Kendra’s lips twisted as she looked at the Duke. “I’m building my life here on a lie. You took in the daughter of your good friend, remember?”
“We didn’t murder anyone to create our fabrication.”
She drank the rest of the brandy, and set it aside with a sigh. The Duke was right, of course. There were fine lines between lies. It occurred to her that if she hadn’t been caught in this bizarre adventure, she’d be building her life on lies back in the twenty-first century, with multiple identities after killing Sir Jeremy.
But she hadn’t killed Sir Jeremy, she realized. Would she have been able to return to the FBI? Or, if the vortex hadn’t opened when it did, would Mateo’s bullet have found her, leaving her body to be discovered in the stairwell?
She looked up at the Duke and Alec. “I was lucky to have ended up with you, to be able to share my secret with you and have you accept me.”
Love me.
It was a gift. Unexpected tears pricked her eyes. “I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”
“You would have survived,” the Duke said gruffly, and his eyes were brighter than normal when he looked at her. “You are a remarkable young woman, Miss Donovan . . . Kendra.” He gave her a slow smile. “I think it’s time I call my ward by her Christian name, don’t you think?”
“I think it is exactly the time.”
It was past four when Kendra finally tumbled into bed. She didn’t think Alec would come to her. In another hour and a half, the servants would begin to stir, and he wouldn’t want to compromise her reputation. But she was wrong. The door opened quietly, and he slipped across the room and into bed, his arms going around her.
“I won’t stay long,” he whispered. “I needed to hold you.”
“I love you.”
She didn’t know that she was going to say the words until she said them. And when she did, they sounded right.
His arms tightened. “I love you too. Now go to sleep. We’ll need our wits about us tomorrow.” He paused. “Kendra?”
“What?” The word sounded mushy. She was already drifting into sleep.
“It was a hell of a story.”
53
Late Monday afternoon, Kendra stood alone on top of the same slope that she’d stood upon with Lord Bancroft—Hernández—only two days before. The wind, which hinted at the cold months that lay ahead, whipped her skirts against her legs, and sent the big, fluffy clouds scuttling across the blue sky. Her gaze drifted to the squire’s paddock below, where the only evidence of the Guy Fawkes celebration was the remaining burnt logs and ashes from the pyre.
Early that morning, Squire Matthews and Dr. Poole had met with them in the Green Maiden’s private drawing room. The squire had come to a decision. As much as he disliked an upstart like Mateo Hernández taking over the life of one of his betters, he saw no reason to create an upheaval in the lives of his children and his children’s children. The squire had also once met the earl’s cousin, who would be the rightful heir to the estate if scandal broke. The cousin was a wastrel and a debaucher.
“Of course, our meeting took place nearly forty years ago,” the squire acknowledged. “The man may have changed. But why take the chance?”
Apparently, Phillip Bancroft, the young viscount, was well-liked by everyone in East Dingleford, despite the fact that he’d spent most of his time away at school. Maybe that was the reason he was a nice guy, Kendra thought. As she listened to the squire speak of the young man, she realized that he sounded a lot like the real Nat.
The squire and Dr. Poole spoke of not wanting to disrupt the lives of Phillip and his sisters, but Kendra wondered if they worried more that the wastrel cousin could leave Falcon Court in shambles and fight for control of the mill. A lot of villagers were employed at both places. Kendra had always found self-interest to be a powerful motivator in decision-making.
The inquest had been held earlier in the afternoon in the Green Maiden’s tavern, and she’d given her statement to Squire Matthews. Only twelve jurors were called to the tavern this time, and they trudged out to Falcon Court to view Bancroft’s body before the dead man was hauled away. Dr. Poole gave his evidence. Lord Bancroft had suffered from lunacy, he said, causing the man to murder Mrs. Stone and Mrs. Trout. He had been struck with the same madness when he’d killed Mr. Turner, and nearly killed Kendra, he insisted. For the second time in less than a week, the jurors handed down a decision of self-defense. The jurors disbanded immediately thereafter, except for those who stuck around to drink.
Flora Turner visited Kendra. Besides Dr. Poole and Squire Matthews, she was the only other person in East Dingleford who’d seen the contents of the letter. Of course, since she couldn’t read, the point was moot.
With her husband dead, Flora had decided to sell the sheep farm. But the task was beyond her, so Kendra enlisted the Duke’s help, who offered the services of his land steward, Mr. Kimble, to guide the sale. Unfortunately, Turner had been heavily in debt, and it was questionable whether the widow would end up with any money at all. She might even end up owing. But the Duke reminded Flora that he’d promised to find her a position at Monksgrey or Aldridge Castle. Either way, she wouldn’t end up in the poorhouse. Life for Flora was looking up.
The same couldn’t be said about Lady Winifred. She was just coming out of mourning; now she’d have to return. Her search for another husband would have to be put on hold, maybe indefinitely, if rumors about Lord Bancroft’s sudden lunacy reached the ballrooms. No one wanted to marry into a family tainted by madness.
Kendra turned around on the hill, and her heart flipped over when she saw Alec walking toward her. The capes on his greatcoat flapped in the breeze. He hadn’t put on a hat, so the wind teased his silken hair, making her fingers itch to do the same.
“Molly is looking for you,” he said, his mouth curving into a smile as he reached her.
She’d deliberately ditched her lady’s maid. “I needed to be alone to think.”
His gaze searched hers. “Do you want to talk?”
She shrugged. “My head is still spinning. Bancroft spent half his life here. I guess it’s starting to sink in that this—here—will be my life.”
Alec brought his hands up, palms gently framing her face. He stared into her eyes. “Is that such a terrible thing?”
She reached up to clasp his wrists. She hadn’t bothered with gloves, so she could feel the strong pulse of his heart. “Some things here aren’t so bad,” she admitted, looking at him through veiled lashes. She gave a slow smile. “In fact, I’d say some things are pretty wonderful.” She raised herself on tiptoes and kissed him.
“Hmm.”
“But . . .” She broke off, gazing at him. “I hate not having any money. Money”—she cut him off when she saw his expression—“that I earn. I was thinking I could get a loan from either you or the Duke and invest in the Exchange. If Hernández could use his knowledge of the future to become financially independent, I don’t know why I can’t.”
Alec lifted one eyebrow. “What about all your talk about changing the future?”
“I won’t be changing the future. I’ll be profiting from my knowledge of the future.” It occurred to her that this plan might also change the future. “Or maybe I can use my other skills.”
“What other skills?”
She poked him. “Please. I’m a special agent for the FBI. Maybe I can open a detective agency. I can’t call it that—that word won’t be part of anyone’s vocabulary for several years. But maybe Mr. Kelly and I can become partners.”
Alec paled. “What are you talking about?”
She kissed him again, because he looked like he needed comforting. “I’m talking about offering my services to people to investigate crimes.”
“Go into trade? As a Bow Street Runner? Do you have any smelling salts on hand, Miss Donovan? I think I may swoon.”
Kendra laughed, and realized her spirits felt lighter.
He regarded her closely. “You’re n
ot serious. Are you?”
“Maybe.” She smiled, and laced her fingers through his. “I think I have time to figure it out.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As I finished the third installment of Kendra Donovan’s adventures in Regency England, I was reminded once again that I am not alone in this journey. In fact, I have a whole team of amazing professionals who have invested their time and energy to make this endeavor happen. I am so thankful to my agent, Jill Grosjean, who has been a graceful and tireless champion of Kendra since the beginning. And I can’t even begin to express the comfort that I’ve felt sending Caught in Time into the world, knowing that it would land first in the extremely talented hands of my editor, Katie McGuire. I am also eternally grateful for the tremendous support that I have received from my publisher, Claiborne Hancock, and the entire team at Pegasus. Once again, I am blown away by the talent of Derek Thornton of Faceout Studio, who is responsible for designing all of the In Time book covers.
Researching this particular time period often means paging through countless books and scrolling through countless blogs. Louise Allen’s Regency Slang Revealed was particularly helpful, as was Joanne Major’s and Sarah Murden’s blog, All Things Georgian. And I was again grateful to be able to turn to Regency researcher Nancy Mayer for the odd inquiry whose answer I simply could not find elsewhere. For the modern-day research, I was thrilled to come across Geoff Symon’s forensic book, Blood Spatter. As always, any errors are mine, and mine alone.
While I strive to make the books as historically accurate as possible, there are a few areas in which I take creative license. Thanks to All Things Georgian, I learned that Guy Fawkes Night was actually known as Guy Faux Night during 1815. After much contemplation, I decided to use the modern spelling that is more familiar to readers to avoid confusion—and possibly messages telling me that I had misspelled the celebration held in the Catholic radical’s name.
One of the best things that has happened to me in writing these books is my increasing circle of friends and supporters. From my original circle, Bonnie McCarthy, Karre Jacobs, and Lori McAllister—you continue to inspire me with your courage and talent. Ethan McCarthy—your wisdom belies your age, and I appreciate your help in clarifying my sometimes tangled thoughts on blood spatter and the like. A special thank you to Lesley Heizman for taking me in hand, and helping me with social media, which is still a bit of a mystery to me. A big and sincere thank you to everyone who has reached out to me via Facebook. Your kind words and encouragement have meant more to me than you will ever know. I also want to thank the people in my hometown of Max, North Dakota. Your continued unconditional support takes my breath away.
Finally, I want to give a giant thank you to librarians and LibraryReads, who again put A Twist in Time on their Must-Read list. You are the giver of dreams to so many children, who pick up a book for the first time. I cannot—do not want to—imagine this world without you.
ALSO BY JULIE McELWAIN
A Murder in Time
A Twist in Time
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie McElwain has freelanced for numerous publications from professional photography magazines to those following the fashion industry. Currently, Julie is West Coast Editor for Soaps In Depth, a national soap opera magazine covering the No. 1 daytime drama, The Young and the Restless. Julie lives in Long Beach, CA.
CAUGHT IN TIME
Pegasus Books Ltd.
148 W 37th Street, 13th Floor
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 Julie McElwain
First Pegasus Books edition July 2018
Interior design by Maria Fernandez
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN: 978-1-68177-766-5
ISBN: 978-1-68177-831-0 (e-book)
Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company
Caught in Time Page 41