Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II

by Padgett Lively

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  Adelaide looked up. Faith stood in the doorway. She had wrapped around her naked shoulders a finely woven cashmere throw. Her thick dark hair fell to her waist and framed a face pale and, to Adelaide’s eyes, beautiful.

  She walked over to Adelaide and knelt down in front of her, letting the cashmere throw drop to the floor.

  “I need to talk to you,” Adelaide said, catching her breath as Faith’s hands slid under her negligee and up her legs.

  Faith smiled lovingly up at her. “Can it wait?”

  *

  Clem sat staring blankly down at the tablebot. It stood on its spindly back legs patiently holding up the crystal salt cellar and emitting mild little cheeps that went unnoticed. Clem’s mind was occupied with how to keep Reginald safely ignorant of the danger swirling around Ettie and Lord Westchester.

  From Ettie she had learned something more of the strange circumstances surrounding them. Although she felt certain her friend withheld important details, Clem was aware that Ettie and Lord Westchester were planning some type of operation against Sir Knightly Davis.

  “My dear, if you don’t want the salt, send the thing off, will you?” Uncle Matthew grumbled, not lifting his eyes from the morning newspaper.

  Clem looked up and smiled at him with affection. Somehow his glasses had found a way to slip down his bulbous nose and perch precariously on its tip. She suppressed an urge to lean across the breakfast table and push them back up, knowing that he would do so in one… two…

  He pushed them up the bridge of his nose and folded the paper down to look at her over the rims. “You think I don’t notice, don’t you?” he huffed and cleared his throat, “You and your Aunt Abigail, thick as thieves.”

  She opened her eyes wide with surprise. “I don’t know what you mean, Uncle Matthew.”

  He raised his bushy white eyebrows and reached over his plate for the teacup. He was a large man with sausage-like fingers, yet he handled the fine china teacup with surprising delicacy. He took a sip and placed it back on the saucer.

  “I know what your aunt says.” He assumed a ridiculous high-pitched voice that sounded nothing at all like Aunt Abigail and mimicked, “You know Matthew. He does have a tendency to overreact. Oh, the hue and cry he’ll raise, the hue and cry!”

  Clem laughed, and Matthew looked immensely satisfied that he had pulled off the impression satisfactorily, if not very accurately. He dabbed the sides of his mouth with a napkin and continued with self-conscious defensiveness, “I may have a tendency to… um… to rather loudly declare my views, but I assure you my judgment is considered quite sound.”

  Clem reached over and patted his hand with gentle understanding. Uncle Matthew was the youngest son of the old Duke of Easterly. As a young man, he had inherited the small estate of a spinster aunt in Upper Essex. So effective was his management of the farms and livestock that he had amassed a respectable fortune, leaving him free to pursue his passion in politics. He had taken a seat in the lower house and for years was the leading voice of reason and compassion. In fact, it was only a few years prior that he had been pushed out and silenced by the aristocratic hardliners, one of which was his nephew, the current Duke of Easterly, Reginald’s father.

  “I know, Uncle,” Clem assured him as she released his hand and reached for the salt cellar. She used the little spoon to sprinkle her poached egg and then handed it back to the tablebot. The small machine scurried over to the sideboard where it stood at attention.

  “Blasted bot!” Matthew growled, “Gives me the creeps! Meddlesome creatures, all of ’em!”

  Clem looked surprised by his unusually grumpy mood. Typically, her Uncle Matthew maintained a gentle manner and optimistic outlook.

  “Has something happened to put you out of sorts, Uncle?” she asked.

  He looked at her, his kind eyes soft. How could he tell her? How could he tell her that the duchess, Reginald’s mother, had visited him just the evening past? Her cold, haughty face was a perfect study in bigotry and aristocratic entitlement.

  “You have to put a stop to it, Matthew! I won’t tolerate the little mix-up in my place! Do you understand?” Her rant ended in a squeak, as if she’d not had enough oxygen to finish her thought.

  “Temper your speech, Regina, or I’ll have you thrown out. Duchess though you are!” he had growled.

  They had stood facing each other across the large desk in his favorite room, the library. His residence was not as grand as many of his class. It suited him, though, as it did Abigail. They had bought it nearly thirty years ago as a deliberate ruse, for they were wealthier than anyone knew, wealthier even than his nephew, the duke. It still surprised him that anyone believed he had eked out even a meager fortune from his aunt’s small and crumbling estate.

  He remembered well at the age of twenty-four standing in the unkempt and dilapidated great hall and feeling his heart sink. Arbor Brook in Upper Essex had once been a prosperous property. A very adequate living for a squire, but a duke’s son, albeit a younger son, required a bit more to suit his station.

  Matthew worked hard to pull it back from ruin, but the capital he amassed was minimal. He had bleakly envisioned himself tied to that hinterland of New York for the rest of his life. Until a letter from his long-lost friend Patrick Lacy arrived. It was delivered with little fanfare; indeed, it had been brought with all the other mail by Susan, the combination cook’s assistant and chambermaid, when she had returned from the village.

  Matthew had turned it over in his hands. He examined the travel-stained envelope and exotic postage and recalled the terrible scandal of Patrick’s disownment. He had been saddened to hear of his friend’s misadventures, but had thought little of him in the ensuing years. Time, distance, and social ostracism had put a damper on their friendship.

  When he had finally opened it, the contents spilled out with exuberance, and he experienced a twinge of envy at the freedom expressed within. Patrick had always been a weaver of tales, a leader who could convince any boy at school to follow him into the most unlikely of adventures. It was this talent that had induced Matthew to part with over half of his savings. He had been the first investor in the Lacy Group, an import/export business that had made him wealthier than ever he could have imagined. And he never had to lift a finger beyond directing his solicitor to send the check.

  He never forgot the debt he owed his friend. That Patrick Lacy’s granddaughter was as dear to him as if she were his very own was almost beside the point. Matthew would have stood beside her no matter what, as he had done her mother when she came to him and Abigail destitute after her disastrous marriage. He was aggrieved that she had wanted so little, a horse farm far from the city where she and her little daughter could live peacefully, away from the censorious gaze of society.

  But he had done more, much more.

  “If you ever again use that term to refer to my heir, I will never permit you across this threshold,” he told the duchess with quiet dignity.

  Regina’s smile was brittle and condescending. “You mean to overwhelm me with this news, I presume. So you’ve made the girl your heir—a lovely gesture. Arbor Brook is very nice,” she sneered the word “nice,” “but hardly enough to tempt a future duke.”

  It was Matthew’s turn to smile with condescension, replying acidly, “Not surprisingly, your grace, you have come here without first speaking with your husband.”

  She blinked at this uncharacteristic show of scorn. “What do you mean?”

  Matthew could only give thanks for the hundredth time at Reginald’s wisdom in coming to him first with his declaration of love for Clem. The boy was like the old duke, Matthew’s father, a man seeped in aristocratic tradition, but with a heart too big to ignore the suffering around him. The boy’s confession had given Matthew a chance to speak with his nephew and lay out the advantages of such a match.

  “Go home, Regina,” Matthew had sighed, suddenly weary of her company. “Speak with your husband, and l
eave me in peace.”

  He wondered that she didn’t exhaust herself. She had certainly beaten down his nephew. Her intelligence and beauty were not softened by compassion or even pity. Trapped as she was in a very unhappy marriage, it was as if she hoped to make everyone else around her equally miserable, especially her husband and son. That she was the architect of her own fate never seemed to occur to her. She had pursued Ravensdale with religious zeal and spent every waking moment bending his opinions and actions to her will. That it gave her no joy was obvious to the most uninterested observer. Yet, Regina’s obliviousness to any shred of self-knowledge bordered on the psychotic.

  He watched Clem now as she buttered a piece of toast. She looked at him expectantly, and he made a decision. “Lady Easterly visited me yesterday evening. She is extremely unhappy with the direction of her son’s affections.”

  She evinced no alarm at this intelligence. Instead, her cheeks tinged with a soft hue of rose, and she looked down at her plate with an embarrassed smile. “He has spoken with you?”

  “Indeed, he has. I would expect nothing less of a gentleman.”

  She laughed suddenly and looked up at him. “Oh, Uncle! Who would have thought that silly stuffed shirt should love me?” Clem exclaimed with unalloyed affection, “And that I should return his feelings is beyond anything! I thought I couldn’t stand him. Isn’t love just grand and mysterious?”

  He couldn’t help but return her smile, yet shook his head with sad resignation. “I fear the duchess does not see it so.”

  Clem straightened her shoulders and looked primly at the empty chair across from her. “She needn’t worry; I have no intention of marrying him.”

  Matthew, startled, let his teacup clang back down onto its saucer. “Whatever do you mean?”

  She sighed patiently and explained, “I love Reginald, but I won’t marry him.”

  He stared at her astonished and waited for her to continue.

  “It will just cause a rift between him and his parents, and…” she faltered, “…while he says he doesn’t care, I know it would grieve him… at least his father, and… well… I won’t be the cause of it. I won’t!” she declared, more firmly.

  “My, dear—” he began.

  “No, Uncle.” She held up her hand and shook her head vehemently. “I’ve made up my mind. I have spoken with Matron, and she assures me that I am qualified for this next class of nurses. And after saving Professor Bradley’s life, I’m in very good standing with the hospital. Also…” She blushed a fiery red. “If we are discreet, my private life should raise no comment. I know Reginald won’t like it, but…” her voice trailed off in the face of her uncle’s obvious astonishment.

  Matthew was speechless. He didn’t know what amazed him more, that she had saved a man’s life or was contemplating an extramarital liaison with his great-nephew.

  “My dear—,” he repeated.

  The words had barely left his mouth when the door burst open to admit an out-of-breath Reginald. He dropped to one knee next to Matthew’s chair and grasped his hand. “How can I thank you, Uncle?” he cried, his voice full of emotion. And then, much to Matthew’s chagrin, he kissed the old man’s hand.

  “That is quite enough!” Matthew stood abruptly, pulling Reginald up with him. “Never do that again, my boy! I have only done what is right.”

  Clem looked at them in complete bewilderment. “What have you done, Uncle Matthew?’

  “He made you his heir!” Reginald exclaimed.

  “Arbor Brook—” she began.

  Reginald shook his head and swallowed rapidly. “No, the Lacy Group… he’s bequeathed you the controlling partnership in your grandfather’s company!”

  She was completely taken aback. “But how? My grandfather’s partner—” She looked at Matthew with dawning understanding. “You.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, “I was your grandfather’s silent partner since the beginning. When he died, the controlling interest went to me, apart, of course, from your mother’s inheritance. And now it will be yours,” he concluded simply.

  Clem stared at him for what seemed like several seconds before finally saying something completely unexpected, “So I have access to the Lacy Group Building? The one across from the Ridgeleigh Bay Building?”

  Twenty-Eight

  IT WAS THE middle of the day, and Evelyn was alone in the parlor of their rooms at the Black Swan Inn. She had retreated there on purpose, hoping to find the solitude lacking at home. Since Billy’s death, she had felt meek and frightened and almost always on the verge of tears. Not even her father’s insistence that she be pulled from the field elicited any protest from her lips.

  Evelyn had known that the coming war would bring grief. She had thought of Hugh’s dangerous mission and believed herself ready for the worst. But nothing had prepared her for watching the life seep out of her friend. She was not ready. She was frightened, terrified that it might happen again.

  She sat at what had been Verity’s desk with a stack of letters before her. Gabriel had agreed to let her remain active, but only in the most secure of positions. So she was given the tedious task of searching discarded correspondence for any suspicion of a code. Most of the letters had been retrieved from the waste bins of loyalists, typically by servants in the secret employ of the rebels. Some of the more cautious burned their letters, so even the ashes from the hearth were searched for remnants of paper. Evelyn had everything from a perfectly intact letter only slightly crumpled to scraps of burned correspondence pieced together as best as possible.

  Evelyn sighed heavily and wished for the hundredth time that Verity was still in Philadelphia. But that gifted woman had moved on to set up a spy network in New York City. Three-Five-Five, their fledgling clandestine endeavor, was maturing at a rapid pace and would now be employing its innovative methods throughout the colonies. She was proud of Verity, but she missed the older woman’s sharp eye, common sense, and uncommon strength.

  Evelyn got up, sighed dramatically, and pulled a large tome from the shelf. The book was a well-worn family Bible that Cara had purchased at the booksellers. It was Verity who had told them that the Bible was the most likely source for code encryption, because it was the one book most people owned.

  Evelyn set it beside her just in case she detected a pattern in any of the letters. She shuffled the papers and separated them out into piles, initially based on author. Their acquisition of such letters was haphazard at best, so it wasn’t unusual to have several letters all from different people or a few from the same person and one or two more from someone entirely different. Rarely did they have a complete chronological correspondence. It was all really just a fishing expedition, looking to see if they could land a big catch. Evelyn had never known it to yield anything really important.

  Nevertheless, she dutifully began a methodical search of the letters. Before she had left, Verity set up a checklist of sorts to lead agents through the process of decryption. The precise and systematic method comforted Evelyn by diverting her brain, that would, whenever given time to think, return stubbornly to that bleak afternoon when she had followed Billy to his last rendezvous.

  “Evelyn… she is false.”

  His words played over and over in her mind. Was he speaking of her? Or trying to tell her of someone else? It hurt Evelyn’s heart to think he might have been referring to her. She wasn’t blind. She knew how he felt. Did he believe her to be a false friend? Someone who had cruelly ensnared him without ever intending to return his feelings? Had this driven him to betray their cause?

  She couldn’t believe this of him. She wouldn’t believe this of him. If he was working outside their network, Evelyn was sure it was because he believed himself to be helping in some way. He would not think she had played him false. She had never given him any reason to suppose her feelings for him were more than sisterly, but she didn’t delude herself into thinking that his actions had nothing to do with her. His need to prove himself, his vanity and hurt pride had made h
im vulnerable. But he was no traitor; she was sure of it.

  She shook herself and tried again to concentrate on her task. Once the letters were compiled by author, she looked over the dates and city of origin; oftentimes this was where the pattern was set.

  While flipping through a pile written by one Doctor Jeremiah Robbins, she came upon a document very unlike a letter. There was a date but no salutation, and the text consisted of the closely written sentences of a report. She turned it over in her hands and noted that it had been torn apart and then carefully pieced back together again. Some bits were missing, leaving holes here and there, but it was mostly complete. The cramped writing was, at first, difficult to decipher. It took her at least half an hour to read little more than four paragraphs. After finishing, she sat back in her chair and stared blankly at the page before her.

  Evelyn held in her hands a report on the examination of the body that was pulled from the Schuylkill River many weeks before. The local government had given Doctor Robbins the task of identifying the poor soul who had drowned.

  Except that she hadn’t drowned. She had been brutally tortured and then killed with a knife thrust to the heart, a mode of murder that made the hair on the back of Evelyn’s neck rise. Was it a coincidence or a pattern?

  She sat there staring at the paper. Something was off; a piece of information floated just outside her reach. She squinted in concentration and read through the report again, stopping at the corpse’s description:

  General Appearance: female, middle aged… of average height… slender build… features unidentifiable…