Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  He stared at her, saying nothing.

  “Names are funny things, aren’t they?” she said after a moment. “What people are known by, formal names, nicknames.” She thought of tonight, when she’d observed Molly’s familiarity with the Duke, knowing that the maid would never be relaxed enough to call him Duke. She said, “The Honorable Nathan Bancroft—that was Nat’s formal address before he became a viscount and then an earl. But the people of East Dingleford called him Nat. I was told that his father even called him Nat.”

  “Is this story going somewhere?” Bancroft drawled.

  “Nat-son,” she said, locking her gaze on his. “Mrs. Hearnshaw told me how the earl had a stroke. He slurred his words, could barely talk. She thought he was saying Nathan. But he wasn’t, was he? He recognized that you were an imposter. He wasn’t saying Nathan or Nat-son—he was saying, not son. He was trying to warn everyone that you weren’t his son.”

  Bancroft’s black eyes reflected the fire from the gas lamps and fireplace. She could see her own face wavering in the dilated pupils.

  “You are a clever girl,” he murmured. “I don’t know how the old man knew. He could barely move, barely function. Half the time he was drooling and the other half of the time he was pissing in the bed. I did him a favor by breaking his neck.”

  “What did you do to the real Nat?”

  “I killed him, of course.”

  “Was Stone with you when you killed him? Is that what he was blackmailing you with?”

  Surprise flickered across Bancroft’s face. “No, Harry never met my predecessor. Our association predated my chance encounter with Nat. But I saw an opportunity and took it. I left Harry and Millie and the rest of my associates behind. Or so I thought.” His mouth twisted, though with either irony or bitterness, Kendra couldn’t be certain. “I suppose that was fate as well. Harry chanced to see me while I was once in London, and approached me. For a loan, he said, given my new status in life.”

  “How did he know that you weren’t the real Nat? For you to have pulled off your charade, the resemblance between you and Nat must have been astonishing.”

  His dark eyes flashed with temper. “It was like the old man. Unfortunately, Harry, for all his faults, was not a fool. He knew certain things about my person and threatened to bring me to the authorities. I couldn’t take the chance of closer scrutiny.”

  “Then I’m surprised you didn’t kill him too. Eliminate the threat.”

  “You think I didn’t consider that? I told you, the bastard wasn’t stupid. He wrote our past association down. Times, dates . . .”

  “Misdeeds,” Kendra finished for him when he trailed off with a shrug. “Stone boasted to Flora that he’d been a highwayman. I assume that’s your past association.”

  “Among other things.”

  Kendra glanced at the letter. “And if anything happened to Stone, the letter would be sent to your old friend, Millie,” she guessed.

  It was the nineteenth century version of the fail-deadly concept, a strategy created as a deterrent between nuclear powers. If an aggressor launched a first strike, it would trigger a second-strike response, overwhelming and devastating. Or, perhaps more accurately, it was the digital dead man’s switch, which kept an aggressor in check by threatening to expose their secrets on the Internet if anything happened to the blackmailer. Either way, Stone’s tactic had forced Bancroft into an uneasy détente—though neither man had counted on Biddle’s attack.

  Bancroft seemed to read her thoughts. He lifted his shoulder, let it drop. “I couldn’t take the chance of that letter surfacing.”

  “So you tortured Mrs. Stone.” Kendra’s face tightened as she thought of what the woman had endured.

  “It made sense that Lavinia had the letter. She knew of it—but not its contents. She told me where she thought Harry might have hidden it—after I applied the right motivation.” He smiled coldly. Then the smile vanished, and his face hardened. “Except the letter wasn’t there. Harry had obviously already given it to Mrs. Turner.”

  And Bancroft smashed the porcelain cats in his temper, Kendra thought.

  “Was it your idea to fire Mr. Murray and hire Stone?”

  He grunted. “Hardly. Do you think that I wanted the son of a bitch on my doorstep, taunting me? The position appealed to Harry.”

  “You mean the power appealed to him.”

  Bancroft conceded with a small nod “You are clever, Kendra, figuring out that I had assumed Nat’s identity. But you don’t know my real secret, after all.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  His gaze was locked on hers, so intense that it sent a chill down her spine.

  “Fate, Kendra. I will tell you my story. You and I are connected. I want you to understand and live. But I will kill you if I must—though with great regret.”

  “Well, as long as you have regret,” she replied sarcastically.

  He continued to look at her with his penetrating gaze. “It will be fate if my bullet ends your life,” he said quietly. “My bullet should have ended your life thirty-eight years ago.”

  Kendra stared at him.

  Bancroft said, “The night I killed Sir Jeremy Greene.”

  51

  Sam’s heart thumped with terrible fear. He grabbed the woman, his fingers digging into her arms so hard that she cried out in pain, and he released her abruptly, but kept her pinned with his gaze. “Who’s gonna kill her? Where is Miss Donovan? Who are you?”

  The woman licked her lips. “I’m F-Flora . . . Flora Turner. Me husband, William—he found me. M-Miss Donovan stopped him. But now he has her!”

  “Mr. Kelly!”

  Sam pivoted and saw the Duke, Alec, and Coachman Benjamin approaching. Their expressions were grim.

  “Mr. Kelly,” the Duke said again, his eyes moving briefly to the agitated woman. “Miss Donovan appears to be missing. It might not be of any concern, but—”

  “It is!” Flora cried. Her eyes were wide and glassy with shock. “Me husband William’s got her and he’s gonna kill her. We must save her like she was saving me!”

  “Mrs. Turner.” Alec recognized the woman, even though terror contorted her pretty face into something dreadful. “Where are they?”

  “In the forest, near where the children are playing.”

  Alec didn’t wait. He spun away, and heedless of the stares, began running across the field to the forest. Sam raced after him. They sprinted past the children and plunged into the woods. The darkness made Sam curse, wishing he’d brought a torch.

  The marquis came to a stop ahead, panic tightening his features as he spun in circles. “Kendra!” he yelled. “Kendra!”

  Sam wasn’t sure if it was smart to alert the man who held Kendra hostage that they had arrived. He glanced over as the Duke and Benjamin came crashing through the trees.

  Alec called the American’s name as he walked forward.

  “Wait!” The Duke held up his hand for silence. “I think I heard something.”

  Sam listened intently, but heard nothing.

  Alec said, “Where would he—” He stopped suddenly, and Sam heard it as well. A groan.

  “Over there!” the Duke pointed to the left, and moved forward, pushing through prickly tree branches.

  Sam followed, his gaze traveling over overgrown bushes, trees, and a fallen log. It didn’t register initially, but then his eyes swung back and he saw a boot extending beyond the log. He jogged over to stare at the man on the ground, his shirt stained dark with blood.

  The Duke joined him, followed by Alec and Benjamin. “My God!”

  “It’s Turner.” Alec reached across the bloody chest to search for a pulse.

  “Bastard,” the man whispered, his voice faint, but filled with hate.

  Sam squatted down next to the man. Turner’s eyes fluttered open, and he groaned again.

  “Where’s Miss Donovan?” Sam demanded, capturing Turner’s pain-filled gaze.

  Turner didn’t seem to hear the ques
tion. Or he didn’t care. He muttered, “He shot me, the bastard.”

  Sam asked, “Who? Who shot you?”

  “His lordship.” Turner’s chest heaved, and he turned his head and spat out blood. “The earl.”

  It was as if all her facial muscles and bones had melted, completely slack with shock. There was a strange buzzing in her ears. She didn’t know how she made it to the chair, but suddenly she was sitting, the reticule on her lap. She bent over and drew in deep breathes. Inhale . . . exhale.

  Bancroft laughed. “Oh, my God, I know exactly how you feel, Kendra. It’s the same way I felt when I first saw you.”

  Kendra thought of how Bancroft had frozen, his eyes locked on her, his face seemingly carved from stone. She’d picked up the strange vibe in the air then, and the countless other times she’d been in his presence. He gave me the heebie-jeebies.

  “It’s been thirty-eight years since I last saw you, Kendra. You haven’t changed at all.”

  She sucked in a breath, straightening. Her throat was so dry she barely got the words out. “You have.”

  He ignored that. “Look at you, the Duke’s ward. How did you accomplish such a feat?”

  Her gaze roved over the old man’s features, the sparse, white hair, the sagging, speckled flesh, trying to see any resemblance between this old man and his younger self—the assassin dressed as a footman who’d shot Sir Jeremy Greene three months ago. Three months ago—two hundred years into the future. Was the bladelike nose the same? The heavy-lidded eyes? Yes, the eyes . . .

  “I’ve thought of you often, Kendra.”

  She realized that he was inspecting her as closely as she was inspecting him. It made her shiver.

  “The woman I followed into the stairwell . . . ” He shook his head. “Who are you? Obviously law enforcement. CIA? DEA? FBI?”

  “FBI,” she mumbled.

  He laughed softly. “I had always thought you were one of Greene’s paramours, waiting for him in the study. I thought you were there for amor.”

  The Spanish word rolled perfectly off Bancroft’s tongue. She remembered the accented voice murmuring in the hallway before a mortally wounded Sir Jeremy had fallen into the room.

  “I realized my mistake when you began investigating Harry’s murder,” he said, eyes fixed on her. “I thought maybe you were a homicide detective in our world. But a homicide detective would have no authority to go after Greene.”

  Kendra sucked in another deep breath, felt her lungs expand. The buzzing in her ears was slowly receding. “Who the hell are you?”

  He smiled. “Mateo Hernández.”

  Kendra leaned back in the chair, carefully putting her hands on top of the reticule. “I think it’s time you told me your story.”

  He nodded. “I want to tell you my story, Kendra. I never thought I’d be able to tell it to anyone. Do you know what it’s like to keep a secret like this for thirty-eight years?” He walked behind his desk, sinking into the chair without ever taking his eyes off her or dropping his gun. The long barrel of his flintlock remained steady.

  Kendra found herself staring at the pistol he held, noting the polished walnut with inlaid silver. “My gun may be old . . .” she murmured now, lifting her gaze to see his wicked grin.

  “My little joke, Kendra. I purchased this flintlock only last year. As far as technology goes, it’s quite modern. Personally, I miss my SIG Sauer. What about you?”

  “Tell me your story,” she said instead.

  “It’s a long story. Why don’t you pour us both a drink? And please, do not attempt any heroics. I miss my SIG Sauer, but I’m quite good with this pistol.”

  “And yet you used a knife on Mrs. Trout and Mrs. Stone,” she said as she stood. She set the reticule back on the chair and walked over to the sideboard. “Whisky?”

  “Brandy. A knife was quieter. In my day, I was quite good at wet work.”

  “Wet work.” She poured two glasses of brandy. “A term used by assassins. And the KGB.”

  “Set my glass down on my desk. Slowly,” he cautioned when she returned. “I would dislike shooting you before I’ve told my story. I have no one else to tell.”

  Kendra did as he asked, then returned to her seat, glass in hand and reticule back on her lap. She lifted her glass in a mocking salute. “I’m all ears.”

  He picked up his glass, returned her salute, two comrades sharing war stories.

  “As you are aware, I was hired to eliminate Sir Jeremy. We figured out he was the one leaking our intel regarding our shipping routes.” He tilted his head curiously. “What were you doing there? You never said.”

  “You could have saved yourself ammunition, and we’d both be back in the twenty-first century. I went there to kill him.”

  Bancroft—she couldn’t think of him as Hernández—raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

  “He pissed me off.” She took a sip of her own brandy, just enough to wet her mouth. “Continue with your story.”

  There was a flare of surprise and appreciation in his eyes. “I told you we have much in common, Kendra. Anyhow, I am not one to leave witnesses, so when you ran into the stairwell, I followed.” Just for a moment, his hand trembled. “Christ, what an experience. I thought I was being flayed alive.”

  Kendra had to suppress an empathetic shudder. It had been more than three decades since Bancroft had experienced the vortex, and it looked like it still gave him nightmares.

  “When it finally ended, I got the hell out of there. It took me a few minutes to understand that everything had changed. Sir Jeremy’s body was gone. Things were . . .”

  “Different,” Kendra breathed, remembering how she thought she’d gone crazy.

  He nodded. “I was dressed as a footman, and when I left the study that night, I was treated as such.” He took a gulp of the brandy, his eyes darkening with memories. “I met the Duke—your Duke’s father. I did not lie about that.”

  “Another joke?”

  “A small one, perhaps.” Bancroft’s lips twisted. “Of course, he barely saw me. I was a servant. But I knew that I wouldn’t be able to fool the other servants for long. My accent . . . it brought scrutiny.” Another sip. “I spent two days dodging most of the staff. Then I stole several fine pieces of jewelry and silver candlesticks, and left.” He looked at Kendra. “Money is always important, isn’t it?”

  “Tell me about it,” she muttered beneath her breath. “I don’t like not being able to earn my own money.”

  “Ah, yes. You’re an independent modern woman, aren’t you? And yet you fell on your feet quite nicely. How did you become the Duke’s ward?”

  “I got lucky.” Very lucky.

  “And his nephew, the marquis. Are you his mistress?”

  She stiffened. “No.”

  “The way he looks at you . . . well, no matter.” He waved the hand holding the glass, causing the brandy to swirl dangerously. “My story. I stole the jewelry and silver, and left Aldridge Castle. I walked; it seemed like forever. I finally stole a horse. Unlike you, I knew how to ride horses in the twenty-first century.” He gave her a smug look. “I made it to London and pawned enough of the jewelry to stay in a flash house. That’s where I met Harry. He was nothing more than a sewer rat. But he helped me pawn the rest of what I’d stolen and introduced me to his contacts.”

  “All upstanding members of society, I’m sure.”

  “We formed our own association, you could say. They were pickpockets, carried out petty crimes. No vision.”

  “You changed that.”

  “I did. It was a tidy operation. Then one night I stopped in a tavern and met Nat Bancroft. The other patrons mistook us for twins. Believe it or not, I never thought to kill the fool that night. He told me how he and his father had argued over a girl, and he’d left home to seek his fortune. He traveled the world and lost the girl. God, how the simpleton whined about his beloved Laura. But he was returning home. His father was sick. He wanted to mend the rift in their relationship before it was too lat
e.”

  Kendra tried to discern if the gun barrel had shifted slightly downward as he told his story.

  “Do you know when I decided to kill the bastard?” Bancroft asked suddenly.

  “When?”

  “I brought him back to the hostelry he was staying at late that night, and put him to bed. No one was around. When I came back the next morning, the stable hands and the innkeeper thought I was Nat. You should have seen how they scraped and bowed. They knew he was a viscount, in line for an earldom. Treated me like Christ Almighty descending from the cross.” He paused, the smile that curled his mouth ice-cold. “That’s when I decided to kill him.

  “It was like a lamb to the slaughter. I brought him into the woods, promised to show him something—I don’t even remember what. And I slit his throat and buried him in a shallow grave. Then I went back to the hostelry and gathered Nat’s—my things.”

  “And you became Viscount Nathan Bancroft of Langfrey.”

  His smile was as sharp as a scalpel. “I’ve been a better earl than that idiot Nat would ever have been if he had inherited the title. The old earl lost land, and his bank account was pitiful. Do you think his weak son could ever have done what I have? I knew where to invest. Gas. Coal. Steam engines. Mill manufacturing. We know the future, don’t we, Kendra?”

  “Didn’t you ever try to figure out some way to return to our world?” Her lips felt numb as she asked the question. “Christ, you’ve spent almost forty years here!”

  “Why would I ever have wanted to go back? I was born in Cuba. I grew up in a two-room shack. I rode a fucking donkey! I joined the army when I was fifteen and the Mexican cartels when I was twenty-one. I became one of Luis Gomez’s top lieutenants.” He looked at her, his eyes seemed to burn. “Here, I am the top lieutenant. I control an earldom. My daughters have married into the aristocracy. My son will take over Falcon Court and the estate. He is my legacy.”

  “Did your wife know your secret?”

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” he snapped. “Her father was an earl, and she married into an earldom. If I had told Victoria that I was Mateo Hernández from a shack in Cuba, that I was from the future, what do you suppose she’d have done? If I told her after I married her, she would have had me committed to a madhouse.”