Timeless Deception

by Susanne Marie Knight

  He dug his fingers into his red hair. Her stubbornness must have troubled him. “I dunno, Alaina. Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?"

  “No, a good relaxing bath and a glass of wine should cure what ails me.”

  An urgent desire to forget about the troublesome twosome, Derek and Mrs. Saybrooke, swept over Alaina. Maybe Monday she'd set up an appointment with a counselor or a psychiatrist. She needed help, no denying that. But not tonight. Tonight she'd pretend none of this happened.

  Jack took her arm, and led her down the stairs onto the busy street. Although rush hour traffic had already passed, in addition to holiday lights, Fifth Avenue was still illuminated with wall-to-wall car headlights. Frenzied shoppers and excited sightseers bustled about to view elaborate stores displays and the nearby Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.

  Alaina was interested in none of those things. Her apartment and her bed called out to her like a sea siren to a lost sailor. Home. Thank heavens she could sleep late tomorrow.

  “Maybe I should see you to your place? Make sure you get in okay?” Jack wasn't flirting; he was genuinely anxious.

  Why oh why couldn't she think of him as boyfriend material? “That's sweet, but it's not necessary. How ‘bout if you walk me to the subway?"

  Growling, he obviously didn't think much of her peace offering. But he gamely maneuvered a path toward 42nd Street, through the horde of holiday revelers and up toward the subway station. At the entrance, he bent down to place a soft kiss on her cheek. “Give me a call tomorrow, so I'll know you're okay."

  After agreeing, she walked down the stairs. Jack really was very nice. Why couldn't she fall in love with him? Why couldn't she allow herself to have a relationship with him or with Roger Farnsley? Or with any man? Why did she always back away?

  She slipped her subway token into the turnstile and headed down the ramp. Her head began to ache. Why worry about men and relationships when her very sanity was in doubt? People always complained about the holiday blues, but this was ridiculous.

  ~*~

  Nearly falling asleep in the white, frothy bath, Alaina blew some fragrant bubbles off her chest and reluctantly stood. She couldn't stay in the tub forever. And she also couldn't banish the unholy trio from her thoughts: the drippy Derek, the unfaithful wife, and the mystic Reena.

  Toweling dry, Alaina slipped into her floor-length, silky robe and zipped it up, taking care to avoid snagging her dangling gold leaf earrings. For no reason at all, a heavy feeling of dread ... alarm...something settled over her.

  “Get a grip, kiddo. What are you worried about? It's party time. Christmas is almost here, Dad's flying up for a few days, and Vicki and the boys are coming to visit. Everything's fine. Fine."

  Her pep talk didn't work. “Darn, I need a drink."

  Alaina poured a glass of peach wine and took a sip. The pinkish liquid filled her with a warm glow. Ahh! Feeling better, she swallowed more. Now fortified, she plopped down on her sectional couch and propped her feet up on the coffee table.

  “I do need a short vacation. Where should I go?"

  Without looking, she groped under the cushions, then pulled out some travel brochures she'd stashed away. “Let's see. Bermuda? Puerto Rico? Nassau?” Strangely enough, these exotic locales sounded insipid.

  She poured more wine. An image of big, brown eyes bored into her mind. Her eyes ... and yet not hers.

  Flinging the pamphlets aside, Alaina stood. “What's wrong with me? Why am I having these visions? What do they mean?"

  She downed the remaining liquid but the alcohol did little to solve her problem. Her hands to her temples, she tried to drive away the haunting images. They refused to be dismissed. Even her own bare feet proved ornery; her toes tripped over the fibers of the carpet, making her fall.

  “I'm a mess.” She sprawled out on the floor with her rose-colored robe bunched up at her knees. “How could I be drunk? I'm never drunk."

  After refilling her glass, more wine burned her throat. “I'm never drunk and I never drink alone."

  A voice of fast-vanishing reason broke through. Kiddo, you're tipsier than a vibrating top and more alone than in solitary confinement. Face it. You're as drunk as a skunk.

  She giggled. “All right, so I am.” She could drink if she wanted to. And she wanted to. Nothing wrong about that. Way past the legal age and everything. But, oddly enough, she felt compelled to overindulge. A steady drumming in her veins urged her into intoxication.

  Well, why not? No one could've had a weirder day than she had. Tottering over to the coffee table, she jumped when the telephone rang.

  “Drat!” Ignoring the phone just set her teeth on edge so she answered it. Less than cordial she snarled, “Who's this?"

  A slightly wheezy voice answered her. “'Evening, Alaina."

  Good grief, it was Roger Farnsley—her amorous neighbor. Not in the mood for his shenanigans, she contorted her lips. But that was mean of her. So she'd had a bad day—to put it lightly. Why take it out on everyone else?

  “Oh, hello, Roger. What's up?” And make it fast, she silently added. Her wine glass was almost empty.

  “Alaina, Mother gave me two tickets to the opera for tomorrow and I—"

  “Cripes!” Shaking hands caused pinkish liquid to seep through her robe, darken the material, and wet her thigh. “Sorry, Roger. I just spilled some wine.” The thought of Mother Farnsley would make anyone's hand shake.

  “Well, we haven't seen each other all week, Alaina, and Mother said—"

  Alaina could imagine what Mother said. “No, thanks, Roger, I'll pass. I plan to stay in tomorrow and get some rest.” Right now she'd kill to get some rest.

  “I could come over. I could come over now."

  She rolled her eyes. “That's not a good idea. I had a rough day. I....” Picking up the wine bottle, she made a face. “Drat, the bottle's empty.” She licked its rim to catch the last drops.

  “I'm coming over, Alaina. You don't sound like yourself."

  She withheld an hysterical laugh. Of course she didn't sound like herself. She didn't look like herself, either. She looked like Derek's paramour!

  Dropping the phone from her ear, she tapped her foot. After a minute, she resumed conversation. “I appreciate the thought, Roger, but I'm fine. I don't need you to come over."

  “But—"

  “Tell you what. Come tomorrow instead, okay? Around one o'clock.” Anything to get rid of him.

  “How about earlier? Say eleven?"

  He always had to push. No wonder she shied away from relationships. “No! Not before one.” Why did her nerves feel stretched to the limit? Why was she acting this way?

  She welcomed the pause on the line. Maybe he'd get the hint and hang up.

  “You know, Alaina, if you moved in with me, we could be together all the time. Mother says—"

  She had to suppress a primal scream. Something was making her blood pressure skyrocket. The man drove her crazy. She didn't need this. Not from Roger—not from anybody. “I can't say it any plainer. I don't want to move in with you. Don't be ridiculous. We hardly know each other.” Why couldn't he leave her alone?

  His next statement caused her heart to go into arrhythmia.

  “Alaina, let's get married."

  Married—to Roger! God forbid. Steel bands slowly tightened around her chest. Trapped—she'd be trapped.

  That thought also sobered her up. “No way. I'll get married when—"

  A vision interrupted her. Her casual, well worn living room dissolved into a chaotic jumble, like television static. Then the scene coalesced. Seated at an immense desk was a dark, handsome man with hair of midnight black.

  Wow. Alaina blinked, then blinked again. This man radiated pure, unadulterated sex appeal—from the heavy lock of hair hanging over his high forehead; below to his blazing blue eyes; over to his slightly flared nostrils; across his firm, sensual lips; and down to the tip of his angular, strong jaw. Even his corded neck was a symbol of male virility.
He would've made any woman drool.

  Dressed similarly to Derek in style but not in garish color, the man's generous mouth twisted in a scowl. He held a letter in his large hand, and didn't seem pleased with its contents, to put it mildly. A savage pulse beat at his temple. He crumpled the paper, then threw it into a fireplace.

  Alaina shivered. She sure wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that man's anger.

  Before she had a chance to feast upon his magnificent face again, the scene faded. Back in her own living room, she stood shell-shocked, and closed her gaping mouth.

  “Alaina? Alaina?"

  She stared at the telephone in her hand. At Roger's prompting, she finished her sentence. “I'll get married when ... when I feel like it."

  She'd never feel like it, but curiously enough, remembering that dark-headed man made her insides tingle. Who was he and what part did he play in this bizarre drama her mind created for her?

  Throbbing pain blinded her sight. Time to call it a day. “Listen, Roger, I've got to go. See you tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow she'd put an end to his late-night phone calls. He was being too possessive and if there was one thing she was certain of, she never wanted to belong to anyone. Besides, Roger was just her neighbor—nothing more.

  That mouth-watering, dark-haired man intruded on her thoughts again. Sweet, like forbidden candy.

  She smiled. Well, maybe she'd make an exception about belonging to someone, but of course that man, whomever he was, was only in her visions. He wasn't real. Being with him was impossible.

  Reaching for another bottle of wine, she suddenly changed her mind about drinking more and headed for the bedroom. Every nerve and every cell in her body demanded that she lie down. Sensations of sleep washed over her. Why was it hard to remain standing? She didn't have a choice about not staying awake. It was as if she wasn't in control of her actions anymore; someone else was in the driver's seat. Her bed beckoned and there was no way she could resist.

  Each step she took had a surreal quality to it. Drifting into the bedroom, she lowered herself on top of the covers, unable to even draw them aside. As she dropped onto the fluffy pillow, her head seemed to spin. With all the alcohol she consumed, that wasn't too unusual. At first the revolutions were slow, then they increased to a breakneck speed. An eerie voice intruded. The low drone grew louder to become a horrendous chant.

  The last thing Alaina remembered before blacking out were the words, “T'will happen soon ... soon. Tonight!"

  CHAPTER TWO

  Someone used a jackhammer inside Alaina's skull. Pounding through her temples; blasting through the top of her head; hammering at the base—the pain was exquisite.

  “My aching brain,” she groaned. That'll teach her to overindulge. Her hangover promised to be one heck of a doozie.

  From a distance, a voice seemed to chirp. “What did you say, Milady?"

  Alaina froze. No one was supposed to be in her bedroom, least of all a bright-sounding female. She really must've tied one on last night. Should she chance a quick look? Would pink elephants greet her wobbly gaze?

  Swallowing her fears, she opened her eyes ... then swiftly shut them.

  Good heavens, not another vision! Sheer curtains hung from a poster bed, a pudgy cupid grinned down at her, and a ball-and-prism chandelier centered in the room. Although these things didn't belong in her bedroom, she knew where she was. But she was in no mood for Derek and his dearest darling. No way. She'd keep her eyes closed until this grotesque nightmare went away.

  “Milady, what is wrong? You seemed ever so much better. Are you still in pain?”

  The woman's voice, while sounding concerned, was maddeningly cheerful—and also British. Alaina wanted to strangle her. Instead, she buried her head under the soft pillow. Maybe she could go back to sleep.

  “Milady?"

  This vision insisted on being stubborn, didn't it? Giving way to the inevitable, Alaina came out from under the pillow. She couldn't shut her eyes forever. Sighing, she forced them open. A pretty, young woman dressed in black and white hovered by the bedside. She applied a cool compress to Alaina's throbbing forehead. The fragrance of fresh lavenders floated in the air.

  “You gave us all quite a turn, Milady. Why, you have been unconsh ... lud, I cannot say the word! You have been asleep since yesterday morn."

  To sympathize with Alaina's head pounding, her heart raced in the most alarming way. This morning was not starting out on a very good note—the understatement of the year.

  The woman, whose long white apron and longer heavy dress identified her as some sort of maid, fluffed up the bed pillows. The unnatural silence in the room obviously didn't bother her. “A fair pucker everyone has been in, I can tell you, Milady. Doctor Yates rushed over yesterday noon-time.” Her hands on her slim hips, she jutted her rosy lower lip. “But what does he do? He just says to let you sleep. Humph!"

  Alaina shifted position in the bed. For a vision or a dream, this young woman was disturbingly real. Slowly reaching out her hand, she touched the maid's fingers.

  No. It couldn't be. Alaina touched warm, flesh and blood skin. No airy fantasy. A jagged dagger of fear stabbed at her stomach.

  The maid patted Alaina's hand. “There, there, everythin’ will work out fine. Mayhap the Doctor knew best. Your Ladyship's color came this mornin’ and now you are awake."

  Turning away from this light-hearted maid, Alaina bit at her lip. Awake, yes, but how in God's name did she get in Mrs. Saybrooke's bedroom? And if Alaina was here, did that mean the other woman traded places and slept in Alaina's bed, smack dab in the middle of Manhattan?

  Lady Saybrooke. Nobility—British nobility. Alaina wrinkled her nose. And what had been her words? Oh, yeah—"Madame Reena had said she found a perfect substitute for me. We shall exchange places and no one will be the wiser."

  That couldn't be true. No. Impossible! Alaina couldn't have swapped identities against her will. What did Reena do, drug both women then transport them across the Atlantic—overnight?

  No, I don't buy that. But this maid thought Alaina was Lady Saybrooke, no denying that. And why did everyone wear clothes straight out of a historical costume book?

  The maid let out a squawk, stooped down, then peered intently at Alaina. Not a pleasant sensation to have every pore in one's face scrutinized. Had her skin turned the color of Jack Morrison's moldy bread, or what?

  “This cannot be! I do believe too much color came back.” Running to one of the windows, the maid inspected the closed pink drapes. “Please believe me, Your Ladyship, the sun never entered Milady's bedchamber. The drapes have remained shut since Milady's taken ill. I vow it to be so!"

  She fell to her knees, visibly quaking. “Please, Your Ladyship, you mustn't think me backwards in my duty. Haven't I been takin’ care of Milady these past seven years? As sure as my name is Dana, a stray sunbeam had no chance to darken Milady's skin!"

  Dana's distress was pitiful to see. She must've expected to get fired, or something. And all these Miladys and Your Ladyships sounded like something out of the Middle Ages. Cripes! People still didn't act that way around titles, did they? How positively medieval!

  Whether they did or not, Alaina had to calm this poor kid down. Sitting up, she leaned against the gold headrail. “Please ... um, Dana, why don't you get up? Don't worry about my, ah, tan. It'll fade."

  Alaina's skin tone was the least of her problems. Dana could see her, which meant that unless this was an extremely vivid dream, Alaina had indeed somehow switched places with Lady Saybrooke. Of course she couldn't be certain the other woman had landed in Alaina's bed, but it was a safe assumption, all things considered.

  The imp of mischief egged her thoughts on. What did the pampered lady make of Alaina's Spartan apartment? Had Roger kept his word and knocked on her door at one o'clock? What did he think of Lady Rococo and vice versa? Actually, the pompous Roger might fit Mrs. Saybrooke to a tee. Maybe she'd end up wanting to marry him. But then Derek would be there
too, wouldn't he?

  Alaina groaned. No sense thinking that way, but when she did finally get back, her life would be in a shambles.

  Dana tentatively stood up and reapplied the lavender compress. “Why, Milady! I just now realized you have not had a thin’ to eat in two days. I'll have Cook assemble ham and sausage, with your favorite, kippers, and—"

  “No, please! Um, just some toast would be great.” Fish in the morning was one treat Alaina'd pass on.

  “And your chocolate, too.” Dana obviously took the beverage for granted.

  “Sure. Why not?” Alaina closed her eyes. Her head screamed with inner fireworks exploding. But she was missing something. Something she needed to check on. What was it?

  Oh, yeah. Just where in blue blazes was Lady Saybrooke's house? But she couldn't ask that question outright. “Dana? One more thing—"

  Halfway out the huge mahogany double doors, the maid stopped. Another wary expression covered her sweet face. “Yes, Milady?"

  “Could you bring me a newspaper? I'd like to, ah, catch up on what's been happening.”

  “Certainly, Milady.” Dana's shoulder sagged with apparent relief. For some reason she acted as if Alaina was going to beat her. “Would you care for The Mornin’ Chronicle or The London Gazette?

  London? Good grief! Alaina's stomach twisted. How could she possibly be in England?

  “Milady?"

  Alaina shook herself out of her shock. “B—Both, I guess, if that's okay."

  Dana gave a proper little curtsey, but not before Alaina caught a look of puzzlement on the maid's face.

  I'm probably not acting in character. Lady Rococo must be a real joy to work for.

  Just as Alaina started drifting back to sleep, Dana entered the room, then set down a silver serving tray.

  “Thank you, Dana.” Alaina eyed the two folded newspapers, but picked up the delicate china cup first. Without thinking, she scrapped off the whipped cream generously topping the hot chocolate.

  Dana gasped.

  Alaina followed the maid's gaze to the spoon dripping with cream. Oh darn! Another boo-boo. Lady Saybrooke must be a fiend about her whipped topping. “Don't mind me, Dana. I'm not quite myself yet.” That was putting it mildly.