by Nichole Van
But, beyond that, he was at a loss.
Behind him, the kitchen gleamed in marble and steel. A large pale marble-topped cabinet sat in the center of the space, and there seemed to be some sort of spigot over a sunken basin, but everything else was unknown and baffling. Large metal cabinets and strange objects.
What had happened?
His ever-logical brain could not come up with a suitable explanation. Surely the strange tiny woman knew.
She stirred behind him.
“Yoo-hoo.” A small hand waved in his peripheral vision. “Still waiting for an answer here. Are you Lord Linwood?” He heard her tapping a foot, impatiently.
Definitely an insolent little piece of baggage.
He turned his head toward her, his eyes automatically wandering south toward her bared legs and oversized boots, one bouncing, before he caught himself.
No looking down—
“Of course, I am Lord Linwood.” He carefully set his hat on the large table in front of him, studiously averting his gaze from the woman. “Would you care to explain your presence here?”
“Nonononono. I so didn’t sign up for this,” was her baffling reply. The foot tapping stopped, and she moved toward the window. “Please tell me they haven’t left yet. I can handle all the lovey-dovey stuff and deal with my family, but I don’t have a license to babysit aristocrats and have no intention of getting one anytime soon . . .”
She was clearly addled in the head. Pity. As she was a pretty little thing, despite her attire. Perhaps she had been set upon by thieves who had torn her dress . . .
. . . and changed the entirety of the house in the process . . .
The door off the kitchen opened with a sharp crack.
“We’re off,” another loud, decidedly-American voice announced.
Timothy twirled just in time to see Mr. Marcus Wilde walk into the room.
At least . . . the man appeared to be Mr. Marcus Wilde, as he sported the same dark hair and green eyes Linwood remembered.
But there the similarities ended.
This man was dressed most oddly in dark blue pantaloons with a white collared shirt under a leather coat. But the coat was worse for wear, scratched and battered. Furthermore, the man lacked a neckcloth of any sort, his shirt merely being unbuttoned at the throat.
It was a most ungentlemanly display of dishabille, particularly with a lady . . . ehr, young woman? . . . present.
“Whoa.” Mr. Wilde froze, his eyes darting between Timothy and the small woman.
“Mr. Wilde, I presume?” When faced with a baffling situation of unknown proportions, good manners were always a gentleman’s best friend.
“This is sooooo . . . not good.” Marcus’ eyes went wide.
“Would you care to explain what has happened here?” Timothy swung his arm, encompassing the odd room, fighting to keep his voice calm.
Rule #37: A gentleman is always in control of himself and his situation.
Marcus Wilde’s presence at Duir Cottage was . . . unexpected, as he had last been seen in the area nearly a year ago. Arthur claimed Marcus and Miss Katherine Ashton—Daniel’s older sister, in fact—had immigrated to America. Which perhaps explained Marcus’ accent. But how could one travel to the Americas and return in only a year? And with a new accent, no less?
Timothy found his patience wearing decidedly thin.
“Marc, are you coming? Traffic might be bad and—”
Miss Katherine Ashton now appeared in the doorway. Her face immediately mimicking Marcus’ frozen surprise.
Yes. The woman was definitely Miss Ashton, but with her hair loose and—
“Miss Ashton, I wonder what your brother would say if he discovered you wearing trousers?” And a loose satin bodice, Timothy mentally added.
Had the whole world gone mad?
Miss Ashton shook her long mane of auburn hair. Blinked. “Lord Linwood . . . uh . . . what a—”
“Surprise?” Marcus finished for her, raising an eyebrow. And then, a huge smile broke across his face. “This is gonna be so good.”
Marcus rubbed his hands together—as if in glee?—and stepped around Miss Ashton to the open door.
“Hey guys, you gotta come check this out,” he called to someone out in the garden, beckoning with his hand. The guards Timothy had sent away, perhaps?
Or, even better, Arthur’s steward himself, who would assist Timothy in bringing some sanity to this entire farce.
“We managed to get the lot of it in, but it’s a tight squeeze.” A voice sounded just outside the door, coming closer.
Something cold and sharp chased Timothy’s spine.
He knew that voice as well as his own.
No. It couldn’t be—
A painfully familiar blond head appeared in the doorway.
“Marc, Kit . . . you coming?” The man froze, just as the others had done.
Whoosh. The air rushed from Timothy’s lungs so quickly he had to grab onto the marble counter to keep from losing his balance.
Because the figure standing in the doorway, morning sun turning his hair into a halo of fire, could not be.
James Knight.
But that was . . .
Impossible. Just utterly—
James had died . . . buried in the parish churchyard with a headstone firmly lodged above ground. Timothy had donned all black, walked behind his coffin, mourned at his graveside. He had grieved.
How—?!
“Timothy.” James paused. And then nodded his head in greeting. “This is unexpected—”
“And I thought beating up the guy was fun.” Marcus laughed, still rubbing his hands together.
Miss Ashton nudged his shoulder. “Hush, Marc. Be nice. Poor Linwood is white. If he faints, I expect you to catch him . . .”
Timothy’s mind fought to find some logical explanation, but there was really only one conclusion to be drawn.
If he and James were both here, facing each other and talking—
Then that meant—
He clutched the marble counter more tightly, forcing himself to stay upright through sheer will alone. “Did I die? Is this . . . is this heaven?”
And if so, why did he have no memory of dying? Was that how it worked?
Even more, why was heaven so odd? He would have expected more white and better-fitted clothing . . . or at the very least, more of it—
“Heaven!” Marc, chuckling, shot James a broad wink. “Cause you look like an angel, my brother.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
James rolled his eyes.
Timothy frowned.
His hand sought out the gear hidden in his coat pocket. Still there. How could such a thing follow him to heaven?
It made no sense. Just . . . none.
James ran a ragged hand through his hair, shaking his head.
“Look, uh, Linwood”—James placed his hands on his hips—“you’re not dead and this isn’t . . . well, it’s not quite heaven—”
“But you died.” Timothy pointed out the obvious. “Arthur retrieved your body from that carriage accident—”
“Yeah . . . that’s not quite how everything played out.”
“Are you saying Arthur lied?”
“Well, a little . . .” James rubbed the back of his neck. “Sooooo don’t have time for this right now,” he muttered.
Timothy cleared his throat. Something tight and hot clenching his chest. An emotion that felt like elation. Joy at knowing his friend still lived.
Rule #23: A gentleman suppresses undue emotion, whether of disappointment, of mortification, of laughter, of anger, etc.
Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? He tugged on his coat sleeve. Forced himself to think logically. James returning from the grave would not be a good thing.
If James were still alive . . . the implications for Arthur and Marianne were dire. Arthur would lose everything, have no way to support Marianne, no inheritance for Isabel.
And with Timothy’s own finances in ruins, he would be
in no position to help—
“Marc, please tell me you aren’t looking for more bacon? Cause the driver is anxious about traffic and so help me, if I miss this flight and have to wait even longer to see little Arthur—” A dark head poked around the door frame.
And then, predictably, froze as every eye in the room swung her way.
Timothy should have expected her to be here too.
“Miss Wilde.” He gave a polite bow.
Miss Wilde cocked an eyebrow at him, eyes instantly guarded. She strolled over to James, wrapping both hands through his arm. Possessively. “I do believe you meant Mrs. Emry Knight,” she said, voice so very cool.
Ah. So James and Miss Emry had, indeed, married.
But none of this explained anything . . .
James Knight was alive. Well and truly alive.
His oldest friend . . .
Timothy could see James’ chest rising and falling. The faint shadow of unshaven whiskers on his cheek. Blue eyes slightly blood-shot, as if he were tired.
And why was everyone dressed so oddly? The women in far-too-revealing trousers. The men looking more like day laborers than gentleman. The house so changed—
“Look, Jas, I am so sorry, but we have to go.” James was talking to the small woman. Her lovely eyes flared wide with alarm as she clutched James’ arm.
“No . . . no, you can’t leave me with him.” Her voice a low hiss. “You know how he is. You guys have told me all the stories—”
“Linwood’s a gentleman. Really, he is. He won’t harm you.” James patted her arm.
To Timothy’s dismay, everyone else in the room looked skeptical.
Of all the—
“Of course, I am a gentleman. How could the matter ever be in question?”
James lifted his head, fixing Timothy with his blue eyes.
“Linwood, may I present Miss Jasmine Fleury?” James tugged the woman by the elbow, turning her to face Timothy.
“Miss Fleury.” Timothy bowed, giving all and sundry a textbook-perfect example of his gentleman-like manners.
Miss Fleury of the scanty clothing and summer-sky eyes gave no reply. Not even a nod of her head or a curtsy.
Instead, she turned back to James, as if Timothy weren’t even in the room.
And he was the one being accused of poor conduct?
“What am I supposed to do with him? You can’t just leave—”
Beep, beep.
A loud noise sounded from the yard.
“Jas, we have to go.” Emme hugged the smaller woman and turned toward the door. “We can’t miss our flight. My mom has to go back to work tomorrow, and we need to be there to get Arthur. You can deal with this. It won’t be too bad—”
“Yeah, Jas. Who better to deal with this situation than you? Trust the process.” Marc snatched Miss Fleury into a quick embrace and then laughed as she groaned and pushed him away. He winked at her and slipped past his sister, stepping out the door, a hand wrapped around Miss Ashton’s.
“We’ll call once we land in Seattle.” Emme touched James’ arm. “I’ll be in the car.”
James pulled a leather purse of sorts from his pocket and removed a rigid, gold card. He tucked it into Miss Fleury’s hand.
“Take this. I authorize any and all Linwood-related expenses.”
“James, that’s not exactly my concern here—”
“And as for you”—James turned to Timothy—“I expect you to treat Jasmine as if she were your sister.”
“I fail to see how Miss Fleury should be of any concern to me.”
The woman in question gasped.
What did she expect him to say? She was not a blood relation nor even a gently-bred lady, it seemed.
Though with all that black hair tumbling everywhere and dainty fey face, she probably had whole legions of farmers and day laborers vying for her hand.
“Some people never change.”
Was that sarcasm in James’ voice?
“You will care for her, Linwood,” James continued, “or Marc and I will shred you to ribbons—”
“How dare you, Knight!”
James chuckled, an odd light in his eye. “You know, it is strangely really good to see you, Timothy.”
And then the unexpected happened.
James Knight took two steps forward and clasped his arms around Timothy’s shoulders. Giving him what seemed to be a . . . hug.
No one embraced him. Ever.
Timothy couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him in such a manner.
Particularly not another man . . .
That odd thing happened with his breathing again. Something hot burning in his chest. Was he actually happy to see James?
Shocked, Timothy held himself intensely rigid, arms clenched at his side.
James chuckled and slapped his back.
And then he turned to Miss Fleury. “Cobra will be in touch. Can’t wait to hear what comes of this.”
Of all the baffling things—
With a final pat of Miss Fleury’s shoulder, James strode out the door.
Leaving a dreadful silence in his wake.
Chapter 7
That. Did. Not. Just. Happen.
Surely, her friends had not just up and left her . . . with the most arrogant, boorish, stuck-up, jerk of a lord to ever inhabit the nineteenth century?
And now, it seemed, the twenty-first as well.
Jasmine stood frozen, James’ credit card clutched in her hand.
Like that was going to help.
Lord Linwood held himself almost unnaturally still, eyes focused on the doorway where James had just exited. One hand pressed against his coat pocket, as if feeling for something.
He was exactly . . . and yet not-at-all what she had expected him to be.
The expected—rude, cold, arrogant. Icily contained.
The unexpected—handsome . . . startlingly so. Why had no one ever mentioned that? All that thick dark hair with those gray, nearly transparent eyes set into a chiseled, masculine face. Had she ever seen eyes that colorless? And tall. Taller than either James or Marc. Easily . . . what? Six two? Six three?
Granted, the pristine cravat, tight (leather) breeches and long nineteenth century overcoat didn’t hurt either.
She tilted her head. Yep. Total costume-drama eye candy.
Not that it really mattered. For her, a man’s personality so completely influenced his attractiveness, it was nearly impossible to separate the two. And based on that reasoning, Lord Linwood would never be truly good-looking, would he?
Though an energy pulsed through him. As if underneath all that rigid hauteur, something volcanic seethed.
What would it be like to break through his reserve? To find the man underneath?
And wasn’t that idea strangely . . . fascinating?
She frowned.
No, surely she had not just thought that. There was nothing attractive about Lord Linwood.
She was just going to run with that.
Not. Attractive.
Cause anything else would just be . . . ehww, right?
Jasmine cleared her throat.
So . . . now what?
How did one deal with a nineteenth century lord?
And why, why, why, was he here? What did Fate and the portal mean for him?
Linwood shifted, now gazing at a point about six inches above her head. As if he were stubbornly refusing to look at her.
Yeah, not attractive at all. What had she been thinking? Such an arrogant, impossible—
“Miss Fleury, any explanation which would illuminate this odd sequence of events would be appreciated. I am a busy man with pressing business to attend to and do not have the luxury of frittering my morning away.” He tapped a gloved hand against his thigh.
Where to start?
Jasmine sagged against the counter, setting the credit card down and resting her head in her hands. She massaged her temples and then raised her head.
“Look, your lordship
. . . Linwood . . . Timothy . . . however you prefer to be addressed—”
“My lord will suffice.”
“Right.” Jasmine paused. “So, my lord, there’s no easy way to say this. You are not dead. This is not heaven. You have, however, traveled precisely two hundred years into the future.”
Linwood jerked his head down, instantly locking eyes with her. Though his body didn’t move per se, shock blazed from him.
Yep. Something definitely seethed underneath that aristocratic disdain.
“Pardon?”
“You are currently in the year 2015, not 1815. The stone slab in the cellar actually covers an ancient time portal.”
Linwood turned slowly, taking in the room. Looked back at her. Blinked. And then reeled every last bit of emotion or shock or . . . whatever back inside.
Really . . . interesting.
“Though I am sure you find this humorous, Miss Fleury, I do not appreciate such games. But perhaps you are somewhat lack-witted and do not mean to trifle with me.”
Wait, wait . . . what? Did he just imply—
“Excuse me? What did you call me?”
“Lack-witted. Is your hearing affected too?” His face was utterly devoid of emotion now. As if feeling were something he did not permit himself to do. “James cannot have traveled far, and he will hopefully have a more lucid explanation of these events. I will merely retrieve my horse and be on my way.” Linwood picked up his hat, setting it firmly on his head. “Good day, madam.”
He touched the brim of his hat and, turning on his heel, walked out of the kitchen, down the central hallway and out the front door, closing it firmly behind him.
Oooooookay.
Good luck with that.
And wow. Lack-witted? He truly was a perfectly odious person.
How long would he look for his horse?
Jasmine shook her head.
Crack. The front door opened.
“Madam, what have you done with my horse?”
Jasmine stared at the viscount, scowling at her from the doorway into the central hall. The closet door, which led down to the cellar, stood open beside him.