“I pray that such barbarism wasn’t committed until after the poor sod was dead,” Sam muttered, his gaze falling on the dead man’s face and mutilated tongue.
Munroe said nothing. Rolling up his sleeves, he walked back to the table. “We shall begin with the visual examination,” he informed them.
“One moment, sir.” Barts bent to retrieve the last lantern, but paused, frowning. “How very odd . . .”
Munroe asked, “What’s the matter, Mr. Barts?”
The apprentice continued to frown, obviously puzzled. “I’m not certain, sir. The cadaver appears to have a tattoo of some kind. . . . Ah, actually several tattoos . . .” Barts squatted down to examine the symbols on the dead man’s leg before glancing up at Munroe. “I do not recall the body being marked in such a way when he was brought in, Doctor.”
“That’s because he did not have any such bodily mutilations,” Munroe said sharply. He came around the table, snatching the lantern away from his apprentice to peer closely at the area in question. Sam heard his gasp of surprise. “My God. What is this?”
Sam scooted around the autopsy table, nudging aside Barts to stare down at the dead man’s leg. “I don’t remember seeing them, either,” he admitted slowly, and felt his lips part in astonishment as he watched two more intersecting lines begin to appear on Sir Giles’s flesh. “Jesus,” he whispered, and had to curl his hand into a fist to stop himself from making the sign of the cross. He looked at Munroe. “What witchery is this?”
Munroe said nothing, but behind his spectacles, his gray eyes narrowed. He hesitated, then carefully moved the lantern down the length of the leg, letting the light play over the corpse’s flesh.
Sam leaned closer, waiting. He was mildly disappointed when nothing happened.
Munroe pressed his lips together as he contemplated the leg. After a moment, he brought the lantern closer to the body. Nothing happened at first, but then slowly two more symbols appeared like mystical stigmata.
Someone gasped. For a second, Sam was embarrassed to think he might have done it, but then he realized that Barts had made the sound.
Dr. Munroe lifted his hand and pressed two fingers against one of the images. He brought his hand back toward his face, thoughtfully rubbing his index finger and thumb together.
“’Tis no witchery, Mr. Kelly,” he finally murmured. “I believe it’s some form of secret ink. I’ve read about such things.”
“The light from the lantern is making the symbols visible?” Sam guessed. Intrigued, he leaned forward to watch as Munroe continued to move the lamp closer to the skin. The process teased out more of the markings.
“Not the light, Mr. Kelly. The heat. Mr. Barts, please bring another candle.”
Sam didn’t wait for an invitation. He retrieved a candle from one of the wall sconces as the apprentice had, and joined the men in bringing the flames near enough to heat the dead man’s flesh without setting it on fire. Despite having already seen it happen, Sam was still amazed when dark images began to bloom. Twenty minutes later, Sam took a step back and surveyed the corpse with appalled fascination. Sir Giles was no longer pale in death; his skin had become a canvas for about a hundred markings—the same symbol, etched over and over again on the warmed up flesh.
It took him a moment to be able to speak, and even then his voice was hushed. “God’s teeth. ’Tis a crucifix . . . ain’t it?”
“I’m not certain,” Munroe admitted. “Initially, I thought it might be an X, but one of the lines of the symbol is consistently longer . . . . I believe you may be correct, Mr. Kelly.” He turned to meet Sam’s gaze. “He was found in a church. Do you think this might be some form of religious zealotry? Or a political statement? Sir Giles was not a proponent of Irish emancipation.”
Sam frowned, troubled by the implication. “I don’t know,” he finally said, and his mind instantly conjured up an image of a certain dark-eyed, dark-haired American. “There is someone who might be able ter help answer that question, though.”
“Kendra Donovan,” said Munroe without hesitation.
“Aye.” Sam nodded, and nearly smiled. He knew that a year ago, neither he nor Munroe would have ever considered the idea of a lady involving herself in something so gruesome as murder, much less actually welcome her presence. But a year ago, they’d never known a female quite like Kendra Donovan.
The American was a puzzle. Her guardian, the Duke of Aldridge, had spread the story that Miss Donovan was the daughter of a close friend who’d emigrated to America, and he’d taken her in as his ward when her parents had perished in that rough-hewn country. Of course, Sam knew that story was as false as the one that Kendra had told his Grace—that she’d traveled to England in 1812 and had been stranded when war broke out between the two countries. The Duke must have had his suspicions; he’d asked Sam to investigate. It was during the course of that investigation that Sam had discovered . . . nothing. He’d found no ship carrying a passenger by the name of Kendra Donovan, and no captain who admitted to having transported a woman that answered to her description.
It was odd. But then, so was the American. There was no disrespect in Sam’s observation. In fact, he’d developed a deep admiration for the lass. He’d never met a female more courageous or more clever when it came to the criminal element. He’d seen her study a corpse with as detached an eye as Dr. Munroe. She even seemed to know things that the doctor did not. There were times when it was damned unnerving. If Kendra Donovan didn’t wear skirts, Sam would have been tempted to persuade her to become a Bow Street Runner.
Well, that, he amended silently, and the fact that she was the ward of the Duke of Aldridge. Members of the Ton did not become Bow Street Runners.
Although . . .
He scratched the side of his nose, and glanced at Munroe. “The Duke of Aldridge is a man of science. He would probably find this secret ink interesting, wouldn’t he?”
Munroe’s mouth curved in a knowing smile. “He is indeed a natural philosopher. I can attest that His Grace’s laboratory at Aldridge Castle is one of the most impressive I’ve ever seen. I agree with you that this is something that would intrigue him.”
“Aye,” Sam said slowly, his mind already churning with the possibilities.
“Mayhap you ought to send a messenger to Aldridge Castle, Mr. Kelly. At least to inquire about his Grace’s interest in this matter.” The doctor’s hand dipped beneath the apron, and he fished out his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket, studying its face. “A fast messenger ought to be there in two hours, maybe sooner. It would depend on the condition of the roads, I suppose. We could receive a response from the Duke by early afternoon. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if His Grace himself ventured to London immediately . . . along with his lovely ward.”
Sam exchanged a glance with Munroe and grinned. “I wouldn’t turn her away.” He hesitated, his gaze becoming thoughtful. “You know, His Grace’s participation would be helpful for another reason. Sir Giles belonged ter his circle.” He didn’t have to remind the doctor that a lowly Bow Street Runner such as himself had limited access to his betters in the Beau Monde, even when investigating a murder.
“Yes,” Munroe agreed. “His Grace would be extremely helpful in this matter. I know a fast rider.”
The Bow Street Runner’s gaze drifted back to the cadaver. Even as he watched, the symbols were beginning to fade. One by one, the marks disappeared as mysteriously as they had appeared across the dead man’s cold flesh. Sam had to fight the shudder that suddenly seized him.
“Aye,” he whispered. “The faster the better, I think.”
3
Kendra Donovan’s gaze followed the Boeing 747 as it angled to the side, white wings against a brilliant blue sky, circling around and around in a graceful glide. Lower. Lower still . . .
Then it flapped its wings.
Kendra blinked as the plane was transformed into a bird—a seagull or an egret, she couldn’t be sure—riding the air current in a descending spiral
until it disappeared behind the frost-covered trees.
Kendra slowly released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She wasn’t delusional, but there were moments when her imagination transported her back into the past—her past—which was actually two hundred years into the future. And isn’t that a kick in the ass?
She’d been living in the early 19th century for six months now. She’d watched the leaves of England’s trees change from the late summer greens to the rich rubies and flamboyant oranges of autumn before falling to the earth, where they shriveled into rusty browns. She’d watched the snow drift down to blanket those same leaves, and ice etch itself into the corners of windowpanes. A little over a month ago, with varying degrees of emotion, she’d listened to the clock strike midnight, and mentally flipped the calendar to 1816.
New year. New life.
Outwardly, she was adapting. Her dark hair had grown out from its blunt-cut bob, now long enough for her maid, Molly, to easily style into the trendy hairstyles of the era: simple topknots with wispy tendrils or more elaborate braids and bouffant curls. She could use a tinderbox in less than three minutes—which was still two-and-a-half minutes longer than anyone else here. But for someone who’d spent her life pressing buttons to light up rooms, she considered creating fire by striking a piece of flint against a metal container stuffed with scraggly bits of linen fibers and jute to be a hell of an accomplishment.
She’d learned to play whist. What else was there to do here in the evenings without internet or TV? She was even learning to dance—quadrilles, minuets, and reels—and was shocked to discover that it was more enjoyable than she’d ever imagined.
There hadn’t been dancing in her childhood. It was too frivolous. Her parents, Dr. Eleanor Jahnke, a quantum physicist, and Dr. Carl Donovan, a biogenetic engineer focusing on genome research, were fervent supporters of positive eugenics. Her very existence could be attributed to their almost evangelical desire to demonstrate to the world that society would be vastly improved if genetically gifted individuals would marry and procreate. Not that they’d left their experiment entirely up to the whims of nature. Her childhood had been a ruthless regime of tutoring and testing. While other preschoolers were scribbling outside the lines with a choice of 120 Crayola hues, she’d been given a No. 2 pencil to carefully fill in the circles on the latest aptitude test.
Kendra shivered, though whether from the memory of her bleak childhood or the fact that she was standing outside in a temperature cold enough to frost the trees in early February, she couldn’t be sure. She pulled her fur-lined pelisse closer to her throat, her gaze drifting to Aldridge Castle, spread out below from the sloping hillside upon which she stood. The ancient fortress, with its craggy gray stone, central tower, and castellated chimneys, was her one constant in time, looking exactly the same today as it had when she’d first seen it in the 21st century.
She’d been a special agent for the FBI then. Or, rather, she’d been a special agent who’d gone rogue. At the time, she had known she was making a decision that would change her life. She’d planned on being forever on the run, in hiding. She’d been prepared for that. But not this. How could she ever have envisioned this?
Another shiver raced down her arms. Life could change in an instant, forever dividing it into before and after.
Before she’d gone rogue, she’d been the youngest person accepted into the FBI. The Bureau had put her in cybercrime to take advantage of her computer skills; her own ambition had propelled her into the Behavioral Analysis Unit to work as a profiler. Her career had been on the fast track. Then she’d been loaned out to a terrorist task force.
Before and after.
On that last, disastrous mission, she’d nearly died. And she’d been one of the lucky ones. Beneath her pelisse and dove-gray velvet walking dress, the cotton chemise, petticoat, and stays, her scars seemed to throb at the memory.
If she could go back—forward?—in time, would she do anything different? The question haunted her. God help her, she’d made the decision to flout the FBI’s edict and go after Sir Jeremy Green, the man responsible for getting half her team killed. He’d died, but not at her hand. Instead, she’d fled the assassin who’d killed Sir Jeremy, running into the hidden stairwell in the study of Aldridge Castle.
Christ, if she lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget what happened next: the plunging temperature, the dizziness, the sensation of being shredded, shattered. A vortex or wormhole. That was the only explanation she could come up with for suddenly finding herself in the early 19th century.
A movement in the distance caught her eye, and she shifted her gaze to the three horseback riders coming out of the dark woods, trotting into the snowy parkland. They were too far away to distinguish their features, but Kendra knew their identities: Albert Rutherford, the seventh Duke of Aldridge; his nephew, Alexander Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe; and his goddaughter, Lady Rebecca Blackburn. The trio urged their horses across the parkland at a brisk canter.
In the 21st century, Kendra had always viewed herself as an outsider, a freak. First, her odd childhood. Later, she’d been a fourteen-year-old at Princeton, out of step with the older college students. At the Bureau, she’d had colleagues, and outside work, she’d formed a few romantic relationships, but they’d never survived the demands of her career. She couldn’t say that she’d had any deep friendships. How odd to have that change in this era. There was no denying the deep affection she felt for the Duke of Aldridge or the bond she’d formed with Rebecca. And Alec . . . God, she’d actually fallen in love with him.
It was completely insane, she knew. She might have been adapting in her own way, but that didn’t mean she belonged in this century. And yet . . . Everything old really is new again. Her parents may have lived in the 21st century, but their views were remarkably similar to those of the 19th-century English aristocracy, who believed in protecting the upper class bloodlines from their social inferiors. Like her parents, the Beau Monde had a sense of superiority in its own genetics. Although here, she realized, marriages were as much about securing legacies and increasing family wealth.
Something else moved in Kendra’s peripheral vision. She glanced over, surprised to see a horseback rider coming in fast, snow spitting like bullets from the stallion’s hooves as he charged down the long drive. The Duke, Rebecca, and Alec had also spotted the stranger, wheeling their horses around and galloping to intercept him. The rider yanked on his reins, bringing the powerful-looking stallion to a prancing stop.
Curious, Kendra watched the man retrieve a letter out of the pocket of his greatcoat and pass it to the Duke. Before she’d became an involuntary time traveler, Kendra would have sworn that she didn’t have a superstitious bone in her body. She’d been trained to think logically, both by her parents and the Bureau. But now her nerves tightened in a strange and entirely illogical sense of urgency. Something happened.
She was too far away to hear the words, but they were obviously engaged in some sort of discussion. Then the rider touched his tricorn hat, and kicked his heels against his horse’s flanks, sending the beast bolting down the drive, which curved around the castle’s courtyard to the stables in the back. Kendra knew the messenger would receive hot food and refreshments in the kitchens, and a coin for delivering the letter, while his horse would be tended to by the stable hands for his return journey home.
The Duke, Alec, and Rebecca remained huddled in their semicircle. From her position on the hill, Kendra could see the Duke breaking open the seal, reading the letter.
She picked up her skirts. Instead of retracing her steps along the path, she cut down the hill. The snow wasn’t too deep, the powdery stuff only coming up to her ankles, so she was able easily to churn through it.
She was about a hundred yards away when they noticed her. She raised a gloved hand in acknowledgement. Rebecca was the only one who returned her wave. Then she gathered her reins, bringing her mare around. Kendra was surprised when Rebecca leaned for
ward in the saddle and, instead of galloping toward her, sent her mare pelting after the messenger.
Something happened.
Kendra shifted her gaze back to the Duke and Alec. They appeared to be arguing. Alec glanced in her direction. She was still too far away to see his expression, but she recognized the angry set of his shoulders, the straight line of his spine. After a moment, Alec broke away, and, like Rebecca, directed his prized stallion, Chance, toward the castle, while the Duke turned his big bay toward her.
“What’s going on?” she demanded as soon as the Duke brought his horse to a full stop next to her. Her gaze roamed over his longish face and bold nose before meeting the pale blue eyes that seemed overly bright in the shadow of his beaver hat.
He said, “We must leave for London immediately, my dear. Mr. Kelly has requested our assistance.”
Kendra stared at the Duke. “What happened?”
“There has been a murder. Mr. Kelly’s letter is scant on details, but he says there is something peculiar in the nature of the crime. He believes our counsel would be helpful.” A perceptive gleam came into his eyes. “I believe Mr. Kelly is actually being considerate of my feelings, and is, in truth, seeking your expertise, my dear.”
Kendra said nothing. Her gaze drifted beyond the Duke to the white-blanketed countryside and cloudless blue sky. Another bird was being buffeted on the air currents high above the crest of trees. This time she didn’t imagine it was an airplane.
Something shifted and settled inside of her. A sense of satisfaction. Or, no. A sense of purpose. This might not be her world, but she could still find a purpose here.
She became aware that the Duke was watching her. She nodded. “Okay.”
The Duke’s saddle creaked as he leaned over and stretched out a gloved hand to her. Kendra’s wary gaze moved to the horse, and her stomach knotted. Learning to ride had been one of the lessons she’d avoided. It was the reason she’d been walking this morning while everyone else had been galloping across the fields. She didn’t exactly have equinophobia, but horses made her nervous. Jumping on the back of a thousand-pound animal seemed foolhardy to Kendra. And jumping on a sidesaddle was just begging for a broken neck. Ladies riding sidesaddle because it was more feminine and modest was about as asinine to Kendra as five-inch stilettos or rib-breaking corsets.
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