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

by Louise Allen

  ‘I am glad he hasn’t hurt you, but you know Sir Clement would marry you, whatever de Forrest has done, or however long you have been missing,’ I said firmly, hoping I was right.

  ‘Who the ’ell are you?’ a voice behind me demanded as the door banged open and Arabella cried out in alarm.

  It was a woman dressed in a plain gown with a stained white apron over it. She was big and brawny, my mental picture of a washerwoman or a Billingsgate fishwife, but even so, I thought I could take her. The pistol was jammed in my pocket, but I went straight at her, yanked her off balance by her arm, got a foot behind her leg and swivelled.

  She was going down. I jumped clear, ready to get her arms behind her back when Arabella screamed again. I saw movement, a large, looming darkness, but it was too late. There was a searing pain at the back of my head and everything went black.

  When I woke I lay with my eyes closed, wondering if the thunderous headache would become entirely agonising if I opened them or whether I would throw up. Both seemed likely so I took the coward’s way out and told myself it was safest to stay still and listen for a while in case anyone was in the room with me.

  There was no sound of movement or breathing and I gradually became aware that, apart from my head and my queasy stomach, I was suspiciously comfortable. I opened my eyes and found myself in darkness, black and complete. I panicked, curled up and retched out of sheer terror that the blow had blinded me. Then I saw just the faintest line of light that must be the bottom of the door and breathed again.

  I was lying on something so soft and large that it could only be a bed. I explored and found it had a heap of pillows and linen sheets that felt smooth and expensive to the touch. This was no dungeon, nor a cellar room, and the air smelled fresh, which meant there must be a window somewhere. I got up, my feet sinking into carpet, and moved around the space, hands outstretched. I went to the door first – locked, of course – then around the edges, bumping into furniture until I found the swags of heavy drapes.

  The light that flooded in when I pulled them open was almost painful, but I was relieved to see that the view was down the drive towards where the gates were hidden by the shrubbery. A glance around the room showed me that I was alone. What had they done with Arabella?

  I tugged and shoved at the sash and managed to slide up the window about eight inches and for a moment I had hope, until I leaned out and saw there was a drop of two floors and then the sunken well of the semi-basement below that. There was no drainpipe, no ivy – which was ironic given how much of the stuff seemed to be draping the house just about everywhere else – and no convenient ledges.

  But at least I could see. I dragged back the fabric completely and wondered why someone had thought it necessary to create what were, in effect, blackout curtains. The room was a large bedchamber furnished and decorated in what looked like the best of taste and fashion. There was another door which opened onto a windowless dressing room. I used the facilities and peered into the mirror at my dirty face, rumpled clothing and bruised cheek. The lump on my head was best left alone.

  Washing my face and hands at least made me feel less unsteady on my feet and I tried the main door without much optimism. It was locked. Why didn’t they teach Special Constables to pick locks?

  Where were Lucian and the others? I had no way of telling the time, but by the sun the afternoon was well advanced. And when they did come, how would they find me? I paced back towards the bed and my old hat that had been thrown on the floor rolled away as I kicked it.

  A signal… I took the largest bath sheet from the dressing room and the nail from my pocket. They must have missed it when they removed the pistol. I made a hole in the crown of the hat, then I threaded in one corner of the sheet and knotted it. Something white hanging out of a window might just be bedding airing, but with an old hat tied to the end it must surely attract the attention of anyone seeing it.

  I opened the window, hung out my signal and closed it again, trapping the end. Then, nail in hand, I tried to pick the door lock. It was hopeless, of course. The door panels were solid and felt thick when I tapped them, so breaking through them was no solution either.

  Despite its elaborate furnishings the room yielded nothing to use as a weapon and I was at the point of crawling into the hearth to see how wide the chimney was when the snick of the lock brought me back to the centre of the room, the nail concealed in the palm of my hand.

  I expected to see my rescuers at best, or de Forrest at worst. When Lord Cottingham stepped in I just stared at him, suspicion after suspicion clicking into place. It all made sense, all the little clues finding their right hole in the jigsaw. Blackout curtains, French Fern cologne, Arabella’s purity, the age of the couple in that double portrait, Lord Welney’s little games.

  ‘You stupid, interfering bitch,’ Cottingham said, quite calmly.

  ‘You should know that Lord Radcliffe and others will be arriving at any moment.’ I tried to match his even tone.

  ‘No they will not. I saw the carriage on its way here and had time to arrange matters for its return. Radcliffe is dead, or very badly injured, it does not matter which, and that man of his too.’

  There was anger more than anything. Grief would come later, I was aware of it somewhere, screaming at me, threatening despair and weakness, but anger was uppermost and I seized on it gratefully, channelled it, sharpened it into a weapon to fight with. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I saw the carriage drive through Brentford and discovered the driver had been asking for this house, so I organised a little carriage accident. The layabouts at the Halfway House on the Kensington turnpike no longer have so much business keeping watch for the gentlemen of the road, not now the patrols have driven the highwaymen away, but they are still good look-outs and they are skilled at crippling a coach. I gave the men the signal when I saw Radcliffe did not have Arabella with him. It was a bad accident. They were shooting the horses when I came past and both bodies were laid out on the roadside.’

  Both bodies and the journey back from here. Not James and Sir Clement then. Lucian and Garrick had not even been able to reach Town and fetch help. ‘You are going to a great deal of trouble in order to rape your step-sister,’ I observed dispassionately, visualising just what I could do with the nail in my hand if I got close enough to him.

  That word broke through his calm superiority. ‘Rape? It will be no such thing. No-one else is worthy of her, no-one understands just how pure and beautiful Arabella is. She should be mine, only mine, I knew that from the moment she came to the house with her mother and my fool of a father married the woman. Married her. At their age.’

  So I was right. It had been a late second marriage and Cottingham had not grown up with Arabella, developing brotherly feelings for her. As an adult he had found himself sharing a house with a lovely, nubile, young woman and had become obsessed.

  ‘Do you know what the church says? Do you?’ he demanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That man and wife are one flesh and that those related to either by consanguinity are related to the spouse to the same degree. They say she is my sister. That it would be incest. I cannot marry her, my pure beautiful darling. Have you ever heard anything so insane?’

  ‘No,’ I agreed with some feeling. He was obviously insane, or at least obsessed to a violent degree, but I could understand his anger that a woman not related to him by blood in any way, with whom he had not grown up, should still be considered his blood. My tone seemed to calm him a little and his hectic colour ebbed. ‘How old were you when you met?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty eight. She was fifteen, like a rosebud unfurling. Perfect, pure, innocent…’

  If he started ranting about purity again I was going to throw up, I thought. He was thirteen years older than Arabella. Why had he not formed a relationship before that, I wondered? Had some abnormality in him, some attraction to young girls, made him avoid other, more suitable women nearer his own age? Or perhaps he had tried and they had
all sensed something wrong with him.

  ‘So you agreed with de Forrest that he could marry her, for her money and perhaps for children he could acknowledge as his, knowing that he cannot consummate the marriage. And you would come to her, in the darkness of this room, wearing the same cologne that he favours and you would make her believe it was her husband.’

  ‘Yes. The perfect solution.’ His smile was smug with his own cleverness. ‘He would have his heir, his family, she would have a title, this house would be restored as a fitting setting for her, safe from the corruption of London.’

  ‘Perfect? Arabella is in love with Selbourne. And however antiquated church law might be, she should not be tricked into breaking it. And even if it was perfectly legal, it is abhorrent to deceive her like that. Have you no respect for her feelings?’

  Cottingham looked at me as though I was the demented one. ‘Her feelings? She is a woman and, as such, she will be guided by her husband. She will have security, a position, a family. What more can she possibly want?’

  It was difficult to know where to start. Her liberty? Free will? Control of her own body? The love of a man she loved? Respect? Freedom from fear? But I was dealing with a madman, a murderer. Reason and discussion would get me nowhere.

  ‘So what is your plan? You have her here now, a captive. You tricked her into eloping, believing it was with Clement Selbourne – ’

  ‘Which only proves what a bad influence he has been on her! I tested her and she proved weak.’

  ‘Of course, it is always the woman’s fault.’ I thought of Lord Welney, flirting with the innocents as a way of winnowing out the virtuous ones so he could marry and carry on his own debaucheries, confident that his wife would be chaste and faithful, a fit mother to his children.

  ‘Exactly. They will marry soon and all will be well. Do not sneer at me, Madam!’ he snapped. ‘Look at you – dressed in that scandalous fashion, living blatantly with Radcliffe, unfit to mingle in polite society. Who are you to point a finger at my actions, my decisions?’

  Sane? I didn’t say it. ‘So what do you intend to do with me?’ I asked as coolly as I could manage. How good were his reflexes? How arrogant was he? Could I reach him, stab him with the nail, bring him down? He was bigger than me, heavier than me and I had no hope of surprise as I’d had with the servant upstairs.

  ‘There is one suitable place for women like you,’ he said. ‘And I will have you delivered there tomorrow.’

  ‘A brothel?’ That was bad but far better than I had feared. I could escape, somehow. I had been expecting a bullet or a knife.

  ‘Oh no. Bedlam,’ Cottingham said. ‘That is the place for a woman as deranged and corrupted as you are.’

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Bedlam. My mouth went dry with sheer horror. I had heard of the Bethlehem Hospital for the Insane, of its confinement, of the chained madmen and those who were not mad at all, merely awkward or inconvenient, condemned to a living hell with no appeal, no hope of escape except through death. I could vanish into that place and no-one would ever find me.

  ‘No!’ I put my hands over my face, stumbled towards Cottingham, cried out imploringly, and he laughed and put out one hand to fend me off.

  I took him by the wrist, pulled him onto my body as I stabbed him in the back with the nail, pulled it out, stabbed again. It would not kill him, not even seriously wound him, but it would hurt him.

  He let out a roar of pain, struck out and knocked me away, but I kept hold of his wrist and pulled him with me as I rolled backwards, planted my feet in his stomach, and threw him over me to crash against the chest of drawers.

  As I scrambled up he stumbled to his knees, shaking his head as though stunned. I ran for the door, got it open, found the key on the outside and turned it in the lock. There was a bellow of rage from within, but I knew how solid that door was. He might be stronger than I was, but it would still take Cottingham a good while to get out.

  I started towards the attic stairs and then halted, trying to think. I hated to leave Arabella there, but I had to get out, find James and Sir Clement. If I went deeper into the house I risked being caught again.

  ‘Stop right there!’

  I spun round and found myself facing the brawny woman from the attic. By her side was an even bigger man and he was holding a large pistol aimed right at my stomach. At a range of perhaps two metres I couldn’t see how he could miss.

  ‘Lord Cottingham has abducted his step-sister, he has murdered at least two men – ’ My voice cracked as I said it, made it real. Lucian. I clenched my fists in an effort to stay in control. ‘The law is coming. Do you want to be hanged as accessories?’

  ‘There’ll be nothing to find. Not once we clean up the blood,’ he said, with a grin that showed broken, stained teeth. He raised the pistol and I braced myself to dive flat to the ground. How futile, I thought, even as I tensed every muscle, closed my eyes…

  The report of the gun was so loud my ears rang. Oddly there was no pain. Shock, of course… Then I realised that I was still on my feet and opened my eyes, blinking as the acrid smoke stung them, and looked down. There was no blood on me, no wound, but sprawled at my feet was a body with half a head. The gun must have exploded in his hand, I thought hazily. And yet he was still clutching it, intact. The woman was on her knees wailing.

  I turned and there were men behind me, four, no, more than that, silhouetted against the light from the window at the end of the corridor. I couldn’t fight that many…

  ‘Cassie? Cassie.’ Lucian.

  Yes, it was shock. I was hallucinating now. My knees buckled and I went down and it hurt and then it didn’t…

  It was the noise that roused me. Someone was sobbing and laughing and someone else was making loud demands for slings and bandages and at least three other people were talking at once and someone was saying my name over and over again and I seemed to be bundled up tight in something.

  I flailed my arms and struggled and suddenly I was free.

  ‘Cassie?’ said the voice again. ‘She is waking up, thank God. No, damn it James, I do not need to see the doctor, get him to look at Garrick again if you need to fuss over someone. Cassie, come on, open your eyes. You fainted.’

  It was Lucian with a bandage around his head and a cut down his right cheek and blood all over his torn shirt. His coat had gone.

  ‘You’re not dead? He said he’d killed you and Garrick.’

  ‘No. Not dead.’ He hauled me up into his arms again and I realised that I was on the bed where I had woken up and that what had been bundling me tight was Lucian’s embrace. ‘Garrick has broken his shoulder and cracked some ribs. We were both knocked out. I had a spike of splintered wood through my shoulder, but we will both be fine, thanks to James.’

  ‘Where is Arabella?’ He turned me so I could see the other side of the room and there she was, sobbing in Sir Clement’s arms. ‘And Cottingham?’

  ‘In the custody of two local Justices and their men. They are taking him to Bow Street. Then they are going for de Forrest.’

  ‘Good,’ I managed. Then, ‘I thought you were dead. He said you were dead. But there was only anger, I couldn’t feel anything else. I wanted to kill him.’ I was feeling it now, waves of reaction rolling through me. ‘Lucian, take me home. And kiss me.’

  He did, very thoroughly.

  James, who seemed to be in the grip of the controlled rage that huge relief sometimes brings, prized us apart finally and got us down to one of the fleet of carriages that were occupying the driveway. ‘For God’s sake get in that and go back to Albany and send for the doctor. Two doctors. Here’s Garrick at last. Get in, man.’ He slammed the door on the three of us and turned away, a whirlwind of furious energy.

  Garrick, his arm in a sling, sank onto the opposite seat and closed his eyes with a groan. ‘I am getting too old for this, my lord.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Lucian said and the older man opened his eyes and winked at me.

  It was going to be all r
ight, I realised, finally allowing myself to believe that Lucian was safe, Garrick and Arabella were safe. And I was still alive and still in 1807.

  As we drove away I saw James was in animated discussion with a tall, thin gentleman with grey hair, one arm and an air of authority. He seemed to be in charge of the dozen or so grim-faced men who were striding about the place.

  ‘Who is that?’ I asked.

  ‘General Sir William Abernathy. Chief magistrate for the area and itching to fight someone now they have invalided him out of the army. He is a distant relative of my mother’s, he tells me, and like a terrier down a rabbit hole as far as I can see. De Forrest has no hope.’

  ‘Good,’ Garrick said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘Do you realise that Cottingham intended Arabella to marry de Forrest and then he would have sex with her himself under cover of darkness, pretending to be her husband. That is what the reference to the cologne in that note was about. Cottingham gave de Forrest the possibility of heirs, to say nothing of Arabella’s fortune, and in return he could satisfy his own obsession with her.’

  ‘I suspected as much as soon as I saw him there,’ Lucian said as Garrick swore under his breath. ‘He must be unhinged.’

  ‘He is quite mad, I think,’ I said. ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘He will stand trial for kidnapping, false imprisonment and attempted murder. I suspect that de Forrest will talk once he is caught and certainly the men Cottingham employed to attack the carriage are holding nothing back in the hope of escaping the noose.’

  ‘He threatened to put me in Bedlam.’ My voice was thin and shaky now the adrenaline rush had subsided. With relief and safety came weakness and the strong desire just to turn my face against Lucian’s chest and cry. I bit my lip and told myself that I might have behaved like a Too Stupid To Live heroine, but I was not going to turn into a weepy one now.