Summer's Secret

by Sandra Heath

  Her brows drew thoughtfully. All the time she’d been in the past she hadn’t sensed anything going wrong; in fact she’d felt fine. It was an interesting point. No, more than that, it was positively engrossing. She’d gone to sleep in 1807 as Olivia Courtenay, but had awoken here in the future as Summer Stanway, not because the cassette had prompted her as usual, but because the doctors had succeeded in stabilizing her.

  Olivia hadn’t been affected at all by Summer’s medical crisis, which posed a very interesting question—if Chrissie and Andrew hadn’t found her when they did, and she’d remained in a diabetic coma, would her existence in the past have continued undisturbed?

  The next logical question was to wonder what would have happened if they had been too late, and her present-day self had died? Would she still live on in the past? If she wished, could she escape to become Olivia forever? She smiled a little wryly, for now that Brand had been revealed in all his true despicable colors, what reason could she have for wanting to stay as Olivia? She still wanted to go back again to see the outcome of everything, but as to staying there ...

  No, it wasn’t even on the agenda anymore. Footsteps approached again as the sister returned with a young doctor. Summer submitted to their ministering and put her fascinating theories temporarily to one side.

  * * *

  Summer was allowed to leave the hospital a few days later. The weather was particularly fine that evening, and as the September sun sank beyond the horizon in a blaze of glory, she curled up in an armchair in her robe to watch it.

  She sipped a cup of hot milk and smiled at Chrissie. “God, am I looking forward to a decent bed tonight. British hospitals should be reported to the Court of Human Rights, for I’m convinced their mattresses were devised as a means of torture.”

  Andrew laughed. “And those in American hospitals are worthy of the Ritz?” he remarked, folding the newspaper he’d been reading.

  Summer pursed her lips. “Mm, well, maybe not quite,” she conceded.

  Chrissie had been lolling on the sofa, but now she sat up. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m bushed. I haven’t slept in days and will have to hit the sack soon.”

  Summer nodded. “I won’t be long either. What is it about hospitals? All that time in bed, and still I’m tired.”

  Chrissie looked at her. “Just make sure you set those new alarm clocks before you go to sleep.”

  “I will.” Summer chuckled. “I still don’t believe you actually went out and bought those things.”

  “I’m not taking any chances with you from now on.”

  “Okay, but did you have to choose a model of Big Ben that’s so loud it sounds like the real thing, and a green plastic frog that croaks Wake up, rise and shine! I’ll wake up all right, but only long enough to die of shock!”

  “I thought the frog was cute, and the Big Ben seemed an appropriate souvenir of England.”

  Andrew chuckled and eyed Summer slyly. “Yes, and it makes up for those dreadful musical eggcups you and Jack gave us last year.”

  Summer grinned. “Tacky, weren’t they? We thought of you two as soon as we saw them.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Andrew replied, leaning across and tapping her on the head with his folded newspaper.

  Chrissie got up. “Enough of this witty banter. I’ve just got to get some sleep.”

  Andrew rose. “I may as well turn in too, I’ve got a heavy day tomorrow.” He looked at Summer. “Will you be okay?”

  “I can finish hot milk unaided, you know,” she replied.

  “Night then.”

  “Night.”

  Alone, she gazed out at the remains of the sunset. In spite of what had happened, she had every intention of returning to 1807 tonight. She’d bought some new batteries in the shop in the hospital, and on getting back to the apartment had checked the recorder thoroughly. It worked perfectly again now, and to be absolutely certain there wouldn’t be a repeat hypo performance, she would set those darned alarms too.

  She finished the hot milk and went through into the kitchen to wash the cup. A few minutes later, all mandatory medical rituals complete, she went to bed. Putting out the light, she lay there for a long time, to see if Chrissie or Andrew stirred from their room to double-check on her, but as the minutes passed, she knew they’d gone to sleep.

  She smiled as she glanced at the bedside table. Big Ben and a green frog! Typical Chrissie, she thought as she set them for the morning. Then she opened the drawer containing the recorder. Her finger paused above the button. After all her sins of late, she really shouldn’t be doing this, but she had to find out what happened next in the past, she had to! So she pressed it and lay back.

  Breathing in deeply, she commenced her exercises as the soothing music washed over her. She felt the familiar drowsiness stealing through her body, as warm and sensuous as Brand’s caresses. “Oh, Brand,” she whispered, but the words seemed to be whipped away, as if by a playful breeze.

  She opened her eyes in puzzlement, then closed them again quickly because everything was so white and bright after the dark bedroom. Slowly, she looked once more. She was in the garden in front of Oakhill House. It was two days after the ball, and fresh snow had fallen overnight, but the sun was out now. She wore her ankle boots and dark green cloak, her hands were warm in her muff, and the black fur framing her hood fluttered against her cheeks in the breeze that swept along the vale. In the distance the estuary shone silver beneath the January sun, and she could just make out the ruined chapel on the embankment.

  Her boots crunched in the snow, and she shivered, for it was very cold, but after two days of observing Jeremy’s advice that she stay inside in order to avoid all chance of coming face-to-face with Brand, she was glad to be in the fresh air again. She wasn’t the only one to have come out, for George Bradshaw had left the house immediately after breakfast in order to go for a long walk in the park. There was no sign of him anywhere, and she couldn’t help the unchristian hope he’d fallen in a drift somewhere.

  Nothing of great consequence had taken place since the last visit to the past. The carriage had been there for Jeremy as planned, and as it hadn’t returned, she could only suppose it had mingled successfully with the numerous other vehicles that had cluttered the neighborhood lanes because of the hunt. Jeremy must be in Cirencester now, and she prayed he would succeed in gaining the help he needed to prove his innocence.

  The hunt itself, from which Uncle Merriam and George Bradshaw had returned unscathed, had proceeded without event. She and Caro had watched from the upstairs windows as hounds and horsemen streamed south across the End of the World.

  Caro assured her that no one at the ball had discovered who the lady was who’d caused the scene, but there had been one further strange incident after her departure, and that was the disappearance from Melinda’s throat of Lady Harvey’s diamonds. Caro had commented upon it at breakfast the following morning, observing that it was strange the necklace should have been discarded halfway through the ball when it went so very well with Melinda’s gown.

  Summer, of course, read a great deal into its sudden absence. Because the diamonds had been recognized, Brand had decided it was wiser for his sister not to flaunt stolen property at so public an event as a ball.

  She brushed the snow from a stone bench in a rose arbor, and sat down, pushing her hands further into her muff as she gazed toward the house. Francis was shortly expected to ride over from Bevincote to call upon Caro this morning, and since breakfast that young lady had done nothing but change from gown to gown in an effort to look her very best for her beloved.

  Footsteps crunched through the snow, and Summer glanced up to see George Bradshaw returning at last from his walk. He wore a voluminous black cloak, and the sunlight caused his top hat to cast a sharp shadow across his thin face.

  He didn’t realize she was there until the last moment, and halted in surprise. “Why, good morning again, Mrs. Courte-nay,” he murmured, for they’d faced each other across the brea
kfast table.

  “Sir.” Her reply was curt because her intense dislike for him was now very hard to hide.

  “An excellent morning, is it not?” he declared, glancing around and deeply inhaling the sharp winter air.

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Her tone precluded any further attempt at polite conversation, so he muttered something about having been out in the snow for long enough, and walked on toward the house.

  Summer watched him. Gambling debts or not, it was impossible to feel an iota of sympathy for such an unpleasant, mealy-mouthed insect. How he could ever have had a sister as lovable as Caro’s late mother she couldn’t imagine. One or other of them had to be a changeling, for to be sure they could not have been more unalike!

  She hunched her shoulders against the chill as the breeze gusted slightly. The leafless rose branches around the arbor swayed, scattering some of their load of white over her, and a little whirlwind of dusty snow sped along the path, blunting the sharp edges of the footprints she and the lawyer had left. It was much more cold out here than she’d realized, and the thought of returning to the house for a cup of hot sweet chocolate began to appeal. Summer smiled, for such a drink would definitely be verboten for her modern self.

  Hoofbeats sounded on the drive, and she saw Francis riding toward the house, but he wasn’t alone, for at his side on the same mettlesome gray as before, was Brand. She rose agitatedly from the seat and pressed back out of sight by the arbor as the two horsemen passed only about fifty feet away.

  She was glad her cloak was dark green, for it did not catch the eye, but neither of them so much as glanced in her direction. They reined in before the porch, and a groom hurried to take their mounts to the stables. As the two men were admitted to the house, Summer emerged uneasily from the arbor. How long would the visit last? An hour? Two? Maybe longer? She’d freeze if she had to stay out here that long, but what else could she do?

  Then she thought of the two remaining carriages in the coach house, Uncle Merriam’s and George Bradshaw’s. It seemed sensible—and much warmer—to wait in one of them until the two men’s horses were sent for, a moment she’d be aware of because the coach house opened onto the stable yard.

  Gathering her cloak close, she hurried along the path, then skirted the side of the house to make her way to the stables by way of the kitchen gardens. No one saw her slipping across the cobbles, which the stable boys had spent all morning clearing of snow, and she was able to reach the coach house without anyone realizing she was there.

  The doors swung to behind her, and the shadows advanced. For a moment it was hard to see after the brightness of the snow, but then her eyes adjusted, and she saw the carriages. The latter was drawn up close against the far wall, and she climbed in through the only accessible door and made herself as comfortable as possible for what might prove to be a disagreeably long wait. She flung back her hood and undid her cloak ties, then leaned her head against the upholstery and closed her eyes. It was strange to think Brand was only yards away in the house, without any idea at all that she was here. Strange, and a little exciting.

  She smiled to herself. What was it about villains that drew women? There was no doubt that Sir Brand Huntingford was very far from being the soul of chivalry, and yet her Icarus wings would still be in danger of burning if she were to be confronted by him again. The thought of his kisses made her tremble, and the thought of actually making love with him again was ...

  Slow footsteps made her start. She peered out of the carriage window, and her heart stopped, for Brand was standing about six feet away! His top hat was tipped back on his golden hair, and he wore a maroon coat and close-fitting gray breeches. There was a plain golden pin in his neckcloth, and his riding crop swung idly in his gloved hand as he glanced around the shadowy coach house. Because the carriage was against the wall, she knew she could not escape, so all she could do was entreat fate; not to betray her presence.

  But fate was in no mood to protect her, for suddenly he seemed to sense her secret gaze upon him. His eyes flashed directly to hers, and he gave a cool smile.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brand advanced toward the carriage, and Summer edged uneasily away until her back was pressed to the window by the wall.

  He opened the door and faced her. “So, Mrs. Courtenay, you are unmasked at last.”

  Her heart sank. In spite of all her efforts, he’d identified her anyway. “How did you—?”

  “Discover who you were? By the base tactic of questioning the footmen at Bevincote. I fear you, Francis, and Miss Merriam didn’t lower your voices quite enough. Once furnished with the necessary details, I insisted on accompanying Francis here today. I casually questioned Mr. Bradshaw, who kindly informed me that he had not long since seen you by the rose arbor. From there I followed your footsteps to the stable yard. The rest you know.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I begged Francis not to divulge my identity, so please don’t blame him if he said nothing to you.”

  “How little faith you have in my integrity, madam. It may interest you to know that it is not my primary intention to act the town crier with your reputation.”

  Her eyes flickered, and she looked away disbelievingly.

  He drew a weary breath. “Olivia, I can well imagine your horror when I came upon you at the chapel, for until that moment you hoped your misconduct at the Black Lion would remain a secret. Am I right?”

  “Our misconduct,” she corrected. “Yes, that was what I’d hoped.”

  “Have it as you wish, our misconduct.”

  “I didn’t want my foolishness to damage Caro’s betrothal.”

  He removed his top hat and casually hung it on one of the carriage lamps, then he placed a booted foot upon the rung and leaned forward to look at her more closely.

  “Well, I suppose tardy considerations about one’s nearest and dearest are better than none at all,” he murmured, slowly removing his gloves.

  “You surely aren’t about to pretend that your conscience is as clear as the driven snow?” she countered.

  “I haven’t denied gracing your bed at the Black Lion,” he reminded her, tossing his gloves onto the carriage seat.

  “No, but you’ve denied everything else!”

  His blue eyes were shrewd. “Ah, yes. I’m not only a vile seducer, but a thief, a liar, and a maggot masquerading as a gentleman. Oh, and you wish you’d never set eyes on me. That was the gist of it, I seem to recall.”

  “If you expect me to retract a single thing, you’re mistaken!”

  A glimmer of wry humor played upon his lips. “Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to retract anything, madam. Heaven for-fend that Olivia Courtenay could be wrong!”

  An angry brightness lit her eyes. “I’m not wrong about you, sirrah! You are everything of which I’ve accused you, and if you require an instance of your sins, let me remind you of the necklace Miss Huntingford wore at the ball. No, allow me to correct that statement. The necklace Miss Huntingford wore at the ball until you discreetly requested her to remove it. What was it you said just now? I suppose tardy considerations about one’s nearest and dearest are better than none at all? After all, it wouldn’t do for one’s sister to be discovered wearing stolen diamonds that you gave to her, would it?”

  He was silent for a long moment, then to her horror climbed into the carriage, slammed the door behind him, and sat directly opposite her. He stretched his long legs out, resting them on the seat beside her, thus trapping her in her corner, then folded his arms. “You have it all solved, don’t you? Sir Brand Huntingford is the monster of the piece, and that is the end of it.”

  “That was the gist of it, I seem to recall,” she replied with as much poise as she could muster.

  The humor returned fleetingly to his lips. “More verbal fencing, and this time you can also cry ‘Touché!’ as you thrust your noble blade into my vile heart. End of pantomime, bring down the curtain. Take a bow, Miss Courtenay.”

  “I do not regard this as a
pantomime, sir,” she said stiffly.

  “Nor do I, Olivia, which is why I intend to keep you here until we sort this out.”

  “Until you’ve persuaded me to believe you again, you mean.”

  “No, Olivia.” He removed his legs from the seat and sat forward suddenly. “I want to know exactly what I’m charged with, apart from stealing that damned necklace, of course.”

  “Apart from the necklace? Very well. I believe that you and Lord Lytherby are working hand in glove to destroy Caro’s match so that your sister can marry Francis instead. I believe that you know your friend the colonel is the one who really stole from his officers, and that you are assisting him to incriminate Jeremy instead. Finally, contrary to being a man of integrity, you have every intention of informing Lord Lytherby that Miss Merriam’s cousin is a loose woman with whom it would be a catastrophe for the Lytherbys to be associated.”

  “My, my, what a very disagreeable fellow I am, to be sure,” he murmured.

  “Yes, sir, you are,” she said quietly.

  “And if I deny it all?”

  “Do you?”

  He met her eyes. “Yes, Olivia, I do.”

  “Then how did Miss Huntingford acquire the necklace?” she challenged, knowing that this was the one solid thing she had to go on, the rest being little more than intuition and informed guesswork.

  “You will not believe me if I tell you,” he replied.

  “From which I take it you cannot answer because anything you say will be quite obviously a fabrication,” she declared scornfully.

  Brand leaned back wearily against the upholstery. “There is no fabrication. You’re right about one thing, though, I did order her to remove it at the ball because I had no desire to risk her being implicated in a crime, but I didn’t give her the necklace in the first place, Fenwick did.”

  For a moment she was dumbfounded, but then the scorn returned. “Oh, of course, it would have to be Jeremy!”

  “Be as disdainful as you wish, madam, it still happens to be the truth. For over a month now Melinda has been head over heels in love with Fenwick.”