some items scattered on the desk were easily identified: a pair of dark glasses, sketch pads, and peculiar, although recognizable, writing instruments. There were two magazines, one entitled Time, the other Cosmopolitan.
Lydia stared, transfixed by the cover of the magazine she held. "Bloody hell!"
"Lydia!” Adam snatched the periodical from her hands. "Good Lord."
It was his turn to be shocked. The cover featured the likeness of a woman dressed, or rather undressed, in the most revealing of costumes. Neckline plunging to navel, fabric clinging like a second skin, one leg exposed nearly to the hip.
"I believe I shall need some time to study this." Adam flipped through the pages quickly and shot his sister a pointed glance. "I don't think this is the proper sort of thing for you to look at, however."
"Don't be stuffy, Adam. It's obviously a magazine for women." She snatched the publication from him and pointed to the cover. Lydia cast a smug look at her brother. "Right here it says "How to Catch Mr. Right in the Nineties." The phrasing is odd but there's no doubt as to its meaning, and that is definitely a subject for females."
He retrieved the magazine once again. "Nonetheless, respect my wishes and leave this alone."
Even as the words left his lips he knew his sister would get her hands on the journal as soon as he turned his back. He made a mental note to remember to store it in a safe place.
He paged through the second magazine and set it aside for further review later. Adam marveled at the glossy covers, the vivid, lifelike images. Both magazines were dated May 1995.
While the periodicals were at least easily identifiable, other items were quite frankly amazing, stretching the boundaries of imagination and belief. They discovered a small, thin, rectangular box with raised square buttons, each marked with a number. When pressed, the numbers appeared in a type of window on the box. Adam played with the device, and finally determined it was intended to do mathematical calculations.
"Remarkable." Adam vowed privately to investigate more thoroughly later.
Lydia, too, found some of the bags treasures delightful. She unfolded a cloth pouch and cried out with glee.
“Cosmetics. Oh, do look, Adam. It simply can't be anything else." She selected a small, flat box with a transparent cover and flicked it open. "It's rouge, I'm sure of it. And look, it has its own brush. How wonderfully convenient!" She examined each object in turn, deciding the tubes of colored wax were probably for lips, the bottle of flesh-colored liquid and matching powder for skin. She toyed with a metallic tube, finally unscrewing it and withdrawing a wand with a circular brush at its tip. “I wonder what this is for? It looks terribly interesting."
"Put it back, Lydia."
She wrinkled her nose in a petulant expression and replaced the cosmetics in the pouch.
While the items on the desk were fascinating, no less intriguing were the woman's clothes. Wilson brought them to the library shortly before the physician came and went. Their guest would be fine, the doctor had pronounced. She had a slight bump on the head and should be allowed to rest as long as possible.
Lydia fingered the yellow undergarment. Adam inspected the blue trousers.
"Her garments are definitely odd but well made and of good quality," he said, examining the seams. "Excellent work here. Lydia, have you ever seen anything like this?" He showed her the trousers’ fastenings. Rows of tiny metal teeth locked together with the passage of a small pull. Adam yanked and found it extraordinarily tight. He shook his head. "Unbelievable."
"Adam, don't you think this is, well, some kind of corset?" Lydia held a sheer, white, cupped strip of material in front of her.
"I think that is obvious, my dear. And I think you know it."
Lydia had the good grace to blush and avoid her brother's gaze. She placed the corset back on the desk and reached for the next garment, so sheer it was transparent and resembling stockings stretching from toe to waist, all in one piece. "Oh, Adam." She sighed with envy. "Isn't this lovely? It's obviously some type of stockings but so very delicate."
"Very nice." He mumbled absently and concentrated on the curious shoes, made of fabric and a material hard yet flexible. Not leather, nothing Adam had ever seen. These, too, he set aside for more intense perusal later.
Much of what they examined was unique, even remarkable, but Adam was not prepared for the contents of a yellow envelope bearing the words FAST PHOTO, 24-hour processing. He unfolded the packet and pulled out a stack of thin, glossy papers.
"Good lord.” His gasp drew Lydia quickly to his side. They stared at the papers, seeing likenesses so realistic they could scarce be called paintings. But what on earth were they?
"Do look, Adam," Lydia cried, watching her brother flip through the papers. "Here's the Tower of London. And this one is the British M
useum. And here—” Her voice rang with recognition.
"Yes, yes, Westminster Abbey." Adam shook with excitement. "This is incredible. What accuracy, what amazing detail. They cannot be mere paintings." The stack totaled thirty-six, each depicting a different London scene, some familiar, others completely unknown.
"Adam?" Lydia pointed to one likeness. "Isn't that the woman upstairs? And here, and here, too?” She rifled through the papers.
"I believe so. And look, in several others there is the image of another woman."
"What on earth do you think these things all over the streets are?"
"I don’t know." Adam squinted, trying to get a better look. “They appear to be some kind of vehicles. But isn’t this odd? I haven't seen a horse in any of these street scenes. Why are there no horses?”
He wondered about more than that. Even when he recognized a particular building or a certain street, it appeared much different from what he was accustomed to seeing. Wires hung everywhere. Lamps and signs appeared strange and unfamiliar. The depictions seemed to be London, but a London somehow changed.
Brother and sister stood side by side, contemplating the items arrayed on the desk before them.
"What does it all mean, Adam?" Lydia said quietly.
He ran a hand across weary eyes and sighed deeply. "I don't know. I wish I did."
"It's almost as though—" Lydia turned wide eyes to her brother. "As if she comes from another place. Not just America, but somewhere else altogether, somewhere much farther. Almost from a completely different world."
***
Hours later, Adam stood outside the guest chamber door. Lydia retired some time earlier but too many thoughts churned through his head for sleep; too many unanswered questions remained. He hesitated a moment, then gripped the knob and stepped into the room.
Silver moonlight filtered through the window. Curtains billowed gently. A soft moan drew him to the bed. He approached silently and leaned above the woman, close enough to make out her face in the scant light, light reflected in the necklace and ear bobs she still wore.
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