An Earl Out of Time: Time After Time Book One (Time Out of Time 1)

by Louise Allen

  I put my shoulder bag on the floor and he backed off hissing, tail like a ginger bottle-brush. ‘Idiot, it’s just my bag.’ Perhaps he could smell the musty odours of Mr Grimswade’s shop.

  I made myself tea, still chatting to Trubshaw who gulped his fish and retreated to the far corner of the kitchen to glower at me while I sat down at the table and picked up my bag. ‘See what I’ve bought, Trubble. A prezzie for me – no more smoked salmon for you for a month.’

  The package was warm to the touch again. How odd. I unwrapped the tissue and held the portrait flat on my right palm. This was no Mr Darcy, or Poldark. This man was leaner, harder, more dangerous. As my thumb stroked along the simple carved oval of the frame the heat throbbed up my arm, into the pit of my stomach, turned my insides liquid with desire, my…

  He was tall, well over six foot, the shadows mysterious behind him. The air was moving between us, hot and dark. Candlelight and blurred figures swirled in the background as he turned, balanced on the balls of his feet, his eyes searching as though peering into darkness ahead. A fighter, poised, alert for danger. There was glint of gold on his hand, the gleam of a gem in the folds of his neck cloth. And then he saw me, the dark brows coming together as his eyes narrowed in hard-controlled surprise. For a long moment his gaze held mine and I stopped breathing. The corner of his mouth curved as he reached out –

  There was a slash of pain across my knuckles and I yelped, shot to my feet and clutched at my bleeding hand, dizzy and confused. Trubshaw jumped down from the table, spitting with anger. The miniature portrait spun on the table top, once, twice and then toppled over to lie flat, face up. I sat down hard on the kitchen chair, sucked the raking claw mark on my hand and stared at the still, mocking, face.

  It was the man I had just seen. The almost-smile, the mole, the ocean-mystery eyes that had found me, had seemed to read my thoughts in those few crowded seconds. And deep inside me the same response, the heat, the need, the answer to the question that had been silently asked almost two centuries ago.

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered. But he was gone.

  Trubshaw wandered along the landing outside the flat to meet me when I got home that evening. When I bent and picked him up, he butted me under the chin and I wrinkled my nose at him. ‘Tuna. You’ve been round Mrs Harrison’s pretending you are half-starved again, haven’t you? I’ve a good mind to seal up the cat-flap, that’ll stop your scrounging. You are in disgrace anyway – my hand still hurts.’

  I got a paw’s-worth of claws flexing into my shoulder by way of reply, although, as the damn cat was purring loudly, that was presumably intended as an affectionate greeting.

  ‘Stop it, this is my best yoga gear,’ I muttered, unlocking the door. My sister Sophie had bought it as a Christmas present and, true to Soph’s expensive tastes, it was a designer cashmere set of pants and top, too good to actually do anything energetic in. But it was great to change into after a work-out and shower at the dojo down at the police station.

  I untangled Trubshaw’s claws with minimal damage and wandered into the kitchen wondering what to do about supper. Some of the other Specials were going for a pizza, but I’d work to do – a dull, easy job involving translating a washing machine instruction manual into English from German. The only interest was in the fact that it appeared to have been badly translated from Serbo-Croat into German in the first place. Possibly via Japanese.

  Still, it paid well and besides, I’d comprehensively flattened Pete Franklin in the unarmed combat session and he was a sore loser, inclined to sulk, which was enough to put anyone off their Marinara.

  There was the remains of yesterday’s chilli in the fridge, that would do. I pottered about, checked my messages, found a plate, poured wine, waited for the microwave to ping, then realised I hadn’t put away my bag or changed my trainers for a pair of thick socks. I was halfway to the bedroom when the question of what my Regency gentleman would have for dinner struck me. Not chilli, that was for sure.

  Where was he? I turned back. Not on my desk where I’d left him like a paperweight on the printout of the German washing machine manual. When I looked I found the papers strewn across the floor and the miniature lying under the chair.

  ‘Bad boy, Trubble!’ I crouched down and shuffled pages together, then reached for the miniature. ‘If you’ve damaged the frame any more, you’re on tinned cat food for the week.’

  I closed my fingers around the oval then dropped it like a hot coal. Literally. ‘Ow!’ I straightened up, staggered as dizziness hit me, then I was falling, spinning through the air and the room had gone dark and there was a foul smell –

  I was tumbling over and over and my nostrils were full of the stink of raw sewage. Then I sensed the ground coming up to meet me out of the gloom and I rolled on instinct, hitting something hard and uneven beneath a yielding surface that squelched disgustingly. Mud and worse, not the thick mat of the dojo floor. There was some light, a candle? A lantern? And people.

  I came to my feet, spun round in a half-crouch, hands up defensively as I’d been taught, trying to make sense of what was happening.

  It was a long alleyway, dark and about three metres wide, with light spilling in from the far end, and there were three, no, four figures, fighting. Three to one and the one was backed up against the angle of wall with a sword in his hand. A sword? Surely not. It was three feet of “bladed instrument within the meaning of the Act” whatever it was, and the man seemed to know what he was doing with it, which was a good thing because his opponents had knives and clubs and an attitude that signalled grievous bodily harm, if not murder.

  I was off duty, unarmed and without so much as a CS spray, and I hadn’t a clue where the hell I was, but there wasn’t much choice, so I pitched in. A kick to the elbow made the nearest man drop his club and spin round, leaving himself open to a follow-up foot right in the groin. I’d done it in practice plenty of times, always pulling the kick, now I let it go and felt it land with satisfying force into probably the only soft bits on the man facing me. I winced in sympathy as he reeled away clutching himself, but I grabbed for his club as he dropped it and brought it down on the collarbone of the next man who came for me, snarling.

  There was a faint but nasty crack as the bone broke, and he swore but stayed on his feet, shifting a long, wicked knife into his left hand. That was the point where I realised that this wasn’t some drunken brawl after pub closing time. These thugs knew what they were doing. I backed up, cold caution slithering down my spine at the sight of the blade. Yes, I’d done this in practice but not faced with the real thing, sharp and glittering in the hands of a hardened, very angry, street fighter.

  Moving at least drew him away from the swordsman and his remaining attacker, giving him space to shift away from the wall. I still wasn’t too sure how to handle the infuriated thug with the knife. I might have broken his collarbone but it seemed fury, or perhaps sheer nastiness, was overcoming the pain and he kept coming at me.

  So I kept retreating, avoiding the other man who was now throwing up, adding his own delightful contribution to the stench in the alleyway. There was a broken plank leaning against the wall and I grabbed for it, swung it at the knifeman who dodged, jeering. Behind him there was rapid movement, a shriek, cut short, and he turned to come face to face with the swordsman. Finally routed he swore and ran straight past me so I fetched him a parting blow with the plank. Behind the man with the sword two figures ran in the opposite direction, holding each other up.

  I dragged down a deep breath and wished I hadn’t. It stank. I stank. And I hurt – my shoulder, my hip, my ribs all protested at the crash landing in the alleyway and, now the crisis was over, I was seriously thinking about throwing up myself. I had never hit anyone for real before and I didn’t like the way it felt.

  ‘I must thank you.’ The swordsman gave himself a shake, slid the blade home in its scabbard and bent to pick up the lantern that had fallen on its side, the candle still, by some miracle, burning. ‘Are you hurt?’


  His accent was strange. Educated, definitely upper, but exaggerated with a drawl to it. My linguist’s ear pricked up, despite the situation.

  ‘Just scrapes and bruises,’ I managed, my voice rasping as I got my breath back. And terminal confusion – I am certainly suffering from that.

  ‘You had best come back with me, sir. We must check you are indeed unharmed and do something about your clothes. I have rooms in Albany.’ He picked up his hat, shook his head at the state of it and tossed it back down.

  Sir? Albany? Albany was the place off Piccadilly in London where aristocratic single gentlemen had suites of rooms in the Georgian period. I’d read about it in a Georgette Heyer novel, looked it up and been intrigued to discover it still existed.

  ‘Where are we?’

  The man, who had turned and begun to walk along the alleyway towards the light at the end, stopped and looked back. ‘Where? Have you had a blow to the head? Allow me to take your arm.’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t hit my head. Where are we?’

  ‘London. Crown Passage between Pall Mall and King Street.’

  Pall Mall I knew. King Street, I thought, ran parallel to the north of it. That was where Almack’s Assembly Rooms had been. ‘When?’

  He tipped his head to one side, his face unreadable in the semi-darkness. ‘The third of April. Possibly the fourth, I was too preoccupied to listen for the clocks.’

  ‘No, I mean When? Which year?’

  ‘You have had a blow to the head.’ He walked back towards me. ‘Eighteen seven.’

  Eighteen seven. I let him take my arm and went with him, stumbling over my own feet a little, as he walked towards the end of the alleyway. Two hundred years ago, but the same date. This was a dream, obviously. Or I was hallucinating, although it felt like a very firm hand under my arm… Against my side, through the soft cashmere, his body was solid and warm. Had I hit my head during the training session without realising it and now had concussion?

  I found my voice. ‘No, it can’t be. That is two centuries ago.’

  I felt rather than saw him shake his head. ‘You may or may not be concussed but you are certainly considerably adrift in your mind. We must send for a doctor to look you over.’ His fingers shifted on my arm. ‘Interesting cloth. Did you lose your coat back there? I will go back for it.’

  ‘No, I had no coat. It was warm when I… came out. It’s cashmere,’ I added, bizarrely feeling I needed to make conversation.

  ‘You are a stranger in Town?’

  ‘Yes, I’m from Hertfordshire.’ And the future. My accent must sound strange to him. Then I realised I was trying to put thoughts into the head of a figment of my imagination.

  We emerged into a street lit by flaming torches set in holders beside doors and by lads with torches or lanterns in their hands guiding pedestrians. Link boys, my memory provided. They were supposed to be symbols of sex, for some reason I couldn’t recall. There were no street lights. It was busy and carriages were creating a log-jam in front of a building to our right. ‘Almack’s?’ I ventured.

  ‘Indeed. Best to avoid it under the circumstances.’ He cut across the street and took the one opposite, sloping up to Jermyn Street, I thought, although I was increasingly confused. My companion was keeping to the inside of the pavement, the deeper shadows, and occasionally turned to look behind.

  ‘Are we being followed? Who were they?’

  ‘I believe they have given up, although it is always wise to check. Footpads, probably. No cause for alarm.’

  I don’t believe you, not about the footpads. That had looked personal, somehow, not a random mugging. We had turned into Jermyn Street and my feet were dragging now as we crossed and took another alleyway. Dream, hallucination. Am I feverish?

  A wider road, more traffic. Horses, carriages, the smell of horse droppings, the rattle of steel-shod wheels and hooves. Not a car in sight. The man’s hand was tight on my upper arm as I swayed too close to the curb. Then we were across and into a cobbled yard. It was brighter and the stink of manure and drains and coal smoke diminished a little. He slid an arm around me supportively, then his hand encountered my left breast and he went very still.

  ‘You are a woman?’ His hand dropped away.

  The last time I looked… For the first time in my life I fainted, although not, unfortunately, before I encountered yet another patch of unyielding cobbles.

  Chapter Three

  I came round on a firm, comfortable surface. Home, I thought, eyes closed, assessing the aches and pains from where I had hit the kitchen floor. What the hell had that been about?

  And then it struck me – since when had home smelled of wood smoke and leather? A male voice said, ‘There is no blood, my lord, and the lady’s limbs appear unbroken. I hardly like to disturb her clothing, whatever it is she is wearing.’ Another strange accent. More normal, but still not right, somehow.

  ‘She said cashmere and it appears to be an oriental garment. Indian pyjamas, perhaps? She was very confused and seems to think that she should be in the twenty first century.’ That drawl was the swordsman, who was, presumably, my lord. Right, I thought, this is where I officially start panicking. If this isn’t a dream… But if it isn’t...

  ‘Was the lady hurt in the fight and did not realise it? A blow to the head perhaps? It sounds very like an ambush, my lord. They seem to have been far more violent than mere robbery would necessitate.’

  ‘I agree, this was targeted and they were skilful and determined. I was a few minutes behind Henshaw and he was weaving up that alleyway, alone, completely bosky and about as capable of defending himself as a new-born kitten. They let him go past and went for me.’

  ‘Could it be connected with the Cottingham business?’

  ‘Perhaps. Someone doesn’t like me interfering, it seems, although I am damned if I have discovered one useful thing so far.’

  I had fainted, but how do you faint in a dream? Or had I dreamt fainting? I opened my eyes and stared in front of me. A panelled wall, a fire blazing in the grate, leather armchairs before the hearth and well-filled bookshelves in alcoves on either side. Elegant, masculine, comfortable. A stocky, middle aged man in breeches, shirt sleeves and waistcoat regarded me dubiously, grizzled head on one side, and behind him stood the man in the alleyway. The man in the portrait. What is this?

  ‘You are awake,’ the portrait-man observed. ‘To whom may I send to apprise them of your whereabouts, ma’am?’

  ‘I am hallucinating,’ I said firmly. My voice cracked, they both frowned. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘You are not real. You can’t be.’

  ‘I can assure you that we are entirely real, ma’am. If you will excuse the informality, I am Lucian Franklin. This is Garrick, my valet.’

  ‘He called you my lord.’ I sat up and my head swam for a moment. This was unlike any dream I had ever had. The situation was impossible, but everything had its own internal logic and order. Actions had consequences, time seemed to proceed forward in the normal manner, nothing bizarre had happened – if you discount the fact that I was lying on a sofa in Albany after an encounter with footpads and two strangers who insisted that this was 1807 were studying me as though I was something inexplicably exotic.

  ‘The Earl of Radcliffe, at your service, ma’am. Might I enquire your name and direction?’

  ‘Cassandra Lawrence. Miss,’ I added, suddenly aware that Ms was unlikely to be a recognised form of address in polite Georgian society. I am taking this seriously. It must be concussion. Which was worrying, because if I was out cold on my kitchen floor with a possible bleed on the brain, my chances of being found for at least twelve hours were not good. ‘Of Welhamstead in Hertfordshire.’

  ‘I will have a letter sent to your family immediately.’ The Earl moved from his position in front of the fireplace to a desk. ‘Which leaves us the problem of a chaperone until someone arrives.’

  ‘I do not need a chaperone,’ I said, with enough force to bring his head round. It was a very
admirably shaped head and the portrait had not flattered him. He was, if anything, more striking than that image showed. I had to give my imagination full marks for conjuring him up.

  ‘Of course you do, Miss Lawrence. You cannot stay here with two men who are unrelated to you, or go to an hotel unescorted.’

  ‘You are a figment of my imagination,’ I retorted. ‘I am in no danger from a figment.’ His eyebrows rose. This figment was not used to being contradicted. Don’t panic. Someone will come to the flat. Someone will find me…. But who? It’s the weekend, I was going to stay in, working.

  ‘I can assure you that I am very real, as is Garrick. I had not liked to open your reticule, Miss Lawrence, but as you appear to be exceedingly confused, I think I had better do so.’

  My cross-body bag had survived all that falling and rolling about and was on the desk, I realised. Someone must have wiped it clean. Lord Radcliffe frowned over the clasp then opened it and took out my phone, holding it cautiously between long fingers. ‘What is this object? A card case? The material it is made from is unfamiliar.’

  ‘A mobile phone.’ A very smart, very new one. ‘A communications device. Let me show you.’ I reached for it and he got up and put it in my hand, his fingers just brushing my palm. Can you hallucinate with smell and colour and touch? ‘It works like this. Oh.’ No, it didn’t. But I had charged it only that morning. No, dead as a doornail, the screen unresponsive and black.

  ‘Perhaps being two hundred years adrift has damaged the mechanism,’ he drawled. There was just a touch of sarcasm. Then my bag slid off the desk. He caught it, but the contents cascaded across the rug in front of the fire, my wallet spilling coins and banknotes and credit cards amongst the crumpled tissues, the odds and ends of makeup, the comb, the tampons, card of aspirin, condoms, business cards…

  The valet fell to his knees, gathering it up. He stared down at the handful of coins, then picked up a ten pound note with the other hand. ‘My lord. Look at these.’