Downtime
Page 45
“How did you learn of the fire?”
Damn. He knew. “I looked a few things up. But—”
“About all of us?”
“No. I found out about the fire by accident. It was mentioned in the newspaper. And Jem’s bio was written up because of his poetry,” I added, hoping Ezra would leave it at that. But I guess it was only natural he would want to know.
“Is it very bad?” he whispered, shifting a little closer to me.
“He’s going to spend some time in St. Andrews.” I said it as gently as I could, but there was no way to ease the shock. He let out an audible breath.
“When?”
I wished now I hadn’t looked it up. “In a couple of years.” I couldn’t tell him the terrible news of Jem’s death—which would shortly follow Prince Eddy’s—so I tried to change the subject. “It’s not all bad,” I said, getting up to fish the copy of a photograph out of the bottom of my pocket. He sat up, glum as I handed it to him. When he realized what he was looking at, the transformation in his eyes was wonderful to see. I knew it still weighed on his conscience, what he’d done to Charlotte. The burden of that guilt lifted as he drank in the evidence of what was to come for her. “James Weatherley, of all people.”
“You know him?”
“Oh yes. A wonderful head for business, though he’s quite the shy fellow. I had no idea he fancied Charlotte.”
“She must have nabbed him not too long after your engagement ended.”
Ezra nodded, still soaking in the image before him. “She looks happy, doesn’t she?”
“She’s not the only one.” I draped an arm around his shoulders. “Take a good, long look at it, because we’re going to have to burn it. Sully let me come back to you. I owe it to him to try to keep history from unraveling because of it.”
“They must have felt your presence here would have no impact to speak of,” he answered distractedly.
No impact to speak of. “Thanks. It’s comforting to know the world can get on so well without me.”
He grinned as he handed back the photo. “The world may, but I certainly cannot.”
“You must be the smartest guy in 1888.” I pushed him down and rolled on top of him to kiss him. “Ez?”
“Yes?”
“Do you smell cinnamon rolls?”
As it turned out, I wasn’t developing any psychic ability of my own; Mrs. Nisbet seemed to think I was something of a hero for hauling Ezra out of a burning house and, learning from Kathleen of my fondness for them, had her cook whip up a batch of the gooiest buns ever seen. They went a long way toward easing the horror of meeting Mrs. Nisbet’s house agent, Mr. Hambly. The guy was a bundle of effusive energy and as full of unabashed shit as any of his modern-day counterparts. It wasn’t long into the arduous process of house-hunting that I was ready to plant him under the cobblestones of the nearest “fashionable” street and handle the rest of the search, myself. He managed to redeem himself at the last moment, finding a newer place adjacent a park, with bedrooms and bathrooms to spare.
Leaving poor Derry to deal with Hambly’s incessant chatter, I snuck upstairs with Ezra to a bright, airy corner room whose two windows looked out on a row of stately elms.
“Hallelujah.” I shut the door and leaned against it. “No air-conditioning, but at least what air we get will be fresher. What do you think?”
“I think Derry will be quite done in by the cost of it. And he will not let you pay it all—”
“We can always move to New York.”
“—But I shall endeavor to talk him into it,” Ezra finished firmly.
“Aw, come on.” I hooked a finger under his watch chain and maneuvered him toward me. “You’d like New York.”
He came warily. “I will consider it, if you cannot find work here that suits you.”
“Think Scotland Yard’s hiring?”
“I don’t care for that idea. I won’t have you facing another sort like the Ripper.”
“Ezra.” I got my arms around him and pulled him even closer, to look directly into the worried blue gaze. “That’s what I do, chase bad guys. Just ask Sully.”
“He’s not here.”
“No? Good.” I nuzzled his neck. “You know, you’re not too bad at chasing the bad guys, yourself. We might make a decent team, as detectives go.”
“You are the wiliest devil.”
“Mess around with spells and that’s what you get. Should we christen the room?”
“Morgan.” His smile softened the reproof. “We haven’t the keys yet. We can’t lock the door.”
Laughing, I slid to sit on the floor and pulled him down with me. “I’ve led you seriously astray.”
“I’ve let you. You know, I’ve never felt like this about anyone else.”
I leaned forward and kissed him on the nose. He started, then smiled at me in chagrin. “You do not think me a fool?”
God love him. “I think you so damned wonderful, I don’t know how to put it into words.” So I expressed it in a way he’d taught me, himself. When we drew apart, his eyes were bright.
“Dear man. I am sorry you had to go through so much.”
“You went through worse. But I got back to you. That’s all that matters.”
“But knowing I would die and you could not prevent it,” he said softly.
“Well, yeah. That was bad.” And not something I really wanted to think about ever again.
He seemed to know. He interlaced his fingers with mine and gave my hand a squeeze. “I am rather glad that since you’ve changed history, you do not know what will become of me.”
“Oh, but I do.” I looked at him solemnly. “You know that daft FBI agent you conjured on a slow day at the office? You’re going to settle down together in a quaint Victorian house across from the park, and share a room with way too much flowery yellow wallpaper.” I wrinkled my nose at it and he laughed. “You and he will catalogue books by day and chase criminals down by night and when you have time off, he’ll teach you to play baseball and you’ll teach him the mysteries of cricket. He’ll get used to warm beer and stewed eel….” I grimaced. “And with any luck, you’ll get used to interpreting his twenty-first century English. You’ll discover as-yet unappreciated virtues in dark streets, cramped cabs, theater boxes, and foggy days….” I winked, “And the two of you will live happily ever after. Sound good?”
Derry stuck his head in and gasped, “We’re signing away our lives on this one, then? Tell me quick, lads, or fetch us away from the place.”
“Said like a man in love,” Ezra noted.
“It’s the garden,” I said. “I don’t think he can resist it.”
Derry groaned, confirming my suspicion. “Swear you’ll back me up when Kathleen gets here.”
Mr. Hambly was all smiles as he peered over Derry’s shoulder. “Gentlemen?”
Ezra’s hand was still in mine, out of the agent’s view, and I felt a gentle tickle against my palm. “It does sound good,” he murmured.
I smiled. “I guess we’ve got ourselves a home.”
Derry all but bounced in relief. “Bravo. I’ll go down and wait for Kath. Mr. Hambly, if you will, you may regale my sister with the same pretty tales,” he said as he backed out and shut the door. I had a feeling Kathleen wasn’t going to put up with any regaling. But she and Hannah would like the house—and all the “modern conveniences.”
I was growing fond of it, myself. Hell, with Ezra’s arms around me, even yellow wallpaper had its charms. I noticed his amused glance in the direction of the door. A bright shiny key poked from the lock, a key that hadn’t been there before.
“Derry doesn’t have much faith in our ability to restrain ourselves, does he.”
“Well, he did have to shoo us from Mrs. Nisbet’s pantry yesterday,” Ezra reminded me as he got up to lock the door.
He had a point. “But Kathleen will be here—”
“In about twenty minutes.” He tossed me the key and dropped onto my lap, draping his ar
ms around my shoulders. “Perhaps thirty.”
“Thank God for old-fashioned, poky transportation.”
His forehead rested against mine. “Whose world is the more advanced now, eh?”
“You’ve got it all over us,” I conceded.
Thirty minutes was never better spent.
About the Author
Tamara Allen lives in the piney woods north of Houston, Texas with her husband Eric and son Nicholas. She spends her time on administrative work for her husband's law practice, taking care of her family, and writing when she gets the chance.
She especially likes penning historical romances for the fun of dwelling briefly in other interesting time periods. She is the 2009 winner of the Rainbow Award for best historical novel and co-winner for best novel overall.
Visit her at her web site at http://www.tamara-allen.net and at Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/tamara_allen. You can contact her at writer.mara@gmail .com.
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