by Laurie Brown
What Would Jane Austen Do?
Laurie Brown
Modern-day Regency fashion expert Eleanor Pottinger consorts with ghosts and travels in time in Brown's charming romance. Eleanor discovers her hotel room is haunted by sisters Mina and Deirdre Cracklebury, and she agrees to a deal: she will save their brother, Teddy, from a deadly duel by keeping the wicked Lord Shermont from seducing one of the sisters, in trade for meeting Jane Austen. Eleanor wakes up in 1814, meets smarmy Teddy and is instantly attracted to Lord Shermont, who is not all he seems. Soon she's forced into a terrible choice: Hot sex or the real Jane Austen? True Janeites will find scant evidence of Austen's acerbic wit in either character or tone, but the sprightly humor, handsome hero and twisty ending will please most Regency romance fans.
Laurie Brown
What Would Jane Austen Do
To my husband Brit,
my real life hero.
Acknowledgments
Thank you—
To my family, your unfailing faith always conquers my self-doubts. You guys are the best.
To Lucienne Diver, Agent Extraordinaire. Need more be said?
To my editor Deb Werksman, for being right, even if it did mean more work. You made this a better book with your wisdom.
To my talented critique partner Mary Micheff, for everything from brainstorming to proofreading, but most of all, for your friendship.
To my great boss Darly Doyle, for your understanding and encouragement.
—I could not have done it without you all.
And last, but not least, to Jane Austen for providing so many hours of reading pleasure and such wonderful characters. I didn’t want her stories to end.
Chapter One
“I sensed a strong presence of spirits at Twixton Manor Inn. Two distinct females … one who cannot leave and the other who won’t.”
—Crystal Darkhorse, psychic, in her newest travel book Haunted Destinations II
“What do you mean, no reservation?” Eleanor fought to keep her tone pleasant despite physical and emotional exhaustion. “Please look again. P-O-T-T-I-N-G-E-R.”
“Noooo,” the little gray-haired woman said as she watched the names scroll across her computer screen. Her plastic name tag identified her as the manager, Mrs. Ruth Simms. She turned and peered over the counter. “I’m so sorry. The Jane Austen Society is holding a conference here, and it’s Regency Week. We have no vacancies.” She frowned. “Why does your name sound familiar?”
“I have a confirmation letter,” Eleanor said. She stooped to dig in her carryon for the piece of paper.
“Now I remember,” the woman said, her birdlike voice floating over Eleanor’s head. “We received several boxes marked: Hold for E. Pottinger.”
“The costumes for my fashion seminar on Friday,” Eleanor explained without stopping her search. Thankful the shipment had arrived on time, she mentally crossed one item off her list of things to worry about.
“I’ll have Harry fetch your boxes.”
“Got it!” Eleanor stood with the prized confirmation letter held high.
Unfortunately, the shutters had been drawn across the opening of the registration counter. She looked around for a bell or buzzer and noted the changes made since her last visit two years earlier. The service counter was newly built into the doorway that had previously led to a cozy room once known as the ladies’ parlor.
The impressive entrance hall with its sweeping staircase, marble floor, and carved paneling looked a bit … well, less elegant than she remembered. A modern fixture replaced the original crystal chandelier, and the suit of armor standing guard near the front door could use a good polish. To the left of the entrance, double doors led to the main parlor where a number of guests milled around, most in Regency dress, all with those silly stick-on name tags.
A wave of exhaustion swept over Eleanor. She desperately needed sleep after fifteen hours of travel. She knocked on the shutter. A few moments later, she knocked again.
A young woman, much tattooed and pierced, opened one shutter and responded. “Gram has gone to fetch Harry. You might as well have a seat.” She gestured toward a wooden bench that looked like it had once been a church pew. “It’ll be a while. He’s out having a smoke.” She sucked air between her thumb and forefinger, indicating more than a plain cigarette. “Either that or he’s fiddling with that old motorcycle some guy left here instead of paying his bill. Either way, Gram won’t find him anytime soon, especially if he hears her coming.”
“I have my reservation confirmation.”
The girl took the paper with the same enthusiasm she might accept a traffic ticket. She tapped on the computer keyboard and looked in an old-fashioned ledger. “It says you cancelled your reservation. The bridal suite?” She looked up, obviously curious.
Eleanor was not about to share with a stranger that her fiancé had dumped her for a tall, bosomy blonde talent agent who’d promised to make him a movie star.
“Bummer,” the girl said.
Yeah, it had been. But once the rose-colored blinders had been removed, Eleanor had realized Jason wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. Painful as it had been, she’d emerged a stronger person and focused on her career. Since the plane reservations for the honeymoon in England were nonrefundable, she’d turned it into a business opportunity. And a chance to find out more about the necklace.
“As you will note on the confirmation letter, I changed the reservation from a double room to a single room six months ago.”
“Here’s something. Uh-oh. Gram’s not going to like this.”
“What? Did you find it?”
“She put you in the book, but forgot to enter you into the computer. Your reserved room is currently occupied by a Colonel Artemis Hoover. Uh … this is not good.”
Eleanor had a sinking feeling in her stomach. What could be worse than Colonel Artemis Hoover in her room?
“Gram is going to kill me,” the girl muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Not that it matters to you, but that’s my writing in the book. And it’s not my first f-up. Gram threatened to send me back to Pittsburgh if I wasn’t more careful.”
“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said for lack of anything else.
“You would be if you had to live with Mr. and Mrs. Clean-Cut Doctor. No problem. I can fix this. I’ll find you a room at one of the other inns.” She twirled the one long lock of purple hair that sprang from her orange spikes as data scrolled across the computer screen. “Nada. Zilch. Not an empty room anywhere. Well, I’m not going back,” she said under her breath before she plopped a big old-fashioned key on the counter. “Are you afraid of ghosts?”
“What?”
“Are you afraid of ghosts?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts. Why do you ask?”
“We don’t usually let the tower suite unless someone specifically asks for it. It’s haunted.”
Eleanor weighed her need for sleep against the possibility of sharing a room with Casper.
“It’s the answer to both of our problems,” the girl said, her voice a mixture of desperation and hope. “If you tell Gram you wanted the tower suite all along, I’m off the hook and you get a place to stay. Win-win.”
Eleanor had a sneaky feeling she’d gotten the short half of the candy bar. Before her sluggish brain could kick into gear, she’d signed the register, explained the airline would deliver her lost luggage as soon as it was located in Frankfurt or Vienna, and followed the girl up the stairs. “Uh, Miss …”
“Karen Simms. But you can call me Spike.” She touched her stiff hair. “My mother hates it,” she added with a self-satisfied grin. She pulled a cell phone from one of her many pockets. “I’ll text Harry
to bring up your boxes.” A few lightning-quick taps later, she clicked it shut. “All set.”
“About this tower suite—”
“You’re gonna love it. You’re a history buff, right? I mean, I assume you are because you’re here for the conference. Well, this suite has been completely restored. Two bedrooms and a sitting room overlook the south lawn. Which, by the way, I gave you for the single room price at the conference discount.”
“But if no one ever stays in it—”
“No problem. We keep it pristine clean so the ghosts don’t get upset. At least that’s what Gram always says.”
“About those ghosts—”
“Deirdre Cracklebury and her younger sister Mina. They were born in the manor house and lived here around the time of the Regency. I’m not real sure about exact dates, but you could check with Gram if you want to know the details. Everyone here just calls them ‘the girls.’ Several of the staff, and a few guests, have claimed they encountered paranormal stuff like cold spots and misty apparitions in the hallway—you know, weird junk like that. I’ve never seen anything myself.”
Spike stepped aside to let two giggling women guests pass on the stairway. Eleanor’s first impression was that two delicate porcelain dolls had come to life, but her attention was quickly caught by their exquisite costumes: one in dark rose and the other in deep blue silk. She noted the intricate handwork on the gowns with envy and foreboding. If this was the quality of the competition, was she wasting her time and money starting her own costume business?
She could still go back to her old job at the movie studio. Were Spartan togas and mummy rags her only future? She almost turned to ask the women about their clothes, but she noticed Spike had taken a right turn at the top of the stairs and had gotten quite far ahead. She hurried to catch up.
“You’ve missed supper,” Spike said, trucking down the hall at a speed that made the chains on her oversized cutoff jeans jingle-jangle. “But if you’re hungry, I could get you a sandwich or something from the kitchen.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m fine.” She’d eaten a protein bar in the cab from the train station.
“The welcoming reception has already started. Costumes are optional, so if you don’t have time to change, that’s okay.”
Eleanor didn’t bother to look down at her rumpled brown travel pantsuit before shaking her head. “All I want is a hot shower and a bed.” Local time might be only seven-fifteen in the evening, but she’d had little sleep in the last twenty-four hours. Her eyes kept crossing from fatigue. She had to fight to refocus them.
“This suite has a bathing chamber with a huge old-fashioned claw-foot tub. No shower.” Spike paused at the end of the hall where it turned left into the south wing. She used another of the large old keys on a big ring to unlock the door tucked at an angle in the corner.
Eleanor entered an elegant sitting room decorated in shades of green and gold and filled with antique furniture. Across from the door a round area with eight windows was the obvious reason why it was called the tower suite.
Spike scooted in behind her. “This is the last room in the oldest portion of the house. The wings were added in the mid-1700s, giving the manor its U-shape. I’d recommend the bedroom on the left. Newer construction, so to speak. Plus it has the bathroom.”
“I think I stayed in the newer section last time I was here,” Eleanor said. Her room had been quite ordinary. Nothing like this.
She headed straight for the room on her left. Inside, a four-poster bed with pristine white linens tempted her to kick off her shoes and climb the three-step riser to sink into the feather mattress, travel-mussed clothes and all. Although there was lots of dark wood, the delicate blue and white touches kept the room from being overpoweringly depressing.
Spike walked past the bed to an armoire placed against the far wall. “The en-suite was added decades ago, probably when indoor plumbing was first invented, but it’s in good condition because it’s rarely been used. The entrance is a bit tricky. This armoire is really the door, and the handle is on the side. See? Just lift this rosette to release the latch.” She pulled the door to the bathroom open. Without missing a beat, she turned to her left. “And here’s the closet.” She slid open a section of paneling and then closed it.
A tap on the door signaled Harry’s arrival. The skinny adolescent’s face had not yet filled out enough to balance his oversized nose and ears, but he was obviously still growing because his pants were at least an inch too short. Unless that was the style for English boys his age. He awkwardly hustled two large boxes on a wheeled dolly into the room. Eleanor directed him to set them in the corner. After expressing her appreciation in generous tips, Eleanor was finally alone.
First, she called her father. His voice mail kicked in, meaning he was probably at lunch with his golfing buddies or one of his lady friends. His old-fashioned manners dictated that it was rude to answer the phone when one was in the middle of a conversation, so he always turned his cell phone off when he was in company. She left him a message to let him know she’d arrived safely and would call him as usual on Sunday night. She tucked her phone into a pocket on her carryon as she headed to the bathroom.
Because of increased airline restrictions, she’d packed her toiletries and cosmetic bag in her suitcase, which by now was probably in Istanbul. Fortunately, the airline had provided each passenger with a Ziploc bag that contained soft footies, an eye-mask, and best of all, a disposable toothbrush and tiny tube of toothpaste. She’d had the forethought to snag the extra one from the empty seat beside her and drop it in her carryon. She dug it out.
After a quick dip in the tub, she promised herself a long luxurious soak before she left the inn. For tonight, sleep took precedence.
Wrapped in a large fluffy towel, she unpacked the smaller box and put on a floor-length, granny-style nightgown. Even though it was part of her planned presentation on a Regency lady’s wardrobe, it would serve until her suitcases were located.
Because she wasn’t a morning person, Eleanor had developed the habit of setting out her clothes the night before. Knowing she would sleep better if she had everything organized, she checked the seminar schedule and laid out her outfit for the following morning: a day dress of white muslin embroidered with green leaves and tiny violets, period underclothes, white silk stockings, and flat shoes made of green fabric.
She added the matching beaded reticule, so small that it held only the absolute necessities: ID, credit card, registration confirmation letter, a handkerchief instead of tissues, breath mints, lip gloss, and the big old-fashioned key to her suite. Then she hung up the rest of the dresses from the larger box. Running out of steam, she climbed the riser and flopped into the bed with a sigh, asleep the second her head hit the pillow.
* * *
“Who is that in your bed?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” Deirdre answered.
Mina peered closer. “She resembles our cousin Ellen. Same dark auburn curls, heart-shaped face, and green eyes.”
“Her eyes are closed.”
“I noticed the striking color earlier when we passed her on the stairs. And her smile. She has great teeth, straight and—”
“Our cousin Ellen died nearly two hundred years ago. This person is alive.”
Mina leaned over the figure in the bed. “Who are you?” When she got no response, she poked the sleeping female’s arm. “Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Deirdre said. “She’s one of the guests.”
“They rarely put guests in our rooms. Are you sure she’s not dead?”
“Of course I’m sure. Well, we had best wake her up and scare her off,” Deirdre said.
Mina tipped her head to one side. “She has a gentle face. Couldn’t we let her sleep a bit longer?”
“Easy for you to say. She’s not in your bed.”
“I wonder who she is. I still say she resembles Cousin Ellen.”
Deirdre pulled the sleeping female�
��s travel bag out of the bathroom and looked through her belongings.
“What are you doing?” Mina asked in a horrified voice.
“Finding out who she is.”
“That was a rhetorical question. You should not—”
“Her name is Eleanor Pottinger and she’s from—”
“ … Where is she from?”
“Los Angeles, California. That’s in America.”
“I know that,” Mina said. She glanced over her shoulder at the still sleeping figure. “She must be exhausted from her long journey.”
“Airplane-legged,” Deirdre said as she continued to dig in Eleanor’s bag.
“Jet-lagged,” Mina corrected. Although both ghosts attempted to keep up with current events, Mina had the greater interest in modern culture.
“She keeps a journal,” Deirdre said as she sat back and opened the leather-bound book. She scanned the neat handwriting, starting from the last written page and working her way backwards through the book quickly.
“You shouldn’t read that.”
“Why not? People read historical journals all the time.”
“That’s different.” Mina pursed her lips. “Historical journals contribute to knowledge of the period by placing events of the day in a personal context.”
“If I’d known my words were going to be read by anyone else, I would not have included personal information. I’m glad we got in the habit of hiding our journals so Aunt Patience couldn’t read them. And now no one ever will.”
“Exactly my point,” Mina said, nodding toward the book in her sister’s hands.
Deirdre shut the cover, dropped it back into the carryon, and shoved the small suitcase back into the bathroom. “There was little of interest anyway. Dull business plans, mention of a failed love affair without any interesting details, and research she wanted to complete regarding Jane Austen.”
“Aha!” Mina turned to look at Eleanor. “I knew she had some reason for traveling alone.”