by J. D. Robb
“Better than you will. A hell of a lot better than your two pals are. They’re getting jittery. That’s what happens when addicts don’t get their fix. I figure they’ll roll on you within twenty-four, but I don’t need them. Peabody, why don’t you list the illegals found in our guest’s home?”
Peabody took out her PPC and crisply read off the report from Illegals.
“Quite a collection.” She kept her eyes on his, actually felt him try to probe her thoughts—and pushed her will against his. “That alone’s going to get you a nice long stay in a cage. Add in using said illegals on individuals without their consent or knowledge—”
“They come to me.” He played his fingers in the air. “They come seeking my help. I give them what they seek. We cross the bridge together, and the crossing requires peace. A quiet mind, quiet, relaxed, still.” His fingers played, played, as if stroking a purring cat. “Imagine drifting under a blue sea, under a blue sky. See the clouds, white and soft.”
He had something, she thought, and it pulled. But it wasn’t enough without the kick of his herbs and chemicals. She leaned closer. “You think you can mesmerize me? You’re a fraud. You’ve been a fraud your whole life. You just figured out how to use a mediocre talent to get rich and feel important.”
“Mediocre!” He slapped his hands on the table. “My gift is beyond. My beyond is genius!”
“Your gift is bullshit, Ravenwood. Or should I call you Niles Carroll? Maybe Angus Roland or Anton Zacari or François Simon?”
Something flickered in his eyes—the first hint of fear.
“I have many names. My gift demands it.”
“Gift.” She snorted. “I’ve seen carneys with more than you have. That’s where you started, right?” She pushed up, moved around the table, coming at him from behind. “Telling fortunes, getting people to quack like a duck at some two-bit carnival? You and your sister.”
His body jerked. “Be quiet.”
“Golly.” Peabody widened her eyes. “You’re pissing him off, Lieutenant.”
“Am I? Does it piss you off to talk about your sister? Did you feed her the drugs that hooked her, or did she do it to herself? Why did she try to kill you? Did one of your sessions go south? Or maybe you’d just had enough of her, drugged her up good, faked the whole thing so you could kill her.”
“She killed herself.”
“Like Darlene Fitzwilliams? Like—wait, let me read your mind.” She held her hands over his head, swayed. “I feel their spirits reaching out to me. Marian Beechem in London, Fiona MacNee in Edinburgh, Sylvia Garth in Prague.”
“Get away from me.” He shrieked it, but Eve continued to list names. “All women, like your sister.”
“I bet he couldn’t bring her back,” Peabody said. “She wouldn’t come. Not after what he did to her.”
“Shut up! Shut your mouth! You can’t speak. Your tongue is tied, your throat is closed!”
Peabody’s lips clamped together, her eyes widened as she lifted her hands to her throat. Choked and gasped. Then dropped them. “Nope, I can speak just fine.”
Good one, Eve thought. She glanced at her ’link, read Roarke’s text. Smiled. Then walked around the table again. “Jesus, the guy believes his own shtick. No good without the tea party and the mists, the lights. The hats? What is it with the hats?”
“Carneys like props,” Peabody suggested. “Maybe he’ll pull a white rabbit out of one.”
“Or a March Hare. But her name’s really Willow Bateman, and she’ll do all kinds of flips on you.”
“Ms. March is loyal.”
“To your illegals cocktails, sure. But without them . . . You shouldn’t have pitched your pathetic ability against someone like Dupres. She’s the real deal, and she gave us everything we needed to shut you down.”
“Impossible.” He flicked his hands in the air.
“Why? Because you slipped your ugly little mix into her tea leaves? Because you went to her, drugged her, then picked Fitzwilliams out of her client list? And while she was drugged, you planted the order for her to kill herself if she remembered, if she was questioned? Jesus, she lives over a restaurant. Did you really think no one would see you go up to her place?”
“I didn’t go! I sent Ms. March.”
“Right.” Eve sat again. “You sent Bateman posing as a client, and she laced the tea. And Mouse—that’s Maurice Xavier—brought them to you. Fitzwilliams now, such an easy mark, and such deep pockets. Wait.”
Eve pressed a hand to her temple. “I’m getting another psychic flash. Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars. Cash. Such a fat fee for you. But . . . there’s more. That well-heeled foundation. Millions to pump from that. What’s that? What? Yes, I can almost see it. There! The Looking Glass Fund.”
“Get out of my head!” The madness was back in his eyes. “You can’t see! I want my hat. Get me my hat.”
“You really think your stupid hat can stop me from seeing? The Amazing Dallas sees all, knows all. You had to get rid of them both. Push Darlene to make a twelve-million-dollar bequest to your shell charity, and get rid of them both. For the money, and the satisfaction. Sister, brother, just like you and Alice.”
He bared his teeth, all fury now. “I can make you beat your head against the wall until you’re dead!”
“Try it.” She reared up, pushed her face into his. “Just try it. I’m not drugged and grieving like your victims. You sent Darlene to kill her brother. You gave her the shears. What did she think they were? Candy? Wine? Flowers? Flowers,” she repeated when she saw his eyes shift. “‘I’m so sorry we argued, Marcus. I brought you flowers.’ And she stabbed him in the heart, then she jumped off his terrace, hallucinating, thinking what? She was walking on the beach, stepping into her own house? It doesn’t matter, you killed her, killed them both. And for what? For money. For money and entertainment. And to feel powerful.”
“I am powerful. I gave her what she wanted, didn’t I? She’s with her parents. I gave her what she asked for. I deserve the money. I want my money! I want my hat!”
He beat his fists on the table, his feet on the floor. “You’ll kill each other before the night is through. I can make you, like I made all the others. You’ll cut each other to ribbons. Ribbons of blood. And with blood we’ll paint all the roses red.”
He took a deep breath, and the shoulders that had come up to his ears relaxed again. “Now, have Ms. March fetch the tea.” His fingers played in the air again as he stared into Eve’s eyes, smiled. “We’re having tea. It’s my tea party, and it never, never ends.”
“I’ve got news for you. The party’s over.”
When they’d finished with him, at least for the night, Eve had him taken down to where he’d be held in the psych section, on suicide watch.
“Mira’s going to have a hell of a time with him,” Eve said. “We’ll take the other two in the morning. We’ll see what kind of mood they’re in after a night without their particular brand of tea.”
She watched Roarke come out of Observation.
“I regret to say, I do believe he’s mad as a hatter.”
“Probably,” Eve agreed. “That’s up to Mira, and I don’t give a rat’s ass if he spends the rest of his life in a concrete cage or a padded room. Either way, he’s done.”
“He gave me the creeps.” Peabody shuddered.
“It didn’t show.”
“Well, he did, and if it’s okay with you, I’m heading home and staying away from you until morning. So we don’t end up cutting each other to ribbons.”
“For Christ’s sake, Peabody.”
“Why take chances? I’ll write it up, but I’ll write it up at home. With McNab sort of keeping an eye on me.”
“Fine. I’m going the hell home myself.”
“And I’ll keep an eye on her,” Roarke promised Peabody.
She went to her office for her coat. “He has something.” She circled her neck. “Not nearly what he’s deluded himself into believing he has—most of it hinged on the drugs. Wherever he ends up, he won’t have them, but he needs careful watching.”
“He was afraid of you, afraid you have more than he does.” Roarke tapped the dent in her chin. “Perhaps you do.”
“Not a psychic—just a cop who knows how to read killers.”
“I have a hypnotic suggestion of my own.” This time, he laid a finger on her forehead. “You want to go home with me and have lots and lots of sex.”
“You putting the whammy on me, ace?”
“I certainly intend to.”
As they walked out, he pulled the snowflake hat out of his pocket, fixed it on her head.
What the hell, she thought. As hats went, it was warm—and pretty sweet.
ALICE AND THE EARL IN WONDERLAND
MARY BLAYNEY
For Leslie Gelbman and Cindy Hwang. Thanks to you (and Nora) for making this adventure possible.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Be advised: this is a time travel! My time-travel world began with Amy and Simon in “Amy and the Earl’s Amazing Adventure” in the anthology Dead of Night, which is available as a paperback or eBook.
The magic coin, also known as Poppy’s Coin, is an element in all the anthologies I have done for Berkley. Their chronology varies, and someday I will do a spreadsheet to figure it out for myself. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the Earl of Weston’s adventure.
A couple of elements to note. The “space-time continuum” is a phrase that Amy Stevens used before she and Simon West traveled back to 1805. It was hardly a reflection of her understanding of science but came from the TV show Stargate Atlantis, something she admitted when pressed by Simon. No one really knows (including yours truly) how the coin enables time travel, except for the easiest explanation: “It’s magic!” Please suspend your disbelief and enjoy the story.
I always knew that Weston’s story was waiting to be told, for he is the “earl” referred to in the title of Amy and Simon’s novella. I was delighted when we were given the title Down the Rabbit Hole for this book, because his experience of time travel was totally unexpected (unlike Amy and Simon, who knew where they were going), and it was totally out of keeping with his known reality. Thank goodness he had Mr. Arbuckle to help him and someone to share the experience with him.
PROLOGUE
LONDON
APRIL 1805
“It’s a disaster.” Bennet William George Haven West, third Earl Weston, moved about the room as he spoke. The mantel needed paint. The books should be dusted. At least the decanters were full. “A disaster, to put it plainly.”
“Come now, Wes, it’s not like we are on the edge of complete bankruptcy. We’ll find a way out.”
Weston loved his cousin and heir presumptive. Ian’s use of “we” made him feel less alone and told him everything he needed to know about Ian’s loyalty.
“It’s almost that bad. These last two days with the estate’s man of business have convinced me that while no one will refuse me credit, there is not enough money coming in to make a dent in the bills that have been piling up for the last two years, at least.”
“Two years?” Ian sounded shocked.
“Two years. Since the old earl’s son and heir died. Apparently my cousin was the only one able to keep his father’s generosity under control.”
“Uncle Weston was an amazing man. Everyone mourned his passing.”
“As did I, Ian. I loved my uncle and benefited from his largesse as much as anyone. He never said no, whether it was to a beggar on the street or to his wife and children.” Weston poured himself just a drop more wine and offered the decanter to Ian, who shook his head. “If only his generosity had not extended to every possible investment suggested. You know as well as I do that each was less successful than the one before it.”
“When he died—has it been three months already?—I wondered then, and still do, if the news of the loss of that ship brought on the apoplexy that killed him.” Ian shook his head, his expression a mix of sorrow and frustration.
They were verging on maudlin ground now.
Weston stood up. “I am off to Westmoreland. The blasted artist is ready to put what he calls ‘the finishing touches’ on my portrait. The portrait I cannot pay him for.”
“Wait, tell me what your man of business had to say about the opportunity to invest in the canals. The new venture that Lord Wedgebrook is so excited about?”
“He said exactly what I expected. That I need to be sure that the investment is sound. The estate cannot stand another failure.”
“But it would be your money, not any of the money that is part of the estate.”
“As it stands now, Ian, I am the estate. The farms are in wretched condition. The tenants can barely call themselves farmers. The cottages are in such disrepair that no one with any ability will sign on.”
Ian shook his head in sympathy. “It’s hard to know where to start.”
Weston felt for the locket in his pocket. He had thought marrying Alice would be the first step toward the future. With her by his side, anything seemed possible. Now he was almost glad she had refused him. Debt was the last thing she would want in a husband.
The less noble part of him missed her. Missed her quite desperately. How could she say no when he knew her heart was filled with the same love and longing as his?
“Wes, what is it? What has you looking so stricken? Truly, there is a way out of this.”
“Stricken? Did I? It was nothing, just a moment of grief.” Let Ian think it was for his uncle. Move on, he told himself. Thinking of Alice only led to an endless circle of anguish that squeezed his heart and made his head ache.
“I will go to Westmoreland and start there.” Weston stood up. “I can close up this house and reduce expenses until next Season, at least. I can sell some horses, and there are some paintings not entailed. The Rembrandt, for one.”
“Dear God, Wes, that would be like announcing to the ton that you are on the verge of bankruptcy. Have you thought of marrying an heiress?”
“An heiress? Never!” Weston answered, more sharply than he intended.
“Very well.” Ian held up his hands as if in surrender. He stood up. “Feel free to call on me anytime, Wes. I will help you in any way I can. Indeed, I may even know someone interested in the Rembrandt.”
“Thank you, Ian.” Weston took the hand his cousin offered and clapped him on the shoulder. “No need to rush into it. I will think on it at Westmoreland. Who knows, something miraculous might happen. Yes, a miracle. Something that neither of us can imagine.”
Within a quarter hour, Ian was off to his lodgings and Weston was bound for the country. Eight hours more and the earl was less than ten miles from Westmoreland. The carriage rumbled on in the moonlight.
He wouldn’t be traveling in the dark much longer. Only a few miles more. The moon was full, the roads were safe, and he had a pistol if he was wrong about that.
He spent most of the trip leaning against the cushions, pretending to himself that he could doze off, but he’d spent the whole of the trip considering ways and means of righting the accounts. In a half-dreaming state, his head was filled with ideas from sensible to bizarre.
Weston fingered the round locket in his pocket and wished the future had a different look. One where he and Alice faced it together, with enough money to make her every wish come true.
He drew a deep breath and a sudden lassitude overcame him, dragging him to sleep just when he thought he might never sleep again.
CHAPTER ONE
“What the blazes is going on?” A hard thump had awakened him.
Weston’s first thought was to have a word with the coachman, but when he opened his eyes he wondered if his last visit to deal with the esta
te’s debt had done the job and he was ready for Bedlam.
He was not in his coach at all, but in the library of his town house in London.
He’d left London. He was sure he had. Weston could recall his conversation with Ian and his final words to the majordomo. “Send the overdue bills to Herbert.” His man of business knew what to do, and it would not be wise to let the staff know how much to let he was. Not with his sister’s come-out within the next year.
Now that seemed to be the least of his worries. As he straightened, he realized he was seated on the sofa, and that there was someone next to him.
And another man stood nearby, wringing his hands in a way that was not at all reassuring.
“Answer me, man. What the devil am I doing in London after riding in my carriage for ten hours?”
“I can explain, my lord. Truly I can. You must calm yourself and allow me to see to the lady. She should be awake by now.”
Weston turned to the person beside him. He’d assumed it was a man, given the clothes worn. Pantaloons. Dark blue pantaloons of some coarse material. He leaned forward a little to see her face.
“Alice?”
Alice Kemp stirred, and Weston shook his head, then checked to make sure he still had the locket. At first he could not find it, as he was no longer wearing a coat, but then he felt it at his hip in the pocket of the strange pants he was wearing, surprisingly like the pair Alice had on.
“Maybe insanity is not the nightmare I thought it would be.” Alice being next to him was a wondrous delusion.
He was speaking aloud but to himself, a sometimes unfortunate habit, and quite naturally, the man thought Weston was addressing him.
“Oh, my lord, I assure you. You are as sane now as you were yesterday. Something most unusual has happened, and as soon as I am certain the lady is well, I will explain it to both of you.”
“Kemp. Her name is Alice Kemp.” The earl took her hand and felt for her pulse. Alice’s hand was as warm and soft as he remembered, and her pulse was not much quicker than a normal beat.