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

by Louise Allen

  ‘It is not something for the ears of a young lady.’

  ‘What?’ I almost choked into my coffee. ‘I am a police officer, for goodness sake.’

  At least I had the satisfaction of seeing My Lord Poker-Face with a dropped jaw. ‘Police officer?’

  ‘Special Constable Lawrence,’ I said. ‘And I know that London doesn’t have a police force yet, other than the River Police, and the Bow Street Runners, but Glasgow does and – ’ I could go on at length because I had become interested after an introductory training lecture and had read my way through the booklist, but he was staring at me as though I had two heads.

  ‘But you are a woman.’

  ‘When I am from we have had two female Prime Ministers, women attend university and we go out to work and earn our own living,’ I threw at him before I remembered my resolution not to mention facts about the future.

  He shook his head as though to clear it. ‘Prime Ministers… You said you were a linguist.’

  ‘I work as a translator. I volunteer as a Special Constable in my spare time. Your egg is congealing,’ I added helpfully and reached for the toast.

  To be fair to him the moan was hardly audible and certainly not quite a whimper. Lucian picked up his cutlery again and attacked the food, not speaking until his plate was cleared.

  ‘The sister of Viscount Cottingham has vanished under highly suspicious and mystifying circumstances.’ He pushed the plate away and picked up his cup. ‘Her brother is beside himself with worry and is accusing my close friend Sir Clement Selbourne of abducting her. Not that he has an iota of proof and Selbourne is in Town and carrying on as usual. I cannot believe that if Clem had done this he would not either be with his bride or would have brought her to London openly. He would want to re-establish her position in Society with some urgency. Besides, he is my friend and I trust him.’

  ‘So how are you involved?’ I slathered what looked like homemade marmalade on a slice of toast and bit into it. Bliss. Of course it was homemade, I reminded myself, there weren’t any jam factories yet. ‘Why should you be attacked?’ I added after I swallowed.

  ‘I have had some experience in the past with puzzling situations, minor mysteries. Whoever is behind this may be aware of that and have concerns about my interference. Selbourne needs my help or Cottingham is going to end up having him arrested. But I have no idea what, if anything, I am getting close to that would provoke last night’s attack. It may simply be that I am showing an interest, not that I am close to a solution.’

  ‘So who are the suspects? Beyond her brother and Sir Clement?’

  ‘Her brother?’

  ‘Of course. In cases of murder the family are first in the frame, the most likely suspects.’

  ‘This is not a murder.’ Lucian poured more coffee.

  ‘Well, I hope not, but how do you know? Tell me the circumstances.’

  ‘Miss Trenton – Arabella – is the only sibling. She lives at home and she is just eighteen. She came out this Season.’

  ‘Has she been a success?’ I knew about the Season, the aim of which was to launch well-bred young ladies into the Marriage Mart to catch a wealthy, titled husband.

  ‘Certainly, which is only to be expected as she is a delightful young lady. Blonde, blue-eyed, petite and elegant in her deportment. She is also a very pleasant person and has been popular with the other young ladies and the chaperones.’

  ‘A paragon, in other words.’

  ‘I believe so.’ He sounded uninterested in Miss Trenton’s charms. ‘She appears to be just what is wanted in a young lady making her come-out.’

  How old was he? I gave him a quick, assessing glance. Twenty eight or nine, perhaps? Just a little older than my twenty six. And not married yet? On the other hand he was reacting to me as a heterosexual male would, unless I very much mistook the way he looked at me. Hopefully the way I was reacting to him was not written all over my face.

  ‘My friend Selbourne wants to fix his interest with her, but her brother will not countenance it. He says he does not want her to commit herself in any way at all this Season, that she is too young.’ He shrugged. ‘I assume he is holding out for something higher than a baronet for the chit because there is no other reason why he should object to Clem. Cottingham warned him off in no uncertain terms ten days ago, before he even had an opportunity to ask for her hand.’

  ‘But she favoured Sir Clement? And no doubt her brother’s opposition would harden her resolve to have him.’

  ‘No doubt – if she were not such a well-behaved young lady.’ He pretended to ignore my eye-roll. ‘At any rate, a week ago her room was found empty and her maid in a drugged stupor. The staff raised the alarm when the maid did not appear at the usual time to fetch hot water and to order her mistress’s breakfast. The woman slept in the dressing room and she was still in her bed when they broke in.’

  ‘Broke in? Then the door was locked?’

  ‘And the key was on the inside.’

  ‘Was there any sign of a struggle? Or a note?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘How was the door locked on the inside? Is she supposed to have been magicked out of the room?’

  Lucian shrugged. ‘None of it makes sense. If she had gone of her own accord she might have locked the door going out, but then the key would have been outside. Or the maid might have locked herself in – but she denies it and she was definitely drugged.’

  ‘What money did Miss Trenton have?’

  ‘Her pin money, I suppose. It will not have been a great deal.’

  Hmm. If this had been planned for a while then Arabella could have been hoarding money, pilfering it from her brother… I couldn’t believe that an eighteen year old in 1807 was any less capable of planning and tactics than one in the twenty first century, however sheltered and innocent she might be. But I didn’t say so. Not yet. I wanted the facts, not a debate on women’s capabilities. ‘You are certain the maid was drugged?’

  ‘Absolutely. Cottingham got a doctor to her at once and the dregs of the glass of milk that she had taken to bed had an opiate in them. I do not know which one, but it was tested.’

  ‘And Sir Clement? Has he an alibi?’

  ‘Unfortunately, not.’ Lucian poured another cup of coffee. ‘He was out of Town that night, although he was seen at eleven the next day at his club. He says he had left London for his estate in Shropshire because he was so downhearted over Cottingham’s attitude and thought his suit was doomed. Then, when he was changing horses at Dunstable, he decided that he was being chicken-hearted and should return to London and renew the fight for Arabella. When I saw him he certainly looked like a man who had been up most of the night – dark circles under his eyes, yawning – but then he would be tired if he had spent the night stealing away an heiress and secreting her in some love nest. At least, that is Cottingham’s stand.’

  ‘Arabella is an heiress?’

  ‘A considerable one. She is a serious catch, one of the best this Season. Cottingham believes that Clem has seduced her away and will keep her hidden until there is enough of a scandal to ensure she is ruined. But the news is all over Town now and there is no sign of the girl. She is long past being ruined. And besides, Cottingham says he will not allow her to marry Clement, scandal or not.’

  ‘Isn’t that an unusual attitude? I would have thought that if she was ruined he would insist on the marriage, not refuse it.’

  ‘She has a large enough dowry for her brother to find her a suitor regardless, I imagine. There are men who will marry any woman if they need the money badly enough.’

  I bit my tongue on all the things I could say to that. I rather hoped that she had run off with a groom or a sea captain or the butler, but I doubted it.

  ‘Does Sir Clement need her money?’

  ‘No. He is not exactly rolling in wealth, but he is comfortably off.’

  ‘And you believe his story?’

  ‘I trust his word, not that I would ask him for it. If he says he
did not take her, then that is the truth. And I would trust him with my own sister if I had one. If he had eloped, which would be completely out of character, he would have taken Arabella over the Border, married her and then come back to face the music.’

  ‘So what do her friends say?’

  ‘Her friends? I have no idea – There is Garrick coming in. That was quick. You had best go and see what he has found for you.’

  Chapter Five

  The valet came in before I reached the door. He had a pile of parcels in his arms topped with a delicious hat box, all stripes and bows and cords, and he spoke round the obstruction. ‘I went to Madame Vernier’s establishment, my lord.’

  ‘Indeed? And told her what?’ Lucian sounded amused.

  ‘That your distant cousin has arrived on the doorstep having lost all her luggage in a carriage accident in which her woman broke her leg and is therefore confined to bed.’

  ‘And what did she say to that?’

  ‘She made several impertinent observations in the French language, remarked that she would see what she had and that she would have expected your lordship to have more imagination. I snubbed her as thoroughly as I could, but I doubt she was convinced. She did however send out some of her seamstresses to acquire the necessary accessories.’

  ‘She will not gossip. My custom is too valuable to her,’ Lucian said indifferently.

  ‘You put a lot of business in the way of a modiste?’ I was rather pleased with myself for remembering the correct term for a fashionable dressmaker.

  Lucian gave me a heavy-lidded look and said repressively, ‘On occasion.’

  Ah, the mistress. Or mistresses. I just managed not to say so out loud.

  ‘I will place the garments in your bedchamber, Miss Lawrence.’

  ‘Thank you, Garrick. I had better go and get changed.’ Goodness knows how I was going to manage it, but I couldn’t see Garrick volunteering to tighten my corset laces. The Earl on the other hand…

  Unfortunately he might appear to be thoroughly aware of me as a woman but he had shown not the slightest interest in my corsets, or anything else, not unless you counted that involuntary movement when his hand had encountered my breast and that heavy-lidded look. Not that I thought he was gay. No, I was probably just not his type. Which was a pity, I mused as I unpacked the parcels. He was certainly my type.

  The sight of what Garrick had brought home sobered me up. Fast. Corsets – or was it stays? Stockings, garters, several petticoats, a very pretty, quite simple gown, a kind of coat and an outrageous bonnet in the hat box. But no knickers. Or panties, bloomers, drawers, thongs or unmentionables of any description. A memory of reading that they weren’t worn at the time came to me. But there was no way I was going draughtily commando.

  I kept my sensible, going-to-the-gym, white cotton undies on, but regretfully discarded the sports bra. That neckline was never going to work with an expanse of Lycra under it. I thought the filmy top – chemise? – probably went under the stays and they, thank heavens, laced up at the front. They did spectacular things for my boobs, which was gratifying, and would probably have done more with a few more tugs on the strings, but I drew the line at being unable to breathe.

  The stockings had naughty red garters – I detected the choice of Madame the modiste there – and had no real stretch in them at all. How to prevent ankle-sag was probably a lost feminine art that I would have to relearn. Petticoats on top, then the gown, which I guessed must be a walking dress. The waist was high, right up under my newly boosted bust-line, and there was a sort of flap for a bodice that needed some twisting and turning to get the tapes at the side tied.

  Finally, panting, I surveyed the result in the long looking-glass. It was fairly stunning if I say so myself. The gown was a plain blue cotton twill that matched my eyes and the lacy edge of the chemise, or vest, or whatever it was, showed all along the high neckline. The sleeves puffed at the top, then narrowed tightly, and the toes of blue half-boots peeked out from under the hem. The corsets did amazing things for my posture as well as my boobs, but I wasn’t at all sure I could bend very easily, let alone run.

  But my hair was a disaster with that outfit. I’d had a short, choppy bob only the other day and although Lady Caroline Lamb (she of the scandalous goings-on with Lord Byron) might have got away with short hair, hers had been a mass of delightful little blonde curls.

  I heard footsteps passing outside and stuck my head round the door. ‘Garrick, you haven’t got any curling tongs have you?’

  ‘Regretfully, no, Miss Lawrence.’ He came out of the drawing room and narrowed his eyes at me. The professional valet’s stare, presumably. ‘I could endeavour to do something if you will trust me to cut it a little.’

  ‘Whatever.’ It couldn’t look any worse with that outfit.

  ‘I will be with you directly, ma’am.’ He returned with scissors, a cloth, a number of thin ribbons of various colours (and what did his lordship do with those?) and a small china jar.

  I sat down in front of the mirror and let him do his worst. Which was actually surprisingly good. Some snipping reduced the choppiness of the cut, action with whatever was in the pot produced some curls and a dark blue ribbon threaded through made it seem as though it was meant to be like that.

  ‘Thank you.’ I studied the effect. Without make-up I have a tendency to look as though I’ve no eyelashes and I rummaged in my bag – sorry, reticule – until I found my mascara.

  ‘Paint, Miss Lawrence?’ Garrick uttered. He might have said, Nude mud wrestling? in much the same tones.

  ‘Mascara, Garrick. Just a touch if I’m not to look like a white rabbit.’ I gave my brows a swipe with some of that magic brown gel for good measure. Lipstick was presumably enough to have me classed as a Scarlet Woman but I put on some tinted lip gloss. ‘There.’

  ‘Might I assist you with your pelisse, Miss Lawrence?’

  So that was what the coat thing was called. I fought my way into it, reflecting that nothing in this time was designed for ease of dressing, or undressing come to that, and buttoned it up.

  ‘The bonnet.’ He presented it with a flourish, a white straw with a big brim and dark blue ribbons and a great deal of fine veiling. ‘And a reticule. I venture to suggest that your current one may be in advance of the current mode.’

  Yes, it was certainly that, but not as much as I was, I thought as I took it with a word of thanks and began to transfer the absolute essentials into the silk drawstring bag with long tasselled cords. Mirror, comb, tissues. There was nothing else that I could safely carry. Then I took the tissues out. Dropping a cellophane-wrapped pack of extra-soft, balsam-infused paper tissues would cause some questions.

  ‘Handkerchief, Miss Lawrence.’ Garrick produced an object that consisted of about two square centimetres of white linen expanded to three times its size with a wide lace border. If I wanted to fly a flag of surrender I was well equipped, but it wouldn’t cope with even the most ladylike of sniffles.

  I sailed out and then fell over my skirts and arrived in the drawing room with rather less grace than I had been aiming for.

  Lucian got to his feet, raised his eyebrows and produced an elegant bow. I curtseyed. Well, I bobbed. And then stifled the giggles. Me, dressed like the cover of a Jane Austen novel, curtseying to an earl.

  ‘Your hat, gloves and cane, my lord. Your gloves, Miss Lawrence.’

  I got the gloves on with a struggle. Getting them off was going to be even worse. In novels heroines remove them in an erotic, provocative yet ladylike manner while the hero salivates (in a gentlemanly way). Obviously this is something that well-bred young ladies are taught to do along with the right curtsey for everyone from a rural dean to the King and how to eat an orange with a knife and fork.

  ‘Veil, Miss Lawrence,’ Garrick reminded me and I fought it for a minute until Lucian came to my rescue, leaving me peering at the world through a grey haze.

  ‘This should be about the right time for you to have woken up, d
iscovered that you have lost your earring and decided to look for it at Almack’s at the earliest opportunity,’ Lucian said as he held the front door for me.

  He sailed past the porter with a word of greeting and apparently no self-consciousness about the fact that I had spent the night there. Earl, I reminded myself. I took the proffered arm and did my best to trip along like a genteel young lady out for a morning stroll. Trip was about right, what with skirts and not being able to see my feet and the consciousness of a large, seriously fit male keeping me close to his side.

  Lucian was doing all the right things – I was on the inside of the pavement away from the road and its dirt and dangers, he kept his pace to a stroll that even the daintiest flower of womanhood ought to be able to manage and, whenever there was the slightest risk of me being jostled, he put himself between me and the threat.

  I have to admit that I rather enjoyed it, up to a point. What I didn’t enjoy was the fact that we went where he wanted, at his pace, and he was most definitely in charge. Much of this and I could see how a woman could slip into fluttering helplessness. Or give way to an urge to violence. And yet he knew I could hold my own in an alley knife fight. I suppose he was simply ignoring everything that did not match his concept of what a lady should be.

  What I did like was the feel of muscle under my hand and against my side, his height, the dark, brooding looks and the scent of him. He smelt like a man ought to – clean, with the faint muskiness of fresh male sweat not suppressed by endless products, with only a subtle tang of some kind of citrus cologne. If you could bottle the overall effect the result would be a sell-out marketed as Hot Male.

  And all of that was beginning to make me feel just a touch hot and bothered. Veils had their uses, I decided as we crossed Piccadilly with crossing sweepers sprinting to clear our way and scramble for the coppers Lucian tossed to them. We went down the slope of Duke Street and across King Street to Almack’s as I did my best with my deportment and tried not to stare about myself too obviously.