by Nichole Van
She sighed. “I am sure your horse is happily standing right where you left him in the nineteenth century. But as you are now in the twenty-first century—”
“Bah!” He sliced the air with his gloved hand. “You must cease with this ridiculous nonsense.”
As if realizing he was showing emotion—cause, ya know, heaven forbid—he forced his face to relax, retreating behind that impassive mask. Again.
Well, at least the man would never have to worry about wrinkles.
Did he yo-yo like this all the time? Or was finding out you had time-traveled two hundred years into the future a special occasion?
She was placing her money on the latter.
Jasmine sank her head into her hands again. She so didn’t sign up for this. Babysitting an arrogant nineteenth century viscount was not how she envisioned spending her time at Duir Cottage.
“You must go back through the portal, if you wish to return to your own time.” She raised her head, gesturing toward the open door in the hallway.
He stared at her for a moment. And then shook his head and turned toward the steps down to the cellar. He stood, confusion flitting across his face.
“I clearly must be fevered or dreaming or have hit my head in some way,” he muttered, pulling his hat off his head. He rolled his shoulders and then rubbed his fingers through his hair. “Though nothing is sore. Most curious.”
The mother part of Jasmine knew she should do something. Say something nice. Offer him some coffee or tea. Reassure him that everything would be alright.
But . . . why? Neither of them wanted him to be here.
And he had just called her lack-witted.
He looked back over at her. “So . . . to return, I . . .”
“Just go back into the cellar and touch the stone slab. That should do the trick.”
Fingers-crossed. Hope and pray.
He nodded and snapped his hat against his leg. And then disappeared down the steps.
Only to come back up fifteen seconds later.
“You are still here.”
“Aaaaand so are you.”
They regarded each other for a moment. Well . . . she stared at him while he focused on a point to the right of her head.
Whatever.
Silence.
“Madam, this game grows tiresome.” Voice low and decidedly growl-ish.
“Neither of us wants you here.” She rounded the kitchen island. “Let’s just get you through that portal, shall we?”
She swung an arm, motioning him back down the stairs. Following him down the steep stairs, she had a clear view of his wide, wide shoulders. Well, that and his jerk of surprise when she flipped on the cellar light. The lonely light bulb shone weakly from the ceiling.
He took the few steps across to the slab of granite standing guard over a simple dark depression in the earth.
Jasmine held back, at the base of the stairs. This was the first time she had really studied the portal, oddly enough.
No. It wasn’t odd.
She had deliberately avoided coming down here. The potency of the portal overwhelmed her. She constantly felt its pulsing electricity thrumming through the ground at her feet, tendrils of power drifting into the outside world. Being in the enclosed space amplified the feeling.
It was like an old friend who knew all your secrets and had expectations of you. She could feel its energy swirling around her, as if in greeting. Welcoming but daunting at the same time.
Linwood pressed both hands against the granite slab, standing in the dark depression. Nothing changed.
Drat.
She couldn’t be stuck with him. Just . . . no way. Not happening.
C’mon, stupid portal. Let him through, she mentally pleaded.
The energy in the tiny room swirled and then, honest-to-goodness, it shrugged.
As if to say, I’d love to help but I can’t. Deal.
Was everyone abandoning her today?
And why would the portal let him through in the first place? She didn’t want him to be here. He didn’t want to be here . . . so why?
Linwood turned around, frowning when he saw her, shaking his head. “This is obviously some sort of odd dream or hallucination.” Confused. Bewildered. “Mayhap I just need to return home and lie down.”
She shouldn’t have found that tiny symbol of his agitation so fascinating, and yet . . .
It was a glimpse of the man housed inside that aristocratic armor. A small boy peeking out. Hurt and alone. Desperate for someone to understand, to soothe his troubles—
Gah! Enough!
This was how she ended up with lackluster boyfriends. She was such a sucker for a romantic hard-luck story, trying to see good where it didn’t exist—
A loud buzzing sounded from upstairs. And then Idina Menzel’s voice followed. Tinny and muffled.
Let it go. Let it go. Can’t hold it back anymore . . .
Her phone.
Linwood deepened his scowl.
Ignoring him, Jasmine scrambled up the stairs, skidded around the large kitchen table and dove for her phone on the sofa before the call went to voice mail.
“Hello.” Breathless.
“This Jasmine?” A gravelly, American voice greeted her.
“Yes.” Still breathless.
“Cobra.”
She shot a glance toward Linwood who had followed her up the stairs and was now prowling around the kitchen.
James wasted no time, didn’t he? Figured. James couldn’t be bothered to help her with the arrogant nineteenth century viscount currently poking his nose into the fridge, but the second she needed some sleuthing done . . . bam, Cobra was on the line—
“You need something done with a nineteenth century viscount too, ma’am? Cause I know people—”
Oh, right. Jasmine rubbed her forehead and took a deep breath. She needed to get a handle on her lack-of-internal-monologue issue—
“You’re still talking, ma’am. And the first thing you need to do is tell that viscount to pull his head out—”
“Mr. Cobra—”
“It’s just Cobra. No mister.”
“Yeah. Uh, okay . . . Cobra—”
How did one end up with a name like Cobra, anyway?
Wait, had she said that—
“Do you really want to know, ma’am? It’s not a pretty story.”
Focus, Jasmine.
She shot a glance back at Linwood. He had shut the fridge and was now glaring in her direction. He instantly turned his head, looking away.
Had he been staring at her?
His hat still beat against his thigh. But that was the only motion in his body. His profile was utterly impassive, eyes gazing straight ahead. Every last trace of that vulnerable boy gone. She mentally traced a line from his forehead, down the length of his straight, aristocratic nose, over the bump of surprisingly soft-looking lips—
“Ma’am, you still there? James said something about your needing help tracking down your lost family?”
Jasmine cleared her throat and turned away from Linwood, sitting down on the couch.
She had enough problems of her own without adding a handsome, arrogant viscount into the mix.
The hairs on her neck prickled. Linwood was staring at her again, wasn’t he?
The sensation left, followed by the sound of the front door opening. Probably still trying to locate his horse. Stupid man.
“Ma’am?”
Linwood was not her problem.
“Why, yes, Cobra. I could use some help.”
Chapter 8
His horse was gone.
Timothy stood on the stoop, hat still pounding against his leg.
Granted, the entire front garden of Duir Cottage was gone . . . or at least drastically changed.
Ivy now covered the low stone wall surrounding the house and a giant oak tree planted to the left stretched over the roof. Had the oak been there as a sapling when he entered the house?
He couldn’t remember.
The entire situation was disconcerting.
That feeling rose again. The one where his heart pounded beneath his breast with such force it quickened his breathing and made it seem as if the very air itself were a heavy weight intent on suffocating the life—
He closed his eyes.
He would almost label that feeling panic . . . but then everyone knew a Linwood never panicked.
When the French broke ranks and charged King Henry V during the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, it was Sir Robert Linwood who beat them back. Fighting with lethal focus when everyone else bolted. He had been made a baron for his bravery; the man’s armor and chain mail proudly stood in the corner of Timothy’s study at Kinningsley. A constant reminder.
Rule #6: A gentleman will always act with honor and courage, even when faced with a daunting situation.
That rule was said to have come down from Sir Robert himself.
Sir Robert had not panicked. And neither would Timothy. He felt for the gear in his pocket, clutching it tightly.
This was not real. This was a dream. A weird hallucination. He just needed to return to Kinningsley, lay down, rest. Decide how he was going to convince Miss Heartstone of the Sixty Thousand Pounds to accept his offer.
He tried to call up her face. Had she been blond? No . . . brown? He had waltzed with her . . .
But the more he tried to dredge up Miss Heartstone, the more fugitive she proved.
All he saw in his mind’s eye were a pair of wide blue eyes staring from a heart-shaped face framed by hair so very dark and tumbled. And a skirt . . . so short it left little to the imagination—
Timothy stopped himself right there.
Miss Jasmine Fleury was not his problem. Besides, she probably wasn’t even real. And, even if she were, she was obviously mad. Wearing the clothing of a child, talking to herself, acting as if she were having a conversation with that silver box she held to her ear.
Twenty-first century? Bah. What utter nonsense.
And as for the strange sight of James Knight and Miss Emry Wilde?
Perhaps the kippers he had for breakfast were spoiled. Had he drank too much wine last night? Or worse, had someone slipped opium into his morning tea?
Unbidden, a memory of his mother surfaced. Dressed in a loose white gown, standing on a chaise in the drawing room, arms thrashing, screaming at the butler to gather all the snakes and lock them away.
There had never been a snake at Kinningsley.
Timothy had stood inside the doorway, watching as the butler and two footmen pantomimed gathering phantom snakes from the floor and furniture, putting them into a bag. His mother watching from her perch, hands clasped to her heaving chest, eyes darting around the room, tracking things no one else could see.
One of many, many such episodes. Opium ate at the mind. She had once mistaken the vicar for King George and spent the entirety of the poor man’s visit murmuring ‘Your Majesty’ over and over while curtsying.
Fortunately, his father had been a year dead by that time. The embarrassment . . .
A Linwood never behaved in such a fashion.
As for Timothy, this odd episode just underscored the strain of his current situation. With Napoleon again on the march, his estate on the brink of ruin and the prospect of a loveless marriage looming, it was no wonder his mind struggled.
It was as if his firmly repressed baser self . . . the side that loved machines and labor . . . were determined to break free.
But he was Linwood. This too he would conquer.
Just as his ancestors had beaten back invaders and fought usurpers.
Rule #3: At all times, a gentleman should maintain behavior and a demeanor which honors the illustrious heritage and sacrifices of his ancestors.
He would persevere.
Stuff all those undesirable parts of himself back into that walled-off portion of his soul where they belonged. Maintain the way of life his forebears had fought for. Safeguard the reputation of his family. Restore the family coffers, ensure that his estate went forth whole and intact into the future.
Duty. Responsibility. Honor. Patronage.
It was his burden and, yet, formed the bedrock of his purpose in life.
He would entertain no other options.
There. That was settled then.
Unable to locate his horse, he would merely return to Kinningsley on foot, rest for the remainder of the day, force this unpleasant side of himself away.
With one last glance at the changed cottage, Timothy donned his hat and strode up the gravel lane.
As expected, after a few minutes of walking, the lane intersected the larger road which led to Haldon Manor. Or, at least, the burned out remains of Haldon Manor.
But when Timothy reached the road, it too was different. Instead of the typical packed earth rutted by carriage wheels, the road was now a dark, solid surface. Frowning, he bent down to examine it. It appeared to be gravel embedded into a type of black pitch and then compacted in some manner.
As a road surface it was certainly . . . ingenuous. Unbidden, his mind cranked on the possibilities. A carriage would roll most smoothly over it and at a much higher rate of speed, ensuring that commerce reached faraway markets in record time—
Such a road was hardly practical. The labor to construct it, not to mention the cost, would surely offset any economic gains . . .
Rule #306: A gentleman does not indulge in the vulgarity of practical mathematics.
He wasn’t going to think about such things. Well . . . not too much. Perhaps he could write a theoretical paper about it. Nothing applicable, of course, just theorems and ideas.
Though, he had to give his imagination credit for sheer ingenuity.
He paused at the juncture of the road, considering turning left toward Haldon Manor.
But no. Arthur wouldn’t be there and, with the house gutted, there would be no where for him to rest regardless. Kinningsley would be preferable.
He would follow the road into Marfield and procure a horse from the ostler at the Old Boar Inn. He could be home before luncheon.
Turning to his right, he started walking down the middle of the odd pavement.
Green tinged the trees and birds chirped wildly, darting in and out of branches. A gentle breeze rustled through the forest, seeming to draw nearer.
Timothy paused, studying the trees. Actually, the branches weren’t moving, and he felt no wind upon his face.
And yet the rushing sound grew louder and louder by the second until the sound isolated itself behind him.
Whirling around, Timothy stared as the oddest . . . carriage, he supposed . . . bore down on him. He caught a general impression of gleaming silver metal, smoky windows and black wheels.
The strange carriage barreled toward him. Fast. With no signs of slowing.
Wait—was there a person in the vehicle?
Self-preservation set in.
Darting to the side of the road, Timothy stared as the vehicle zoomed by with a roar.
Puzzled, he walked back into the center of the road, staring. The conveyance disappeared in the distance.
What was that? Where were the horses? Had the carriage . . . or wagon . . . or whatever broken free from its traces? But how was it hurtling along at such a fast pace, as the ground was level?
He looked back and forth, seeing nothing else and hearing no shouts of alarm.
Was the vehicle self-propelling? He had read all about the exploits of Richard Trevithick and his ‘puffing devil’ steam locomotive engine and had even managed to visit one of the machines at the mining works near Merthyr Tydfil in Wales when he found himself in the area. The visit nothing more than theoretical curiosity, naturally. The fact that it had sent his head spinning into a web of design possibilities had merely been an unwelcome side-effect. Fortunately, he had been able to channel the ideas into mathematical theorems and a well-received paper in a respected journal.
But machines such as Trevithick’s were d
eafening, unwieldy and put out excessive amounts of smoke and steam.
Things this carriage had not . . .
Though the odd carriage had rolled smoothly along the hard road surface. So, clearly, his mind had prepared for the appearance of the vehicle.
Was that how hallucinations worked?
He should have never indulged his fascination with steam engines. This strange episode was nothing more than a punishment for his inability to focus on those things that he should.
Rule #308: A gentleman does not design or use machines to bring a good for market.
If he were a less logical man, he might start to doubt his own sanity.
Timothy shook his head.
The sooner he returned to Kinningsley, the better.
Adjusting his hat atop his head, Timothy continued up the road.
An hour later, panic had set in with a vengeance. When Sir Robert Linwood had fought the Frenchies at Agincourt, he had known what he faced.
Timothy on the other hand . . .
He had reached the main road and walked toward Marfield. Well . . . at least what he supposed to be the main road and Marfield. There were just enough landmarks and similarities for him to get his bearings.
But beyond that, everything had changed.
It turned out those odd carriages were everywhere. Parked stationary and empty along the roadside and next to red brick houses. Moving along the streets with people driving them using small wheels. Several vehicles had passed him with what sounded like music playing.
He had finally stopped and peered into one, cupping his hands to the glass. The inside featured seats separated by levers and knobs. More knobs dotted a panel where the wheel sat.
It all definitely looked . . . futuristic . . . to coin a term.
Was this what his overworked brain thought the future would be like?
He approached the center of town, those vehicles still passing at regular intervals.
A woman walked toward him, dressed like Miss Ashton and Miss Emry . . . ehr, Mrs. Emme Knight . . . in tight-fitting, dark blue trousers and a tight short coat, somehow balancing and walking on shoes with a high, thin heel. Her hair hung straight to her shoulders and her eyes, cheeks and lips were covered in a thick layer of cosmetics. She had one of those rectangular boxes pressed to her ear and was talking into it, just as Miss Fleury had done, paying little attention to her surroundings.