Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (36 page)

“The queen’s physicians, Marcus, remember?
And, if he was good enough for Princess Di, I suppose he’ll be good
enough for our little prince.” She slid from his lap, taking hold
of his hand, her mood taking another of its mercurial leaps. “Now,
come on. Rose says she has your new clothes ready. I can’t wait to
see you in slacks, much as I’ve come to love those sexy legs of
yours. And I’d better try my own clothes on as well, because I
think I might be gaining some weight around my waist. God, my mom
is going to be
so
happy!”

Marcus followed her willingly enough, also
anxious to try on his new clothing, although the thought of
eventually walking out in public with his shirt collar open and
minus his neckcloth and curly brimmed beaver was decidedly
unnerving—almost barbarian. Of course, he thought, smiling, he was
rather eager to see Cassandra dressed once more in that short
contraption she called a skirt.

I
t’s D-day.
Departure day. De-part de-era, de-sooner de-better. Get out of
town, clown; make some tracks, Zack; head for the Tower, Gower;
just leave the scene, Jean—there must be fifty ways to leave your
time warp!

Cassandra giggled at her own weak wit as she
left the last step of the wide staircase and tiptoed across the
tiled foyer, intent on taking a solitary walk, a farewell stroll
around Grosvenor Square. She had grown to love the Square during
these last weeks, as she had been confined to early-morning walks
in the area with Rose thanks to both Marcus’s stern admonitions
against making herself too visible in London Society and her own
lingering fears of Reginald Hawtrey—creep—and his equally wifty
aunt, Lady Blakewell.
Me and my big mouth! If I had behaved that
day I drove out with Hawtrey, I might have had the run of London
for the entirety of my visit to Regency England. Ah, well. I met
Byron. After that, anything else could only be considered an
anticlimax.

Her camera was in her purse, and there was
one last picture still to take. Already dressed in her own
clothing, which were carefully hidden beneath a light, full-length
cloak, she ventured out into the Square, debating as to which of
the many possible shots she would like to preserve for posterity.
Should she snap a picture of the ladies strolling along the
flagway, or would a photograph of one of the open carriages making
a circuit around the enclosed garden in the middle of the Square be
better?

Finally, after making one full circuit around
the large Square, she decided to use her last shot to capture the
look of Marcus’s mansion as he, she was sure, would prefer to
remember it. He had been so cute, detailing in his legal statement
that the mansion was not to be altered architecturally—making sure,
she supposed, that he wouldn’t come back to this place only to see
his mansion had been turned into a “box.”

Yet even if Marcus had failed to consider the
possibility, Cassandra worried over the sobering thought that his
wishes might not be carried out, through no fault of the persons in
charge of his trust, and that he might find his beloved mansion had
become a casualty of the blitz, the fierce bombing of London during
World War II.

She walked, hopefully nonchalantly, to the
center of the Square and looked all around her before sliding a
hand under her cloak, opening her purse, which hung from her
shoulder, and extracting the small camera. The wide brim of the
bonnet she wore, a chip straw confection she would dearly miss, hid
the camera when she raised it to her right eye. Squinting through
the viewfinder, she attempted to fit as much of the tall mansion
into the picture as possible, although she was already resigned to
missing a few of the chimneys.

Cassandra had just snapped the picture and
was in the process of returning the camera to her purse when she
became aware of movement directly behind her. She must have piqued
somebody’s interest, standing here in the middle of the traffic
lane. Quickly she dropped the camera into the purse and patted the
flap closed, then withdrew her hands and pasted a polite smile on
her face.

“Well, well, well,” a definitely remembered
and dreaded voice drawled with sugary sweetness—cloying, saccharine
sweetness. “If it isn’t the elusive Miss Kelley. I had about given
you up. You are a downy one, aren’t you, giving out the information
that you are indisposed, when here you are, looking fine as
ninepence—and sadly lacking your chaperon. For shame, Miss Kelley.
For shame, on both counts.”

Cassandra slowly turned, reluctantly but not
apprehensively, her lips curved in a sneer, her eyes raking the
overdressed Reginald Hawtrey from his perfumed curls to his
ridiculous red-heeled, gold-buckled shoes as he stood at his ease
beside a closed coach she hadn’t noticed until this moment. “Well,
well, well,” she retorted, “if it isn’t the obnoxious Mr. Hawtrey.
Your aunt has let you off your leash, I see. Or am I wrong, and you
have turned your coach into a hack and are earning your daily bread
by accepting fares from the
real
Quality? Go home, Reggie—I
think I hear your auntie calling.”

Hawtrey’s patently insincere smile
disappeared with the speed of a copper vanishing into a beggar’s
pocket. “Boglander peasant! You’re very daring, standing not twenty
yards from the safety of your paramour’s front door. Oh, yes, I
know the whole of it now. Keeping you to himself, Eastbourne is,
using some of your talents to help him on the Exchange, while using
the rest to warm his bed. Not that I blame him, for you’ve plenty
of fire. Haven’t you, my dear? But business first, I always say.
Eastbourne’s got some deep doings with Forquith. I know, because I
have made it my business to know. The man has been fairly living in
Grosvenor Square these past weeks. You’re picking his investments,
aren’t you, you cunning Irish witch?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Cassandra began backing toward the mansion. Something in Hawtrey’s
eyes told her that she would be wise to get out of his way as
quickly as possible. He couldn’t really hurt Marcus and
herself—things had progressed too far for anyone to thwart them—but
the man didn’t seem to be stable. Perhaps she had struck a nerve
with her offhand remark, and his aunt
had
tossed him out on
his money-grubbing rump.

Hawtrey moved quickly to grab her forearm and
pull her close, to within inches of his face. “Witch!” he hissed,
his eyes narrowed—any traces of his overblown good looks were
transformed into a mask of evil, of jealousy, of vengeance. “My
aunt has threatened to cut off my allowance if I cannot bring you
round my thumb. I came within Ames ace of an heiress last week, but
would she let me declare myself? No! It’s
you
she wants;
you
she is determined to have. I’ve been haunting this
Square for weeks, leaving my card, begging—yes, begging—for a word
with you, but Eastbourne has denied me at every turn. Oh, what’s
this? You look surprised, Miss Kelley. Hasn’t your master told you
of my visits?”

No, Marcus didn’t tell me, bless him. The
mere thought that Reggie Hawtrey was asking for me would have
turned my stomach more than my morning sickness. Not that it would
be wise to mention any of this to friend Reggie,
Cassandra
swiftly decided. Instead, she attempted in vain to jerk her arm
free, looking about her frantically in the hope of discovering a
friendly face. But the Square, normally teeming with people, was
nearly deserted, the only other occupants a few nannies herding
their small charges. She had to help herself, but she also had to
be careful. She had to consider her unborn child.

“Mr. Hawtrey,” she began reasonably,
employing her best Regency miss manners, “I am so very distressed
to hear that you have been thwarted in your repeated attempts to
contact me. And flattered as well. I promise, if you would care to
present yourself tomorrow afternoon at two, I would be most happy
to see you.”
Yeah, right. With any luck, I’ll be years and years
away from here by then, bucko.

Hawtrey sniffed indelicately. “How very
generous of you, Miss Kelley. But I think not. Tomorrow is too
late. My aunt has given me until midnight tonight to present you to
her—as her birthday gift. She plans to cage you, I believe, trading
food for secrets, drink for prophecies—life for the prospect of
fortune. Six weeks ago I believed her mad—both her and that
psalm-singing Austin who has been draining her of money—but
Eastbourne’s strange doings, and your own admissions, have changed
my mind.

“My aunt shall have her prophet at the stroke
of twelve, Miss Kelley, and I shall have my fortune all right and
tight. But, first, little witch—for the trouble you have caused
me—
I shall have you!
”

And then, before Cassandra could do more than
realize that she had landed herself in big trouble, she was being
shoved headfirst into Reginald Hawtrey’s closed carriage. As the
carriage pulled away, out of the Square, headed for heaven only
knew where, Cassandra’s last thought before she fainted (Lordy, how
she hated fainting!) was simple and succinct:
Kelley, you’ve
screwed up again—big time. And to top it off, your timing was
impeccable!

~ ~ ~

Marcus stood in front of the full-length
mirror, shaking his head. Could the image reflected in the glass
truly be his? He was dressed like a farm laborer, worse than the
lowest tenant in the fields. Cassandra had instructed Rose that the
sleeves of his new flowered shirt be hemmed a good three inches
above the elbow, exposing his arms, and then told him he was under
strict orders not to button the top two buttons of the shirt.

His slacks—an apt name, for they were
certainly slack —fit him so loosely except at the waist that he
could have toothpicks for legs and no one would know it. Even
worse, the material covered him to his ankles, nearly obscuring his
new riding boots—the same boots Peregrine had coveted. Around his
waist was a thin strip of leather strung through small loops on his
slacks and fastened with a gold buckle that had last seen service
on his black patent evening shoes.

In short, he felt ridiculous. He knew he
looked
ridiculous. But he would get used to it, he supposed.
After all, if Cassandra could walk out in public in her state of
near undress, he imagined he could face the world in
slacks.

Cassandra.
He smiled as he thought of
her, as he thought of the adventure they were to have later this
day. What would it be like, traveling in the midst of that
intriguing blue mist? And what would it be like once they had
completed their journey? Would they be in Cassandra’s time? His
theories all pointed to that happy event, but he could not be
sure.

He touched the ring that encircled the third
finger of his right hand, rubbing his thumb across the intricately
carved surface, the Latin inscription that translated to “what is
mine, I hold,” the Eastbourne family motto. He had entrusted the
third specially-made ring to Forquith yesterday before watching the
mold being destroyed and had personally slipped the second on
Cassandra’s hand only this morning, before leaving her to complete
some last-minute business with Peregrine.

Peregrine.
That poor man was in a
dither, caught between a reluctance to part with his best friend
and the knowledge that he, Peregrine Walton, was soon to be in
command of a vast estate. Marcus had found the fellow in the
library only two hours earlier, reading—and valiantly attempting to
understand—an essay on the benefits to be derived by seasonal crop
rotation. Yes, the man would do a good job husbanding the
Eastbourne estates. Or, at least, he would do his best. Aunt
Cornelia would see to that.

Corny.
Marcus smiled as he turned away
from the mirror. Dear Aunt Cornelia. Still sniffling into her
handkerchief when she was sure no one was looking, she had rallied
considerably in the past few days and promised to be a credit to
the Pendelton family. She had also been observed whispering to
Goodfellow a time or two. This was a growing association Marcus had
been watching with some interest. With Marcus gone, and the title
with him, perhaps Aunt Cornelia would throw propriety to the winds,
bend her Pendelton consequence, and follow her heart. It was a
soothing thought, and one he would enjoy sharing with
Cassandra.

Cassandra.
Marcus frowned, pulling out
his watch and marking the time. He thought she would have come
barging into his dressing room by now, showing off her modern
clothes, flirting with him as she had a few days earlier, teasing
him with glimpses of her long, straight legs.

He heard the door open behind him and smiled
as he replaced the watch, turning to see his beloved Cassandra.

However, it was not Cassandra but Peregrine
who had entered the room.

“Marcus? Is that really you? Dear me, and I
thought Cousin Cassie said Rose had done a fine job. I shouldn’t
tell you this, I suppose, as it’s too late to do anything about it,
but you look terrible. I don’t understand it, Marcus. Females in
Cousin Cassie’s time seem to go about in little more than scraps,
while we men are forced to wear sacks. Can’t even see your legs,
you know, although I’m seeing more of your arms than I can
countenance. Of course, Jack Sampson would like those slack things
above half—he’s been stuffing his hose with sawdust for years, to
give himself a leg. Calves like sticks, Jack has, you know. Where’s
Cousin Cassie?”

“Cassandra?” Marcus frowned, giving his
dressing room one last, assessing look—just to be sure he hadn’t
forgotten anything—before accompanying Peregrine into his
bedchamber. “I suppose she is with Corny, trying yet again to
persuade her to accompany us to the White Tower. We leave in less
than an hour—at six, just as the traffic is thin.”