Falconer's Heart

by Janice Bennett

  Only by persistent requests did Riki at last clear the room. The moment the door closed behind the housekeeper, Riki turned the key, then dragged off her ruined clothes. She washed out her underthings, then left the flimsy wisps of nylon hanging over the firescreen to dry.

  Next she turned her attention to the steaming water scented with violets and indulged in a thorough scrub and hair-wash, followed by a leisurely soak. With the easing of her muscles—and tension—the unreality of the last few days hit with a vengeance. It wasn’t possible—none of it could be! Yet here she was, taking a bath of all things, in 1812, approximately one hundred and seventy-five years before she was even born.

  And Belmont… Thoughts of him steadied her reeling world. He must have gone through this same sense of disorientation, of unreality, when he had been thrown into the future. He had survived it—and returned to his own time. She would do the same. For as improbable as it seemed, it had happened.

  She climbed out of the tub, caught herself looking for the plug, remembered there was no such thing as plumbing yet and instead dried herself off. The chamber pot, discovered in the cabinet of the washstand, proved another lesson in the rigors of premodern life. I’m living in the past, all right.

  And that meant no blow dryer. She looked at the tangled mass of her hair and groaned. It was so thick it would take forever to dry without help. Well, she’d faced it before, when her generator had gone out. At least then, though, she’d had her makeup to make herself feel a little more human.

  She checked her underthings, found them almost dry and pulled them on. A check of the garments provided for her use revealed a corset. Damn, I’ll have to wear that. With a sigh she removed her bra, set it aside then donned the white, coarse chemise-affair that lay beside the three plain gowns. It brushed the carpeted floor, making her feel as if she were a child again, dressing up in her mother’s clothes. She winced at the memory. Candace, dear elder sister that she was, had suggested the game, then assured their furious mother that she had tried to talk Riki out of such dreadful behavior.

  A knock on the door announced the return of Mrs. Ferndale, who assisted Riki into the corset, a garment Riki felt certain she would soon come to detest. That accomplished, they both examined the three possible dresses. The shortest touched the ground by more than an inch. If Riki tried walking in this, she would either tear the hem or more likely fall flat on her face. There were definite disadvantages to being five-foot-and-a-hair. Candace, from the vast reaches of her five-foot-six, had pointed them out regularly when they were in high school.

  Mrs. Ferndale frowned at the garment and clucked her tongue. “Don’t you worry none, Miss. We’ll set that to rights. But first, let’s tend to your poor wrists.” This she did by bandaging Riki’s scrapes and cuts with a sweet-smelling salve and strips of cotton cloth. When the motherly woman was finally satisfied, she turned her attention to the hem of the gown.

  In a very short time, Riki found her skirt and chemise pinned up so that she could walk with safety. A pair of fabric slippers, which tied about her ankles, fit well enough that she didn’t have to go barefoot. Feeling foolish, as if she had donned a costume for some play, she ran a comb through her damp but clean hair and allowed the housekeeper to lead her downstairs to where dinner—and Belmont—awaited. But so too did his brother and friend. Who knew how many unintentional traps lurked for her tired, unwary tongue?

  Chapter Seven

  Sir Julian, Hillary and Belmont awaited Riki in a long drawing room on the first floor. All three gentlemen stood when she entered, but she had eyes for only Belmont. He too had changed, though his appearance when compared to that of his two companions seemed every bit as peculiar as her own. The somber black garments, she guessed shrewdly, had been borrowed from the butler, whose portly stature did not quite mimic Belmont’s muscular breadth. The smile in his dark eyes dominated Riki’s thoughts as he came forward to take her hand.

  “You make a lovely maid,” he murmured for her ears alone.

  “Thank you. Am I now dressed properly enough for you?”

  He shook his head. “We will have to do better for you.”

  She frowned. “I don’t have any money.”

  “You won’t be here long enough for that to become a problem, and I have thought of a much safer plan than our original one.” He seated her on the sofa, then took up a position beside the blazing fire. “Hillary, it is possible your presence here may be turned to good account. I would like you to perform a commission for me.”

  The youth nodded vigorously. “Gladly! Am I to follow some dangerous spy?”

  A slight smile just touched Belmont’s lips as he shook his head. “Nothing so dramatic. I need you to carry a message for me to Whitehall.”

  Hillary’s face fell, only to brighten the next moment. “You mean I’ll be a secret courier!”

  “As you say. I will write a letter. And so you won’t be tempted to break it open, it is merely to my assistant, asking him to join me at the Court for an urgent meeting.”

  “With Miss van Hamel?”

  “No, I do not believe we will mention Miss van Hamel. Bear that in mind, please. The information she has to impart will best come as a complete surprise to Mr. Warwick.”

  “Do you want me to go at once? Tonight?”

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough. How did you travel down here?”

  “By stage.” A sheepish grin replaced the boy’s earlier eagerness.

  “Without a feather to fly with, I suppose. For once, bantling, I cannot come to your assistance.”

  “I shall be delighted to oblige.” From his pocket, Sir Julian drew a beautifully enameled box, which he offered to Belmont.

  As Riki watched, fascinated, the viscount took an infinitesimal pinch of the contents, held it to his nostril and breathed in. Snuff, Riki realized. Sir Julian copied the procedure, then dusted his fingers with what Riki would have sworn was a rabbit’s foot that hung from the box by a golden chain. Meeting Belmont’s amused eye, she tried to look bored, as if she had seen such peculiar activity every day of her life.

  “I will not loan you my grays—nor my curricle, Hillary, so do not look so excited.” Sir Julian returned the box to his pocket. “You may take my roan and ride.”

  Hillary nodded, obviously disappointed.

  “When you have delivered my message—” Belmont broke off, considering. “For how long have you been rusticated?”

  “Only a fortnight. I’d planned to return at the beginning of the week.”

  “You’ve had him here for more than a sennight?” Belmont turned to Sir Julian. “You have my condolences.”

  “He serves to alleviate boredom.” Sir Julian’s normally lazy gaze rested intently on his friend. “And what may I do to assist you in your—er—endeavors?”

  “Arrange the hire of a post chaise and four, to leave in the morning. I fear my pockets are in the same shabby state as my brother’s—though for a far better reason, I make no doubt. Other than that, you may oblige me by forgetting you ever encountered Miss van Hamel and myself in those unusual garments.”

  “The mere thought of them is repugnant to me, dear boy. I shall be only too happy to comply.”

  The entry of Ferndale, announcing dinner, ended the conversation. Belmont offered Riki his arm and led her across the hall to another comfortable apartment decorated in deep reds and gold. The long table, on which two ewers rested, had been arranged so that all four settings were grouped at one end. Belmont led her to a seat, then took the one next to her.

  For the next twenty minutes, Riki thought of little besides the delectable dishes from which she was served by a footman. She didn’t care what they were, as long as they were hot and filling. But her eyes proved proverbially bigger than her stomach, and she shortly sat back to sip her wine and toy with a floating island. Long before the gentlemen finished, she found herself drifting off toward sleep.

  The deep, masculine voices reached her without really penetrating. They were maki
ng plans, she supposed, but they need not worry her at the moment. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with the myriad problems that undoubtedly awaited. When Mrs. Ferndale appeared at her shoulder to take her back to the guest room she had used earlier, she made no objection, merely wishing the men a hazy goodnight and trying not to stumble as she climbed the steps.

  She awakened slowly in the morning to a sensation of warmth and comfort. Rolling over, she snuggled her face into the soft feather pillow. But something was wrong—the mattress didn’t support her properly. She opened a reluctant eye to find herself enclosed in a cocoon of rich rose velvet.

  Rich rose velvet? She sat up abruptly, memory flooding back. It hadn’t been the dream of a too-tired mind. This wasn’t her room. She was in Brighton, in the house of Sir Julian Taggart, in 1812.

  A thrill of excitement raced through her and she drew back the enveloping curtains. Faint sunlight streamed in between the thick drapes at the window. She climbed out of bed onto the chill floor and hurried over to fling them wide.

  An empty expanse of beach and the gray ocean beyond met her eager eyes. It must be early still, probably no later than six or seven. She looked about the quaintly furnished room and spotted an elaborate bronze clock on the mantel above the fire, which a maid must already have kindled because it blazed in­vitingly. Six fifteen.

  A ceramic pitcher stood on the hearth. Curious, she crossed over and glanced inside. It seemed she would have warm water with which to wash her face. Smiling, she held out her hands to the rising heat from the dancing flames.

  A singsong cry reached her and she returned to the window to see a woman, selling milk from cans suspended by a wooden shoulder yoke, approaching along the cobbled street.

  A whole new world awaited. The prospect elated her—and left her just a little afraid. Everything would be alien, strange to her. She was truly alone for the first time—except for Belmont.

  Would he be awake and wanting to get underway? Or did he dread the coming day? They would go to his home instead of to London. In some ways, that made everything easier for him. He could keep her under his constant eye and make sure she spoke to no one.

  But what of his family? Perhaps taking her to some impersonal hotel would be safer after all. Though she’d never admit it, she agreed with Belmont on one point—the fewer people she encountered, the less chance she’d have of affecting history.

  Well, the sooner they set forth, the sooner their goal would be accomplished and the sooner she could return to the safety of her own time. And she wanted to see David. Joy at the prospect of her cousin being alive temporarily overshadowed her anger with him for the game he was trying to make of history—and people’s lives. The sooner she took him home, where they both belonged, the better it would be.

  She carried the jug over to the washbasin, poured in some warm water and splashed it over her face. Her skin stung, hurting as if her cheeks, and not her wrists, had been rubbed raw. Peering into the elegant mirror at her reflection, she was aghast at the ravages wrought on her complexion by the wind and salt spray. She’d give a great deal for her moisturizer. Even hand lotion would do.

  The dressing table offered nothing, however, that might make her look or even feel a bit better. Perhaps she could ask for some of that cream the housekeeper had used on her wrists.

  Getting dressed proved to be another problem. She couldn’t manage the corset alone. With a sense of relief she put on her own beloved bra then donned the same chemise and maid’s gown she had worn the night before. The dark green lace of her bra, she was pleased to discover, didn’t show. She’d have to put the corset back on eventually, she supposed. But not a moment before I have to! She next turned her attention to her hair. That, at least, hadn’t suffered too much damage. It swept back smoothly, framing her reddened face. With a last wistful thought for her absent makeup, she set forth in search of food. Breakfast suddenly seemed like an excellent idea.

  She found it more easily than she had expected. At the landing on the next floor down, the welcome aroma of coffee reached her. Following her nose, she made her way to the front of the house where an open door revealed a sun-filled, cozy apartment with a lace-covered table set into a bow window. A sideboard stood against one wall, its gleaming mahogany surface covered with chafing dishes, plates, silverware, cups and saucers.

  Belmont, clad in those same somber garments he’d worn the night before, rose from the table and came toward her, his hand extended. “I didn’t expect you to be up so early.” His strong fingers closed about hers.

  “I’m always an early riser.” She drew her hand back. When he looked at her like that, with a smile lurking in the depths of his dark eyes, it unsettled her. She stepped up to the sideboard and lifted a lid at random. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Hillary demanded a beefsteak, in hopes it would take a while to cook and he could stay abed a few extra minutes.” He handed her a plate. “I believe you like eggs?”

  She made her selections, then poured coffee while Belmont carried her dish to the table. “Has your brother already left?” she asked over her shoulder.

  A deep, vibrant chuckle answered her. “A half-hour past. And protesting all the way, I assure you. He will arrive at Whitehall shortly after noon.”

  She took the seat opposite him at the small table, and fought back the cozy image of the two of them sharing breakfast in her cottage. It had been only two days ago—and so very far away in the future.

  “Are you certain it wouldn’t be safer to take me to London? If I stayed at your home, you couldn’t hide me from your family. But if you took me to a hotel, you—”

  “No. No respectable hostelry would permit us through the front door. You have no luggage, no female to bear you company. There would be too many questions we would not be able to answer.”

  “Oh. Not even if we signed as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith?”

  He returned only a blank look, so Riki abandoned her teasing. “Won’t your family ask equally awkward questions?”

  “There you need only say you are sworn to secrecy and no one will pursue the matter.”

  She took a bite of her toast. “How long will it take David to reach your estate?”

  “He probably won’t set out until tomorrow. He should be with us by late afternoon.” He sipped his coffee, appearing in no hurry himself.

  “Where do you live?” Suddenly, she wanted very much to see him against the backdrop of his own home.

  “Near Canterbury. It’s a bit more than sixty miles from here. But have no fear, I will be able to place you in my mother’s charge before nightfall, I promise you.”

  She hesitated, her delicate china cup hovering less than an inch from her mouth. “You make it sound as if that were important.”

  “It is.” He set down his cup and stood, as if seeking to put some distance between them. “It will be best, in fact, if I hire one of Julian’s maids to accompany us.”

  “Whatever for?”

  He regarded her through half-lidded eyes. “Propriety, my dear Miss van Hamel. It is very obvious that in your time a young lady enjoys a number of freedoms not acceptable in my time. Since we must travel in a closed carriage, you ought to have an abigail—a lady’s maid.”

  “Is she expected to serve as a chaperone? How ridiculous! Are you supposed to try to seduce me in a bouncing vehicle?” A soft laugh escaped her. “That might be rather interesting.”

  To her amazement, a dull flush of embarrassment tinged his face.

  “It is also not considered proper to joke of such things.” He spoke shortly.

  She forced her face into a sober expression to match his. “Will your poor mother be scandalized if I arrive without a maid—to protect me from her evil-intentioned son?”

  In spite of himself, Belmont smiled. “No. My mother, shameful wretch that she is, would be delighted.”

  “Then we will dispense with the maid. Besides, I’m dressed as one, aren’t I? And you make an admirable butler. Who will care what
we do?”

  “You’re incorrigible. Very well then. I don’t suppose we can damage your reputation, since you don’t really exist in my time.” A sharp edge crept into his voice. “I have requested that a bonnet and pelisse be found for you. If you can be ready, we will leave as soon as the post chaise arrives.”

  She drained her coffee and rose. “Should we not thank Sir Julian?”

  “He never leaves his room before noon, except in the direst of emergencies. I have written him a note expressing our thanks. You need not worry about standing upon ceremony with him.”

  Less than half an hour later, Riki came down the stairs again, ready for their journey. Her face, thanks to Mrs. Ferndale’s excellent strawberry and green pineapple cream, no longer stung. Nor did her wrists, which the housekeeper had bound in fresh bandages. In her hand she carried a small valise that contained her jeans, sweater and tennis shoes.

  Belmont, who awaited her in the entry hall, looked up and a sudden frown creased his brow. “Very dashing,” he said in a flat tone that robbed his words of any compliment. He took her bag and led the way outside to the waiting post chaise.

  “I feel old-fashioned and silly.” The chip straw bonnet felt odd on her head, as did the ribbon tied in a bow beneath her left ear. The high-waisted long coat called a “pelisse” hung about her feet, completely covering her gray maid’s uniform.

  “You will do very well.” He handed her into the carriage, then climbed up after her.

  The postboy, who sat mounted on the near leader rather than on the box, spurred the animal and the vehicle set forth over the uneven paving stones.

  Riki peered out the window. No trace of anything modern met her searching gaze. No Palace Pier, no amusement centers. Not even any large colored umbrellas lined the expanse of beach. The whole concept of traveling back through time still seemed impossible, yet she couldn’t discount the evidence of her eyes—or of her other senses.