Down the Rabbit Hole

For Leslie Gelbman and Cindy Hwang. Thanks to you (and Nora) for making this adventure possible.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Be advised: this is a time travel! My time-travel world began with Amy and Simon in “Amy and the Earl’s Amazing Adventure” in the anthology Dead of Night, which is available as a paperback or eBook.

The magic coin, also known as Poppy’s Coin, is an element in all the anthologies I have done for Berkley. Their chronology varies, and someday I will do a spreadsheet to figure it out for myself. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the Earl of Weston’s adventure.

A couple of elements to note. The “space-time continuum” is a phrase that Amy Stevens used before she and Simon West traveled back to 1805. It was hardly a reflection of her understanding of science but came from the TV show Stargate Atlantis, something she admitted when pressed by Simon. No one really knows (including yours truly) how the coin enables time travel, except for the easiest explanation: “It’s magic!” Please suspend your disbelief and enjoy the story.

I always knew that Weston’s story was waiting to be told, for he is the “earl” referred to in the title of Amy and Simon’s novella. I was delighted when we were given the title Down the Rabbit Hole for this book, because his experience of time travel was totally unexpected (unlike Amy and Simon, who knew where they were going), and it was totally out of keeping with his known reality. Thank goodness he had Mr. Arbuckle to help him and someone to share the experience with him.

PROLOGUE

LONDON

APRIL 1805

“It’s a disaster.” Bennet William George Haven West, third Earl Weston, moved about the room as he spoke. The mantel needed paint. The books should be dusted. At least the decanters were full. “A disaster, to put it plainly.”

“Come now, Wes, it’s not like we are on the edge of complete bankruptcy. We’ll find a way out.”

Weston loved his cousin and heir presumptive. Ian’s use of “we” made him feel less alone and told him everything he needed to know about Ian’s loyalty.

“It’s almost that bad. These last two days with the estate’s man of business have convinced me that while no one will refuse me credit, there is not enough money coming in to make a dent in the bills that have been piling up for the last two years, at least.”

“Two years?” Ian sounded shocked.

“Two years. Since the old earl’s son and heir died. Apparently my cousin was the only one able to keep his father’s generosity under control.”

“Uncle Weston was an amazing man. Everyone mourned his passing.”

“As did I, Ian. I loved my uncle and benefited from his largesse as much as anyone. He never said no, whether it was to a beggar on the street or to his wife and children.” Weston poured himself just a drop more wine and offered the decanter to Ian, who shook his head. “If only his generosity had not extended to every possible investment suggested. You know as well as I do that each was less successful than the one before it.”

“When he died—has it been three months already?—I wondered then, and still do, if the news of the loss of that ship brought on the apoplexy that killed him.” Ian shook his head, his expression a mix of sorrow and frustration.

They were verging on maudlin ground now.

Weston stood up. “I am off to Westmoreland. The blasted artist is ready to put what he calls ‘the finishing touches’ on my portrait. The portrait I cannot pay him for.”

“Wait, tell me what your man of business had to say about the opportunity to invest in the canals. The new venture that Lord Wedgebrook is so excited about?”

“He said exactly what I expected. That I need to be sure that the investment is sound. The estate cannot stand another failure.”

“But it would be your money, not any of the money that is part of the estate.”

“As it stands now, Ian, I am the estate. The farms are in wretched condition. The tenants can barely call themselves farmers. The cottages are in such disrepair that no one with any ability will sign on.”

Ian shook his head in sympathy. “It’s hard to know where to start.”

Weston felt for the locket in his pocket. He had thought marrying Alice would be the first step toward the future. With her by his side, anything seemed possible. Now he was almost glad she had refused him. Debt was the last thing she would want in a husband.

The less noble part of him missed her. Missed her quite desperately. How could she say no when he knew her heart was filled with the same love and longing as his?

“Wes, what is it? What has you looking so stricken? Truly, there is a way out of this.”

“Stricken? Did I? It was nothing, just a moment of grief.” Let Ian think it was for his uncle. Move on, he told himself. Thinking of Alice only led to an endless circle of anguish that squeezed his heart and made his head ache.

“I will go to Westmoreland and start there.” Weston stood up. “I can close up this house and reduce expenses until next Season, at least. I can sell some horses, and there are some paintings not entailed. The Rembrandt, for one.”

“Dear God, Wes, that would be like announcing to the ton that you are on the verge of bankruptcy. Have you thought of marrying an heiress?”

“An heiress? Never!” Weston answered, more sharply than he intended.

“Very well.” Ian held up his hands as if in surrender. He stood up. “Feel free to call on me anytime, Wes. I will help you in any way I can. Indeed, I may even know someone interested in the Rembrandt.”

“Thank you, Ian.” Weston took the hand his cousin offered and clapped him on the shoulder. “No need to rush into it. I will think on it at Westmoreland. Who knows, something miraculous might happen. Yes, a miracle. Something that neither of us can imagine.”

Within a quarter hour, Ian was off to his lodgings and Weston was bound for the country. Eight hours more and the earl was less than ten miles from Westmoreland. The carriage rumbled on in the moonlight.

He wouldn’t be traveling in the dark much longer. Only a few miles more. The moon was full, the roads were safe, and he had a pistol if he was wrong about that.

He spent most of the trip leaning against the cushions, pretending to himself that he could doze off, but he’d spent the whole of the trip considering ways and means of righting the accounts. In a half-dreaming state, his head was filled with ideas from sensible to bizarre.

Weston fingered the round locket in his pocket and wished the future had a different look. One where he and Alice faced it together, with enough money to make her every wish come true.

He drew a deep breath and a sudden lassitude overcame him, dragging him to sleep just when he thought he might never sleep again.

CHAPTER ONE

“What the blazes is going on?” A hard thump had awakened him.

Weston’s first thought was to have a word with the coachman, but when he opened his eyes he wondered if his last visit to deal with the estate’s debt had done the job and he was ready for Bedlam.

He was not in his coach at all, but in the library of his town house in London.

He’d left London. He was sure he had. Weston could recall his conversation with Ian and his final words to the majordomo. “Send the overdue bills to Herbert.” His man of business knew what to do, and it would not be wise to let the staff know how much to let he was. Not with his sister’s come-out within the next year.

Now that seemed to be the least of his worries. As he straightened, he realized he was seated on the sofa, and that there was someone next to him.

And another man stood nearby, wringing his hands in a way that was not at all reassuring.

“Answer me, man. What the devil am I doing in London after riding in my carriage for ten hours?”

“I can explain, my lord. Truly I can. You must calm yourself and allow me to see to the lady. She should be awake by now.”

Weston turned to the person beside him. He’d assumed it was a man, given the clothes worn. Pantaloons. Dark blue pantaloons of some coarse material. He leaned forward a little to see her face.

“Alice?”

Alice Kemp stirred, and Weston shook his head, then checked to make sure he still had the locket. At first he could not find it, as he was no longer wearing a coat, but then he felt it at his hip in the pocket of the strange pants he was wearing, surprisingly like the pair Alice had on.

“Maybe insanity is not the nightmare I thought it would be.” Alice being next to him was a wondrous delusion.

He was speaking aloud but to himself, a sometimes unfortunate habit, and quite naturally, the man thought Weston was addressing him.

“Oh, my lord, I assure you. You are as sane now as you were yesterday. Something most unusual has happened, and as soon as I am certain the lady is well, I will explain it to both of you.”

“Kemp. Her name is Alice Kemp.” The earl took her hand and felt for her pulse. Alice’s hand was as warm and soft as he remembered, and her pulse was not much quicker than a normal beat.

As he watched, her impossibly long eyelashes fluttered, and he smiled at the green eyes he had never forgotten, any more than he had forgotten how she felt against him.

“Weston?” She asked more than said his name, and as her eyes cleared she moved to a sitting position. “Where am I?”

She brushed at the pants with an expression of disgust, if not outright revulsion. “Showing the outline of my legs is very embarrassing.”

“Yes, Miss Kemp, I am sure, but I can explain if you both will give me your attention.” The gentleman was wringing his hands again.

As was typical of Alice Kemp, she went on as if she had not heard him. “Where are we and why am I here?” She looked from the gentleman to Weston. It was not a friendly look. It was more like a glare.

Weston stood up and began to circle the room. The mantel that had needed paint last night was now a green marble. The room looked well-kept and dusted. “Now. I want explanations now.”

The man nodded, a series of short rapid movements that showed he was ready to comply.

“First, my name is Mr. Arbuckle. Until today and for many years, centuries even, I have been the caretaker of a magic coin. It was placed into my keeping in the early nineteenth century, where I was born and raised, and I have been responsible for it ever since. I have not always been in control of it, but I have always been responsible for it. But that is another story entirely.”

Weston rolled his eyes. If he was not mad, then this man must be.

“Listen, please, my lord.” He turned and bowed to Alice. “And you too, miss.”

“How do you do, Mr. Arbuckle. I am Miss Kemp. It appears I have been kidnapped and have no choice but to listen to your fantastical story. Luckily, I have always had a fondness for fairy tales.” Her disdain was obvious. She stood up and moved to the fireplace and chose the sharpest poker in the lot. “If I do not like what you have to say I want to assure you that I am more than capable of defending myself. Is that perfectly clear?”

Now that was the Alice Kemp he loved. She had a unique way of taking command of a situation. He did his best not to react at all.

“Yes, miss. Yes,” Arbuckle said as he took a step back, even though he was not within striking range. “And my story will sound fantastical, but will be amazingly easy to prove.”

Alice—he really should try to think of her as “Miss Kemp,” but once you have held a woman in your arms and made love to her it was almost impossible to think of her with any element of formality, so “Alice” it was—lowered the poker but moved closer to the library door.

Weston wanted to understand as much as she did. With that, the earl turned to the gentleman and narrowed his eyes. Arbuckle seemed innocuous enough. Portly, with a ring of hair surrounding a bald dome. Eyes a soft if aging blue. He had the air of a man of ideas rather than a man of action. He was not a physical threat, to be sure.

“My lord Earl and Miss Kemp.” Arbuckle bowed to one, then the other. “You have both traveled in time from your country home, my lord, to your town house in London. The year is not 1805 but 2005.”

CHAPTER TWO

“We have traveled through time. Of course we have,” Weston said. “Why did that never occur to me?”

“Weston, stop being sarcastic,” Alice commanded. “That is not the way to find answers.”

“Indeed, my lord, it is odd, but I can explain.”

“Explain away, but can you prove it? How do we know that you are telling us the truth?” Weston walked to the windows that looked over Green Park.

He turned around on his heel. “The park looks just as it did in 1805. The library is the same.” The earl reconsidered. Hadn’t he just noticed that the mantel was different? “Except for the mantel and that box on the desk and that odd-looking glass on the wall.”

“Yes, my lord. The box is a computer, an instrument that transfers information, and the item on the wall is a screen that shows pictures on demand. Would you like to see how they work?”

“Definitely not,” Weston said at the same moment that Alice said, “Yes.”

“Prove it, sir. Prove we have time traveled,” Alice demanded.

“Wait, Alice.”

“Wait for what, Wes?”

Alice had called him Wes. Did she even realize it? The verbal gesture inclined him to agree to anything she asked.

“Mr. Arbuckle”—Weston nodded to the man—“before you prove this time travel to us I want to know why we would have made this leap through time. What purpose would it serve?”

“Thank you, sir,” Arbuckle said, drawing a deep breath. “Do you see your portrait, my lord?”

Weston turned to the wall—so the artist had finished. It looked a bit different than it had last he saw it. “Indeed.”

“Do you see the coin on the desk next to your hand?”

“Yes.” There was a coin, a small train and the locket that was in his pocket now. “But when was that coin added? I thought the painting was completed yesterday.”

“The man and woman who took your places were sent back in time for the sole purpose of bringing that coin to you.”

“Took our places?”

As Weston was about to toss out at least five more questions, Arbuckle raised his hand. “Yes, two people have traveled to your time from theirs. That is, from the time that you are in now. And, my lord, the space-time continuum demands that Miss Amy and Mr. West’s physical bodies be replaced while they are time traveling, um, that is, to maintain the balance of space and time.”

“That is ridiculous,” Weston insisted.

“Absurd it may sound, but truth it is. I want to assure you that this is only temporary. You will return to your own time and place. And when you do, you can only go back with . . .” Mr. Arbuckle stopped abruptly and asked, “Did you bring something with you, my lord? Miss Kemp? A belonging of some kind?”

Alice looked down at her new clothing and shook her head. Weston was about to do the same when he remembered the locket. He debated lying, as he was not at all sure that he wanted Alice to know that he still had it, but the situation they were in made such a lie seem petty. He nodded and drew the locket from his pocket. “This came with me, though I cannot precisely say that I brought it.”

“Wes,” Alice said, and he could not decide if she was touched or surprised until he looked at her. The softness in her eyes was his answer. Yes, Alice, I have kept it, and I always will, until I can convince you to wear it again and forever. He spoke with his eyes and knew she understood when she looked away and down.

Alice Kemp was no more his now than she had been a year ago. Or two hundred.

Mr. Arbuckle cleared his throat. “The item you carried, my lord, takes the physical place of the coin they carried. That is the only reason you were allowed to bring something that is not from this time period.”

Weston wanted to know why the coin chose that particular item, the locket, but feared the answer would be something to do with the absurdity of time and space continuity or whatever Arbuckle had called it.

Or, he would have feared it if he believed a word of this story. Still, there was the issue of his traveling by coach for hours only to magically arrive where he had started.

And what was so important about a damn coin? Questions. He had a hundred. Weston pressed his lips together and waited for an answer to the first one.

“If you will come with me now I will prove that you have moved through both space and time.”

“But I have a dozen more questions,” Alice insisted.

“I am sure you both do, Miss Kemp, and I will do my best to answer them, but first I want to establish the truth of what I say, if you please. The changes in London will convince you better than I ever could with words.”

Mr. Arbuckle walked toward the door. Weston followed him, anxious to see the proof.

“I cannot go out in public wearing this!” Alice had not moved from the spot.

Both men paused. Mr. Arbuckle did not open the door.

“Miss, I assure you that no one will be at all shocked. The jeans you are wearing are typical for all English women.”

“Jeans?” She looked down at the offending garment. “Do they now name their items of clothing?” Her tone indicated that her question was more sarcasm, the kind she had deplored in him.

“Alice. We have traveled two hundred years into the future and you choose to quibble over an item of dress?”

“Quibble!” Now she was insulted. “You know as well as I do that what people wear can seal their fate in society. Beau Brummell has proved that.”

“Miss Kemp, please do trust me in this,” Arbuckle urged. “No one will think it unusual for you to be out and about dressed as you are. You are wearing essentially what Miss Amy and Mr. West were wearing when they traveled back in time, as they are wearing what you wore. So you see it is perfectly normal.”

Weston could not control a burst of laughter. “‘Perfectly normal’ are the last words I would use to describe this situation.” He turned to Alice. “Come, my dear, have you not always wanted to experience the comfort of men’s dress? Now is your chance.”

“Dress as a gentleman? Never. No more than you have wanted to dress in skirts, my lord.” But with a sigh Alice moved toward the door. “Very well. But I will box the ears of anyone who dares insult me.”

“I know that you are entirely capable of taking care of yourself,” Weston said, “but I assure you, Alice, that I shall do more than box ears if anyone should insult you.”

Alice turned her head away quickly, but not before he saw the hint of a smile.

CHAPTER THREE

As they made their way into the passage toward the front door a woman was coming up the stairs. “Are you done with the tea things, then, sir?”

A servant. This woman was a servant of some kind, but dressed in a way that made it look as though she were trying to copy her betters.

“Yes. We are done.” She was looking at him, but it was Arbuckle who answered. “Mr. West and Miss Kemp will be back shortly.”

“Very well, sir.”

Weston gave a brief nod when the servant glanced at him for confirmation. As the housekeeper moved into the next room to clear the tea table, Arbuckle whispered, “I beg your pardon, my lord, but the housekeeper—Tandy is her name—knows nothing of what has happened. And since you look exactly like Mr. West and not at all like the current earl, I thought it best to address you as him.”

“Yes, I see,” the earl answered, and then looked at Alice.

She nodded. “We will have to be careful what we say when she is around.”

“Which is not that different from our day, is it?”

Alice nodded with a small smile that brought an inordinate amount of joy to his heart.

Turning his attention from Alice, he made his way to the front hall. As they walked down the stairs that circled the entry hall, Weston noted that, while the place looked the same, the decor was different.

“It looks familiar, but parts of it are not at all as I recall,” Alice whispered to him, and he smiled at the intimacy, nodding.

Yes, he had no doubt this was his town house. The Rembrandt hanging at the landing proved it. He knew it was the same place, but so much around it was different, and for the first time the earl wondered if Mr. Arbuckle might be telling the unholy truth.

Did he even need to say that the next few hours were the most amazing of his life thus far? He knew the memory of this terrifying, horrifying, incredible look at the future would astound him forever.

There was the obvious. Thousands of horse-free carriages, which Arbuckle called “cars,” some large and some small, filled the roads. Conveyances called lorries took the place of carts, but still managed to block traffic as much as the old horse-drawn drays had.

Buildings were tall, huge. The lifts they rode on made stairs unnecessary except for emergencies. There were still pockets of small homes. Mayfair retained much of its nineteenth-century look. Even Berkeley Square was still there, if marred by the hideous building that was the American Embassy.

“What surprises me as much as the change,” Alice said at one point, “is how much has remained the same.”

Indeed he had noticed that too. London remained a hub of the world. People of all nations were on the streets, some hurried and on business, others shopping at a leisurely pace. He was delighted to see that the Burlington Arcade remained, with some of the same shops he frequented.

And Hatchards!

The bookstore still had pride of place on Piccadilly. Alice suggested they go inside, and Mr. Arbuckle agreed.

There were books displayed in far more dramatic ways than in his day, when stacked books near the door had been the only announcement of new publications. Now there were stands as tall as he was, with bright, even bold, covers. He moved from one to another, running his fingers over the smooth paper covers of three or four different books. No more leather covers. And authors seemed to crave publicity, as their pictures were a prominent part of the back cover.

One of the displays particularly caught their attention. The book was Alice in Wonderland, and Mr. Arbuckle explained that it was a perennial children’s favorite.

“That could be a story about us, Weston. For this London is, indeed, a wonderland.”

The earl turned to their guide. “How did this Alice reach her Wonderland? Was it by time travel as well?”

“No, my lord. She fell down a rabbit hole.”

“I did that once too,” Weston said with a laugh. “Well, my horse did. He fell in the rabbit hole and escaped unharmed, but it left me more dizzy than clearheaded. For a day I saw two of everything. Was that Alice in Wonderland’s experience as well?”

“No.” Arbuckle shook his head.

“Shall we purchase a copy?” Alice asked, and made to lift one from the stand.

“You may, if you wish, but you will not be able to take it back with you. If you take something with you, then you must leave something behind. The space-time continuum, you know.”

Weston’s expression must have looked as confused as Alice’s did, because Arbuckle shook his head. “Of course you have no idea what I’m talking about. As I said before you can only go back with what you came with, and that would be the locket. Unless you wish to leave the jewelry behind?”

Weston shook his head. Arbuckle nodded. Nothing was said, but each understood the other.

“If the people pretending to be us must leave the coin, what will they bring back?” Alice asked, as though she had not witnessed the silent commune.

Mr. Arbuckle shrugged. “They will think of something.”

“It will be a challenge to see if we can discover what it is they chose to bring with them.” Alice’s smile hinted that yet another adventure awaited them.

“Indeed,” Weston agreed, though he would agree to almost anything when she smiled at him like that. His smile must have been too suggestive, since Alice turned from him and picked up the nearest book, obviously only pretending interest in it. The book was a large volume called The Annotated Pride and Prejudice.

He stepped closer as though he wished to look at it with her, when all he really wanted was to inhale the lovely vanilla and rose scent she favored.

Alice dropped the book and moved to the other side of the table, clearly more upset than charmed by his nearness.

In the name of all that was holy, he did not know if his presence was welcome or not. Did she really want nothing more to do with him? If so, why had she been at Westmoreland in the first place?

CHAPTER FOUR

Arbuckle must have sensed the tension, because he announced in a too-cheerful voice, “I think you will be happy to know that Miss Austen’s works still sell very well.”

“Miss Austen?” Alice asked, grabbing on to the conversational gambit as if it were a lifeline.

“Jane Austen,” Arbuckle elaborated, “the author of Pride and Prejudice, the book you picked up.”

Weston was as much at sea as Alice. He had never heard of an author by that name. “A female author? Most likely she wrote gothic novels, the kind of books in which I have no interest.”

“Oh, Weston, do not act so superior, as if you never have read Defoe’s satires.”

Arbuckle picked up the copy of Pride and Prejudice and opened it to the front page. “My apologies. Pride and Prejudice was not published until 1813. It seems you have a treat waiting for you. I do believe at first she wrote anonymously, but the Prince Regent greatly admired her work, and eventually she became known to the public.”

“The Prince Regent? What happened to King George III?” Weston felt some concern. A regent meant the king was still alive but incapacitated in some way. “Did his brain fever return, or did another would-be assassin come too close to success? When and for how long?”

Arbuckle waved his hands as if trying to make Weston’s questions disappear. “Oh dear, oh dear. I know you cannot change history, as this event was always meant to happen, but I don’t know how much we should discuss or if I must watch my words.”

Sensing his real distress, Weston nodded. “I will not press you. The king has been ill several times. For the moment I will assume it is another one of those occurrences.” Mentally, he decided he would find a history of the last two hundred years and inform himself.

That thought was the launching point for an idea that could make this time travel worthwhile. But this was hardly the place to discuss it, for it would, no doubt, upset Mr. Arbuckle even more.

“Since we cannot purchase anything here I suggest that we leave and find a coffeehouse, Mr. Arbuckle,” Weston suggested.

“A coffee shop?” Arbuckle repeated and then smiled. “An excellent idea.”

Weston took Alice’s arm and was relieved when she did not pull away.

“Yes indeed.” Alice laughed. “My head is filled with questions. Everything from wanting to know when did women begin to dress like men, and why did men not choose to dress like women? And what diseases have been cured? How long do most people live?” She shook her head. “My list is endless.”

Weston was glad to see that Alice’s spirit of adventure had come through time with her. He’d always thought her imagination one of her most appealing assets. It was pure joy to see her flourish here.

Why could it not have led her to see a life with him as Countess Westwood? Instead she had apparently imagined a world where the ton would not accept them as a wedded couple because her own family was socially shunned because of her parents’ divorce.

“After I order the coffee, I will answer as many of your questions as seems prudent. You have time, and every visitor to this century should experience Starbucks.”

A few minutes later they were seated at a table in a madhouse of a coffee shop. Mr. Arbuckle insisted that they sit and took their orders. “Starbucks’ system takes some time to understand. It’s as though they have their own language. If you tell me what you would like, I will translate for you. Besides, you have no money with you. You will be my guests.”

Arbuckle took their orders and then left them at the table. Weston knew enough to make the most of his time alone with Alice. Or as alone as they could be surrounded by dozens of strangers.

“Alice,” he began, resisting the urge to reach for her hand. “Mr. Arbuckle said that we both time traveled from the country house. Why were you there?”

Alice Kemp looked away and cleared her throat. “I had just arrived to accept a position to help your sister prepare for her Season.” She shook her head. “Now someone from this time has taken my place. I cannot imagine a woman from 2005 being of any help at all. I fear my efforts at a career are about to be thoroughly compromised.”

Weston tried to conceal his disappointment. He’d hoped she might have come looking for him. He tried to find a way to ask what he most wanted to know. In the end he decided to be honest. “Did you know I would be in residence?”

“No,” she said. “But then a woman who must make her own way cannot expect to have everything as she wishes.”

“That was a dart aimed right at my heart, Alice.” He did reach for her hand, but she moved it from the table to her lap. “I wanted to marry you.”

“And a marriage with me would have completely estranged you from your family at the least, if not all of society. You saw how badly my Season progressed. My aunt insisted we had to at least attempt a Season to see if the ton might be willing to overlook my parents’ behavior, but you were the only gentleman who took an interest, and the ton hardly considered that a mark in your favor.” She looked away again and shook her head, obviously refusing to be drawn any further into the old argument, but then added, “At least that Season taught me all I need to know about helping young ladies succeed.”

Weston decided it would be best not to pursue the subject until he had something new to fuel the debate. Apparently love was not enough for Miss Alice Kemp. He would change the subject. It was wisdom rather than cowardice, he insisted to himself. “So tell me what you think of this wonderland.”

As always, she responded instantly to any question about ideas or observations.

“This wonderland, as you call it, is a cross between shocking and overwhelming. I cannot decide if I am appalled or amazed. I vacillate between the horror of wearing men’s attire and how intrigued I am by the way London has grown and changed.” She paused a moment, but then went on. “Weston, did you see the conveyances that carried dozens of people? And still the roads are not big enough, just as they are not in our day.”

“Yes, and what about the devices that people hold to their ears? I do believe they talk into them. Who are they talking to?”

“Women wear the most amazing shoes. How can they manage on such high heels? And the dresses are so short as to be embarrassing.”

He rather liked that part of this world, but was not about to say so aloud.

“And their reticules, Weston! They’ve grown to the size of a portmanteau.”

“What does one need to carry besides a handkerchief and vinaigrette?” he asked.

“In this day and age, who can say?” She looked around the room and leaned closer to him, not quite whispering. “Another thing I noticed is that women are out and about on their own. Not a maid or footman in sight. Do you think it is safe?” She leaned back and answered her own question. “Of course it is or they would not do it.”

Arbuckle came to the table with two cups and returned to gather a third. They were not proper cups but made of some kind of fortified paper. The smell emanating from them was comforting and familiar.

Arbuckle placed packets on the table and told them it was sugar, which they were welcome to add to the coffee.

Weston tasted it first, and his eyes widened in surprise. “This is the most amazing coffee I have ever tasted. Where is it from?”

Arbuckle looked relieved. “It is the standard Starbucks blend. Some people think it too strong.”

“It’s wonderful,” Weston said as he took another taste.

Alice reached for some sugar.

“Aha,” Weston said. “I knew you would add some. Your taste for sweet things has come forward two hundred years with you.”

“And you brought your superiority with you, as well.”

He recognized this tendency Alice had to criticize him as a strategy to encourage a distance she wanted and he did not. He knew from past experience that when she was honest with herself and with him that her words were completely different.

They drank in silence for a few minutes, observing the chaos around them.

One couple was having an intense low-voiced discussion at a table next to them. Two others at different tables were reading something on a device in front of them and then tapping wildly with their fingers, one occasionally stopping to run his hand through his hair. They seemed oblivious to the line of people waiting for service or the loud voices of the waitresses calling out the items that were ready.

“Is there a way to copy this business?” He had not intended to speak aloud, but once said, it could not be called back.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Weston, why would you want to copy this business when there are already dozens of coffeehouses in London alone?” Alice said. “And surely you would not go into trade! Apart from that shocking idea, what does this Starbucks offer that is not already available, besides wonderful coffee and good lighting? Neither of which we can bring back with us without altering the continuity of time.”

“The space-time continuum,” he corrected. Weston turned to Arbuckle. “And what is the space-time continuum?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea.” Arbuckle looked profoundly apologetic. “All I know is the magic coin enabled Miss Amy and Mr. West to travel to your home and for you to travel here.”

“Exactly what is this magic coin?” Weston asked. “You mentioned it before when I was less inclined to believe you.”

“Sir, I can tell you all I know in a few sentences. A shipment of coins bound for India was lost when the ship sank just off the Goodwin Sands in 1810. The ship was found by treasure hunters in 1987, and among the coins was one that was different from all the rest. It grants wishes.”

“Do you have proof?” Weston asked.

“It does sound rather like a grown-up fairy tale, Mr. Arbuckle,” Alice said with a bit more diffidence than before.

“Yes, it does, miss, and yes, my lord, I have proof. I have seen the coin grant wishes time and again.”

“I will take your word, for the moment, but now I want to know how you knew the coin needed to travel back into the early nineteenth century. Indeed, to before it was even minted.”

“Ah, my lord, because the coin had to be there to grant the wishes that are the heart of its mission. I was more than relieved when Miss Amy and Mr. West were willing to take it. I worried about how the coin would travel through time ever since I saw it in your portrait when it was loaned to a special exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery.”

“I fear this is beginning to sound like nonsense again,” Weston said.

“Really, Wes, why do you say that?” Alice asked, her head tilted to one side in a gesture of challenge he recognized. “Is it any more fantastical than the two of us skipping ahead two hundred years?”

Before he could answer Alice turned to their host.

“Mr. Arbuckle,” Alice asked, “since you cannot explain the space-time continuity, then how can you be sure the coin can bring them back and return us to our more familiar world?”

“There is no doubt in my mind that Amy and Mr. West will return to their rightful place, as will you,” Arbuckle answered promptly. “Because the coin has enabled me to travel through time as well.”

“You’ve traveled through time?”

“Why did you not tell us that sooner?”

Both of them spoke at the same time.

“Until Amy and Mr. West traveled I thought I, as keeper of the coin, was the only one who could do so.”

“But you have not traveled back, have you?” Weston hated to point out the obvious, but he needed answers.

“No, because I assume my work here is not done. But I have complete faith that when the time is right, we will all be where we belong.”

“Faith in the reality of space and time travel?” Alice asked.

“The space-time continuum,” Weston corrected.

“No,” Arbuckle continued, “I have faith in God. My experience has led me to believe that there are dimensions or realms we do not see or understand. But the Divine does, and He makes all things possible.”

“Including magic coins?” Weston did not share such a broad view of heaven, earth and all between, but Alice seemed more at ease with an explanation that was based on religion instead of science, for she smiled a little and nodded.

“Do you know when that will happen?” Weston hated to spoil her happy mood, but he could not resist asking.

“I have no idea.”

“That seems to be one of your favorite phrases, sir, and it is not at all reassuring.” Weston felt compelled to add, “Though I do appreciate your honesty.”

“I know it will happen, and it will not matter if you are in the library or in Paddington Station. You will return to exactly where they are standing, and they will return here.”

Alice stood up. “So there is no need for us to rush back to the town house? We may explore more of the twenty-first century?”

Excellent questions, the earl thought. If they could explore more he might be able to act on the idea he had had at the bookshop. Namely, did his visit to the future hold a way for him to repair the West family fortunes?

For the first time Mr. Arbuckle hesitated. “I am not sure how wise it is for you to know every detail of modern life.”

Alice sank back into her seat, looking quite disappointed.

“But you told us that we cannot change history,” Weston reminded him, and not just because he hated to see Alice disappointed. Before Arbuckle could answer, Weston went on, approaching the subject another way. “Tell me, sir, have canals prospered in the last two hundred years?”

“Oh yes,” Alice said. “Lord Bridgewater’s canal generated many imitators. It was a brilliant way to move coal.”

“It may have been brilliant then, but they are no longer used for transport in this country.” Arbuckle spoke with regret. “The canals today are no more than pleasant byways where people use the old barges for vacation houses and some even make permanent residences of them. They have no real economic value anymore.”

Thank the good Lord he found that out before he invested in them. Perhaps I am using the wrong approach, he thought. “Tell us what has changed lives the most.”

When Arbuckle pressed his lips together as though he would refuse to answer, Alice interceded. “Come now, sir, what does it matter? We have been dead so long it can hardly make a difference to the content of space and time.”

“Space-time continuum,” Weston corrected sotto voce again. Alice merely shrugged at the correction.

Arbuckle nodded. “I suppose you have a point, miss.” With his finger on his lips, he seemed to give the question some thought. “I think electricity has been the most significant invention. It is now used to power lights, provide heat in the winter and cooling in the summer, and further powers so much of what we use in daily life.”

“Electrical science is of some interest in my time,” the earl said, wondering if that was the key to repairing the West fortunes.

“Yes, but the true development of electricity in a practical way does not happen until the end of the nineteenth century.”

“Shall we walk among the crowd?” Weston suggested, hiding his disappointment. “Perhaps that will provide inspiration.” He spoke the last aloud without intent. Mr. Arbuckle was taking the used cups to a trash bin, but Alice heard him.

“Inspiration for what?”

“A way to repair the fortunes of the Earl of Weston,” he answered as he stood to help Alice from her chair. “There must be something here that I can invest in back in our own time.”

CHAPTER SIX

As Weston watched Mr. Arbuckle make his way back to them, a conversation from a nearby table distracted him.

“See, Ginny. That girl didn’t mind that the guy with her helped her up.”

The speaker was half of the couple he had observed earlier having such an intense conversation. Weston was sure the young gentleman had not intended him to hear.

“Yes, but that’s the least of it, Bryce. It’s not those old-fashioned things like helping a woman put on her coat or opening the door, it’s your overall attitude toward my work.”

“It’s not your work, Ginny. It’s the way it consumes you.”

With a glance at him, Alice sat back down in her seat, and Weston did the same. Yes, this was a little bit of twenty-first-century drama that he wanted to hear, rude as eavesdropping may be.

“Being a physician takes time,” the girl continued.

“But you’re done with your residency.”

“And now I’m going to spend a year or two as a colleague of the foremost physician in the field of head and neck surgery.”

Alice looked stunned. He probably did too. This woman was a physician? Beyond that, she was apparently about to specialize in a field of science he had never heard of.

“So if we want to marry we’ll have to wait?”

The girl shook her head. “I love you, Bryce. I want this to work. But your job with the foreign office and mine, well, it makes it hard to have much of a life together.”

“Shall we go?” Mr. Arbuckle asked as he came back to the table.

Embarrassed by his eavesdropping, Weston stood up with unnecessary speed. Alice was more decorous but made no demur, and they left the coffeehouse and the little drama behind them.

Alice took his arm and leaned closer and said, almost whispering, “Did you hear that, Wes? That woman, she could not have been much more than thirty. And she is a physician! It’s astounding.”

“It most certainly is. I’m not sure I would be willing to trust her to care for me.”

“And why not?” His comment brought Alice up short, and they stood in the middle of the walk, people streaming around them on either side. “She must have been well educated if she is to work with the best in her field. Do you not believe that a woman can do work with an expertise equal to a man’s?”

“I find it hard to believe that times have changed that much.”

“Oh, Weston, don’t be ridiculous. Look at those things that fly and the machines that hold more information than every book in your well-respected library. If those things are possible, then why not a woman doing a man’s work?”

“Shall we move along, my lord?” Mr. Arbuckle suggested. “We can walk to Green Park. It’s only a few blocks away, and we can continue the discussion there, if you wish.”

They followed behind Mr. Arbuckle, arm in arm, weaving through crowds that seemed to have grown in the short time they were in the coffee shop. As they walked Alice pressed her point. “All these women we see passing are so much better dressed than I am. Based on what we overheard it’s most likely that they have positions with responsibility outside of maintaining a home.”

“Hmm,” was the only response that occurred to him.

“They could be bankers, shop owners.” As they waited at the light she turned to a well-dressed woman. “I beg your pardon, miss, but would you tell me what you do with your day?”

The woman looked slightly nonplussed, but shrugged. “I’m the manager of an art gallery in SoHo.” As the light changed she hurried off. “Sorry, I’m quite late getting home.”

“There, you see, Wes? Though I am not sure what someone who manages an art gallery actually does, the word ‘manager’ indicates a position of some responsibility.”

As they entered Green Park, Mr. Arbuckle waited for them so they could all walk side by side on the wide path.

“Mr. Arbuckle,” Alice asked, “is it not true that women do all sorts of work now, work that used to be reserved for men in our time?”

“Yes, miss, that’s quite true.”

Weston wondered if the change was one-sided. “Next you will tell me that men are giving birth and nursing their young.”

Even as he spoke, they passed a park bench where a young man was holding a babe and feeding him with a bottle. Weston’s face must have shown the panic he felt, for Alice laughed out loud.

“No, my lord,” Mr. Arbuckle reassured him, “men do not give birth, but they are much more involved in child care now than they were in 1805.”

“How, um, interesting.” Weston did not know whether to be relieved or impressed. “Do men have nothing more important to do than care for puking and mewling infants? Have the women taken all their positions?”

“Oh, Weston, please.” Alice’s tone made him feel like a fool. “Did you not hear Mr. Arbuckle say that they share the responsibility? I imagine that both men and women work, and sharing domestic duties is the only way they can manage.”

Frankly, this struck him as more amazing than cars and computers.

They had come out of Green Park and continued along Piccadilly, arrowing back toward the town house, both of them lost in their own thoughts for the moment.

Weston tried to decide if he would be willing to share “domestic duties” if that meant Alice would marry him. The answer was an unequivocal yes. Ah well, then he was not quite so far removed from twenty-first-century man as he’d thought. But then the problem had never been his willingness to commit to her, but hers to him.

Her obstinate belief that her parents’ divorce and her family’s social ostracism would extend to him had truth at its core, but he was convinced that the two of them could have persuaded the ton that she was as much a lady as any Countess Weston. And it was probably a fantasy on his part to think that the open-mindedness he was seeing in her was something that would travel back with them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sorry soul-searching was becoming an unwelcome habit, but Weston was stopped short of further conjecture by Alice’s insistent tug on his arm. “Tell me why all those people are walking into that building. They cannot all have positions there.”

Weston had been so lost in thought he had not even noticed that oddity as they turned the corner. “Yes, I see, and at least as many are coming out. But why?”

“They are not actually going into the building, my lord. The building access is also the entry to the Green Park Underground station. The Underground is a train system that runs in tunnels beneath the city. In London, it’s the most popular method of moving from place to place.”

“I want to see it!” Alice said. “Can we ride on it?”

Mr. Arbuckle hesitated and shook his head. “Not now, miss. It’s the time of day when everyone is going home, and the trains and tracks are much too crowded. Maybe later this evening.”

“Judging by the number of people pouring in, I suspect you have the right of it,” Weston said, pulling Alice just a bit closer. “I would not like to be separated. From either of you,” he added quickly.

They were standing in the shelter of a small, freestanding shop that appeared to exist to meet the needs of those who used the so-called Underground. It did not look like it would survive a strong wind, but it did appear to have occupied the space awhile. As he watched, people purchased packages of food and newspapers.

“At least newspapers still exist and do not appear to have changed that much.”

“But the pictures. They are not paintings, and are printed right on the paper. In colors.” Alice let go of his arm and picked up a periodical.

Weston examined several of the newspapers that were on display and was brought up short by one that proclaimed: Vinton to Divorce. He picked up the paper and handed it to Arbuckle. “Purchase this for me.” When Arbuckle hesitated, Weston insisted, “Then give me the money! You told us before that nothing we can do will change the future, as this event was always meant to be, so let me have this.”

“It’s not that, my lord, but this is hardly a reputable newspaper. There are others that would be more, uh, honestly informative.”

“Will they have stories on this divorce that is on the front page?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then let’s have this one and we can look on the information box for more when we are back at the townhouse.”

“Computer, my lord. It’s called a computer.”

Weston did not care what it was called, as he was damn sure he would never see one when he returned to Westmoreland. It ranked with the space-time continuum as something he had no need to understand.

Twenty minutes later they were in the library again. As soon as they were seated, the housekeeper brought tea and some small sandwiches and sweets.

“Will you be here for dinner, then, sir?” she asked, with a casual air that reminded Weston of his sister rather than a servant.

With a look at Mr. Arbuckle, Weston nodded. “And have a guest room made up for Miss Kemp.”

“Of course.” She nodded to Miss Kemp. “Dinner will be served at eight o’clock,” Tandy added as she left the room.

“She seems rather more a friend than a servant, does she not?” Alice said.

“Yes, I almost thought I should add a ‘please’ to my request for a guest room.”

“Servants are much more difficult to find these days,” Arbuckle said. “The Weston housekeeper has been with the family for near forty years.”

Weston nodded. “Then she is family. I will add the ‘please’ next time. I would not want to create problems for Mr. West.”

They sipped tea and Weston ate several of the tasty but too-small sandwiches. As he ate he moved about the room, looking more closely at the modern additions, touching them carefully, anxious to read the paper but wise enough to wait until they were both fortified with some food and tea.

Alice kept to her seat and sampled the pastries. Weston watched as she took a delicate bite, closed her eyes and savored the taste with such bliss that he wanted to capture the taste of it, and of her, with his mouth.

When she reached for a third treat with a guilty glance his way, he raised his tea cup in salute, came back to his chair and took a cream confection himself.

They sat in silence. After finishing his tea, Weston held the newspaper in front of him so that the headline was clear to everyone in the room, especially Alice.

But Alice was engrossed in the periodical she had purchased, called Vogue UK, whose colorful pages held her in thrall.

It took him a few minutes to focus on the article that accompanied the headline on the front page. It was one of his less salacious wishes to do just this with Alice: sit in the library, reading what interested them and sharing the best bits, all the while watching the clock until they could retire. Together.

He cleared his throat and gave his full attention to reading about Vinton and his divorce. When he was done he had more questions than answers. “But that’s what time travel is all about, is it not?”

He had not meant to speak aloud, but both Alice and Mr. Arbuckle turned to him.

“What is time travel about, Wes?” Alice asked, the magazine spread open to a page of women in gowns cut low and without sleeves. Gowns that showed an amazing amount of the body. Weston considered them with interest until Alice looked at him.

“Are you ogling, Wes?”

He shook his head and cleared his throat, turning away.

“While you were distracted, Weston, I asked what you think time travel is about.”

Relieved that she did not pursue her question about ogling, Weston answered promptly, “Questions, my dear. Time travel is all about questions. For everything I learn, ten more questions come to mind.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Weston took a deep breath and directed Alice’s attention to the front page of the article he had just finished.

“Do you see this headline?”

She nodded with a frown and looked back down at her magazine. “I can see divorce is as shocking now as it is in our day.”

“Not exactly,” Weston said. “Vinton is a member of Parliament who, and I quote, ‘has built his career on deploring the rising rate of divorce in the country.’”

“Oh,” was Alice’s only reply.

“It seems Vinton is extremely conservative, and it was a shock when his press manager, whatever that is, announced that he would seek a divorce from his wife of twenty years, as she is about to make public her intention to have a sex-reassignment surgery.”

“What!” Alice said, clearly shocked into the curt comment.

“Do you see what I mean about endless questions? Perhaps not all of them are meant for polite company.”

“You’ve gone so far as to introduce the subject; please do not become hesitant now.” Alice put her hand out for the paper and Weston handed it to her. She held it up as she read, and he wondered if she was only using it to hide her face or actually reading the article.

“I assume since it’s in the paper that changing one’s sex is possible in this day and age?” Alice asked Mr. Arbuckle.

“Yes,” their tutor of the twenty-first century replied with a slow nod. “But changing one’s sex is not common.”

“If a woman can become a man, then can a man become a woman?” Alice’s expression was neutral. With effort, Weston judged.

“Yes, it can work both ways, miss.”

Women could now become men? Weston tried to ignore the disquiet that aroused in him and turned to Mr. Arbuckle. “Does one use a magic coin?”

He thought he heard Alice stifle a laugh, but he could not be sure, as she was once again hiding behind the newspaper.

“No, sir. It requires massive doses of hormones and surgery.”

“By all that is holy, you are actually telling me women can become men.” Arbuckle had answered them once, but Weston found himself wishing he had heard wrong.

“Yes, my lord, and men can become women.”

Alice lowered the paper. “Which change is more popular?”

“I do not know, miss, but I could use the computer to find out.” Mr. Arbuckle was a little red in the face himself, and whether Alice noticed it or not, she rejected the offer with a raised hand, as though chasing a fly away. Do they still have flies in 2005? he wondered.

“It says here that Vinton was active in his protests of the divorce rate.” Alice pointed to the article.

Weston had known this was a subject that, though painful, would interest her.

“The article implies that the rate has stayed the same for the last few years, but that Vinton believes it is indicative of a moral decay that he thinks is rampant.”

“Well, yes, the rate has increased dramatically,” Arbuckle explained, “especially from your perspective. I don’t know the exact percentage, but I would say forty percent of marriages end in divorce.”

“By all that’s infamous, that would be forty out of every hundred?” Weston looked at Alice, who was equally astonished.

“But how can that be? Are divorces not expensive anymore?”

“Not as expensive as they were in the nineteenth century.”

“And there is no social ostracism?” Alice asked.

“No, miss, not as there is in your era.”

“In my life,” she said with a breath that was part laugh and part shock.

“Your life, miss?” Arbuckle asked carefully.

“My parents divorced.” Alice spoke without emotion in a tone that suggested no more discussion.

“Oh, yes, then I see why this would interest you.”

“And no one cares anymore? The marriage ends and people go on with whatever they were doing?” Weston asked.

“Well, it’s never that simple. There is almost always pain, and since marriage is a binding contract, the law is involved. But in time everyone goes back about their lives.”

“What happens to the children?” Alice asked, obviously distressed.

“The court awards custody to one or the other parent, or, more usually, both.”

“If they are not living together, at least I assume they are not living together, then where do the children stay? And the former wife. Does she have a place to live?”

“The children live at one house or the other depending on the custody arrangements.”

“Oh, then that’s not so bad, then. I spent the Season with my aunt, while my father was in London, you understand, and the rest of time I was with him.” Alice relaxed a little.

“And the ex-wife usually is provided for. But not always. Some women actually make more than their spouses, and it’s the ex-husband who must be supported. In both cases that stipend is called alimony.”

“That is both fascinating and overwhelming.” Alice considered for a moment, shook her head and went on. “Can you define moral decay, Mr. Arbuckle?”

The poor man looked as though he could use something stronger than tea.

“Um, I assume they mean the casual attitude toward sex outside of marriage.”

Weston shook his head. “It sounds much like the behavior of the ton during the Season and at most house parties.”

“It is not that simple, my lord. The issue is a much-discussed topic, but as to your point, the more liberal members agree with you.”

Alice laughed. “Best not let anyone hear you’ve turned liberal, Wes. It could upset the balance of power in Lords.”

“Alice, I suspect my views on many things will change after this experience.”

They went on to discuss the openness of homosexual behavior and a dozen other social changes that would shock even the most liberal members of the House of Lords.

The three of them entered into a spirited discussion on the issue of moral decay. It was threatening to become a full-blown argument when Tandy knocked on the door to announce dinner. It was a well-timed interruption.

CHAPTER NINE

Dinner was a delicious experience, but completely different from the way the meals were presented and served in Weston’s day. There were fewer dishes, and no footmen to hold the serving platters. The chicken Cook had prepared was in a white wine sauce over a concoction of brown and wild rice (he’d had to ask what it was) with roasted asparagus and a mix of green leaf vegetables covered with what he suspected was an oil and vinegar topping.

Salads, as they were called, were new to him, and without the topping would have been more suitable as food for rabbits—though he was careful not to voice that thought aloud. Despite so few dishes, he was replete after a healthy sampling of everything.

Dessert was the most wonderful burnt cream he had ever tasted. The twenty-first-century name for it was crème brûlée, after the French, and if he thought it was delicious, he was sure that Alice near swooned with pleasure at each mouthful. A suitable white wine accompanied the meal, and coffee finished it, offsetting the feeling of fatigue that had been tempting him to abandon the evening’s adventure.

“Is it a good time to test the Underground, Mr. Arbuckle?” Alice did not seem to be suffering from the same languor as he.

“Yes, most assuredly. We will take the Underground just one stop, but it will be enough of an experience, I am sure. The speed and widespread use of trains for travel first began in the late eighteen hundreds, but they reached their prime in the last century.”

With compliments to the cook, who turned out to be Tandy herself, the three of them left the house once again. The nearest locale to find the Underground was the one they had passed earlier in the day at Piccadilly.

As they went inside and proceeded, quite literally, underground, Alice clung more firmly to his arm. Mr. Arbuckle moved ahead of them with confidence, paused long enough to pay for tickets, and then directed them to the stairs. The moving stairs.

Weston could feel the tension in Alice increase and was sure if he could test her pulse he would find it hammering as hard as his was. Neither he nor Alice stepped onto the moving stairs with as much confidence as the people around them, but no one seemed to care.

“Thank goodness most seem to just ride on these,” Alice whispered. “It would test my balance to ride and step down at the same time.”

They both watched their fellow travelers.

“They do not seem at all amazed,” Alice observed. “Their expressions range from—um—disinterest, I would say, to”—she paused again—“impatience.”

“I suspect the impatience stems from whether they have had dinner or not.”

She laughed a little, and her death grip on his arm eased just a tad.

As they moved deeper and deeper under London, he wondered aloud, “Do you think this is what coal miners experience when they head into the earth?”

“Possibly, though without as much light. And it certainly is not as clean as this.”

“This convinces me that miners are not paid nearly enough.”

“We can breathe quite comfortably, Weston. How can that be?”

Instead of answering her, he nodded to the end of the moving stairs, and they both concentrated on stepping off without mishap.

“Part of me thinks that was quite enough adventure,” Alice said. “And we haven’t even seen the underground transport yet.”

A moment after Mr. Arbuckle announced, “It will be loud,” the noise level increased dramatically. It took real effort not to cover his ears, as Alice did for a moment. As they walked toward the platform where a few people were waiting, the train charged by them moving faster than anything Weston had ever seen.

It stopped and the doors opened, and they did not need the voice urging them to “mind the gap” to step carefully from the platform into the carriage, one of several carriages connected for a train of considerable length.

Alice leaned closer; in truth she did it to make room for someone who wished to take a seat in the small space next to her. The side of her body pressed into him, and the jolt of lust that echoed through him at even this minimal contact made Weston marvel at his control. When they finally did go to bed, he wondered if their rooms would connect.

The ride was astounding; so astounding that his arousal subsided in the face of this terrifying experience. It felt as though they had been shot from a cannon.

“I devoutly hope the driver knows the correct route,” Weston said, turning to Mr. Arbuckle, who nodded.

“The train has wheels, and they run on tracks so there is only one way they can go. These trains can run without a driver if necessary.”

“The Oystermouth Railway!” As he tried to form a mental image of carriage wheels locked into a track to convey a load, the words popped into his mind, making the connection. He spoke aloud without thinking.

“What are you talking about, my lord?” Alice actually put some distance between them as she asked. Did she think he had gone mad?

“Alice, they are constructing a system that functions on rails in Wales, but they do not call it the Underground, they call it the Oystermouth Railway. When it is complete they will use it to transport coal from an area where there are no roads.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Alice said. “Have you, Mr. Arbuckle?”

Arbuckle shook his head. Of course I know a little about the development of railways, but not that particular one.”

“Not many have heard of it. Yet. The only reason I know it,” Weston continued, “is because the estate owns several coal mines that would be serviced by the railway. The trustees are not inclined to maintain the connection because they feel it will cost more than it is worth, and they approached me recently with the suggestion that we sell our interest.” He looked around him with satisfaction. “I think not. There is obviously more of a future for railways. More than just carrying coal away from the mines.”

As the train pulled to a stop and Mr. Arbuckle rose, Weston and Alice followed.

They reversed their route, stepping onto the moving stairs that went up—a much easier proposition than stepping on to go down. One wasn’t likely to fall up the stairs, though he imagined it was possible.

“Mr. Arbuckle, Alice wonders how it is we can breathe so comfortably below ground, and I wonder what fuels these marvels.”

“I really do not know the answer to either question, my lord, but in the early days of train travel it was coal that fueled the engines.”

Weston nodded. “More and more I am committed to the coal mines in Wales, Alice.”

She gave him her attention, and he went on. “They are clearly a fundamental part of the future. And I think it’s significant that the Oystermouth Railway is a project that I am already involved in.”

“It was your uncle’s investment, was it not?”

“Yes, and one that is infinitely more sensible than it seemed. I will not let it go, regardless of what the estate trustees counsel.”

CHAPTER TEN

“Are we not still in Mayfair?” Alice asked as they exited the Underground station into a salubrious evening.

“Yes, miss, we are.”

“Certainly it would be easier to walk. And cost less.”

“Yes, miss, but most people take the Underground much farther than we did. As in your time, only the wealthy can afford to live in Mayfair. I thought a sample of the Underground was all you would need.”

“When did train travel become popular, Mr. Arbuckle?” Weston was piecing together a plan and could barely contain his excitement. But before his companion could answer they were all distracted by a man, or boy, who came racing toward them, bumped through them and, without apology, ran on.

“Stop! Police!” A woman dressed in a uniform followed the same route as the boy, but having been prepared, the three of them stood back and let her through.

Weston stared after her, both puzzled and astonished.

“What was that?” Alice asked, raising her hand to her heart, as if that would still the beating that had to match his.

“Someone who the police think has committed a crime,” Mr. Arbuckle explained.

“But who was that woman chasing him? Had he stolen something from her?”

“No, by her uniform I would say she is an officer, a member of the Met—the Metropolitan Police Force. They, er, work to keep innocent people safe by apprehending those who break the law.”

“But women are allowed to do this?” Alice raised a hand to her head as if trying to hold in an explosion of questions. “I think we had best return to the library. I am not sure how much more of this era I can take.”

Weston understood the feeling. He offered his arm, which she took willingly. She was shaking.

“It has unnerved you that much?” he asked with as gentle a tone as he could muster. “Seeing a woman whose main work it is to keep the peace and protect the innocent?”

“Yes, it has. In our time women are the ones who need protection.”

“But think of it this way, Alice. What the women of 2005 do is merely an extension of a woman’s main work in 1805. True, her obligation in our day exists mainly on a domestic level. In the household it is a woman’s task to do the same, to keep peace and protect the innocent.” Another thought struck him. “Why, the housekeeper of a big estate wields even more power than the lady of the house, and may even be a better template for what this woman does.”

“I see your point, but still find it shocking.” Alice drew a deep breath. “You must agree, Wes, this takes protection to another level. I do believe she was carrying a pistol.”

They turned the corner, heading in the same direction as the young man and the woman, only to find the area quiet, with no sign of the villain or the officer. It was as though the ripple had faded, and the steady stream of people walking continued as before.

They took what Arbuckle called a taxi, a modern horseless version of the hackney, but significantly more comfortable and much quicker.

Weston asked Tandy for tea, and they made their way back to the library as though there were no other room in the house that would accommodate them.

That suited him well enough. In his day there had been a drinks cabinet in the corner of the room, and he was pleased to find it was still there. He poured himself a glass of brandy and raised the decanter to Mr. Arbuckle, who shook his head. Very well, he would drink alone.

Mr. Arbuckle rose. “I will be leaving you now. I must return to the museum I care for these days and make sure the alarms are set and that the cats are fed and settled for the night.”

“You’re going to leave us alone here?”

Weston could see that Alice would need something stronger than tea to soothe her.

“Hardly alone, miss. Tandy and her husband are within reach. All you need do is to use the bellpull to call for them.”

Weston held out his hand. “Thank you for your service today. I trust that we will see you in the morning?”

“Sooner than that, sir, I will be back this evening. Tandy has assigned me a room in the gentlemen’s wing. That way I will be relatively close in case you should need help with anything.”

“Very good, then.” It was a rather vague explanation, but Weston was reassured that Arbuckle would be nearby. “Does the housekeeper live here too?”

“But wait, please. What will Mrs. Tandy think if I am here overnight?” Alice asked, panic in her voice.

“I do believe Tandy is her Christian name, Miss Kemp,” Arbuckle said, with a gesture of apology. “She is used to the overnight guests that the earl and his brother welcome.”

“But ladies?” Alice asked, her hand going to her chest.

“Yes, miss.” This time he spoke with even more apology. “It is very common in this time for men and women to be more open about their—oh dear—” Weston heard him whisper to himself. “In 2005 short relationships of an intimate nature are very common. Tandy will think it nothing unusual that you are staying here.” He closed his eyes and went on. “What will strike her as odd is that you and the earl will have separate bedchambers.”

“I wondered why she seemed so accepting of an unaccompanied young lady with me all day,” Weston said, as Alice seemed beyond words.

“We are lucky, my lord, that you look so very much like the earl’s younger brother, Simon West, for he is the one who time traveled with Miss Amy.”

“She has worked here for so long, are you sure she suspects nothing?”

“My lord, I am certain that she does not suspect you have time-traveled from the Regency and changed places with Simon. You did it yourself and find it hard to believe.”

Weston nodded. It was a good point.

“Was Miss Amy Mr. West’s most recent short relationship?” Alice managed to choke out.

“No, Miss Kemp. They traveled as friends only.”

The earl suspected that Mr. Arbuckle wanted to say more but held the thought. If it was about the prospects of that time-traveling couple’s relationship remaining chaste, then Weston was glad he did not add to Alice’s upset.

Mr. Arbuckle bowed again and made his exit as if he dreaded any more questions. A profound silence surrounded them. Weston moved around the room aimlessly, too restless to sit.

Alice sat down with a less-than-graceful thump and reached for her tea, then looked at him. “What does brandy taste like, Wes?”

Without answering, he added a dollop to her cup and she sipped. “Oh!” She swallowed again without a second sip. “Rather soothing, actually.”

“Without the tea it burns more but is equally comforting.”

“Why, then, are women discouraged from drinking it? Why is tea our only choice?”

“I have no idea, Alice. As far as I am concerned you may have all the brandy you would like.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Do you want the truth, Weston? Do you really want to know how I think of you?”

They were working their way up the flight of stairs to the bedroom wing. At least he hoped it was still the bedroom wing.

Alice was speaking clearly, and that had fooled him into thinking that her tolerance for brandy was more than anticipated. But now she was hanging on to the railing as if it were a lifeline. That was just as well, as she had already missed one step.

He made a mental note that her capacity for drink was about what you would expect for such a delicately boned woman. Virtually nonexistent.

“No, Alice, I do not want to know what you think. Not tonight. What you need right now is a bed.”

They were at the top of the stairs and he saw, with relief, that the double doors of the master’s suite were just ahead, as they had been in 1805.

“Yes, that is exactly what I need. A bed with you in it.”

“Alice!” He could not keep the surprise from his voice. “Do you realize what you are suggesting?”

She wrinkled her face and laughed at his dismay. “I am just being honest. I suspect the brandy is, in fact, a truth serum and men do not want women to drink it for fear of the truths that they will hear.”

He opened the doors to the master suite and walked into the salon that the earl and countess shared, with their bedchambers on either end.

“It’s quite lovely, Wes.” Alice walked around the room, bouncing off a chair and almost knocking a figurine from a useless stand that was not quite in the corner.

“Do you think there is a loo near here? It is one twenty-first-century improvement that I can praise.”

He led her to the door that was slightly ajar and, indeed, it was a bathing chamber. He pushed her in and closed the door, hoping she would not faint dead away.

As he examined the china figurine on the mantel and the ivory combs and brushes on the dresser, he heard some unmistakable gagging sounds.

A few minutes later she opened the door and leaned her head out. “You, sir, are a monster. Why did you not tell me brandy would make me sick?”

“You drank too much, for which I will take full responsibility, my dear. But you do feel better now, don’t you?”

She closed one eye and appeared to give it some thought. “Yes, I do.”

“Then rinse your mouth out and come to bed.”

She smiled at the idea, shut the door and completed her ablutions.

He hurried to the bathing chamber that was designed for his use and freshened up. He could not imagine sleeping in his clothes, so he stripped out of them and donned a robe that was hanging on a hook at the back of the door.

The salon was empty, and he walked over to the countess’s side of the room and looked into the bedroom. The bed was untouched. With a mix of irritation, amusement and curiosity he headed for the earl’s bedchamber. He opened the door and saw a distinct little mound under the covers, and discovered the most amazing thing about the love of his life.

She snored.

Weston could not resist slipping into bed beside her. Maybe it was not what a true gentleman would do, but he was not perfect. She had not taken her half from the middle so he considered that as good as an invitation. They would only sleep together, if that was what she wanted.

He tried to ignore the sweet little snores and instead remembered that amazing summer afternoon in the Lake District at a house party where they had met after her not very successful London Season. It was the first and, he thought with regret, the only time they had made love.

The boathouse was not meant for boats at all but was designed for seduction. Never had it been more clear than the day they had raced there to escape from a storm. The weather had threatened all day, but the rain had held off until they were just far enough from the main house to make the little one-room boathouse a safer place in a storm.

“Even nature is on our side,” Alice had whispered between kisses that convinced them that they needed to lie on the lounge to fully enjoy them. Their bodies pressed together in imitation of their lips.

It seemed as natural as the rain to undress each other in between kisses. Eventually the urgency of their caresses compelled them to rush removing the last bits of clothing. They paused for no more than a breath and came together in a heated coupling that had him forgetting she was a virgin.

Apparently she forgot too, as she made no sound of pain but rather surrendered to him with a moan of pleasure that escalated to a crying gasp as she crushed him to her and welcomed his seed.

There was never a moment of regret, for either of them. In a few weeks they learned there was no need to marry, which he regretted, though Alice swore that would never have been an option.

It was the beginning of the end for them. The first argument that could not be resolved. He could not recall the exact words, but could still recount them closely enough for it to act like cold water on his lust. “You would rather have a bastard child than marry me?”

“Not really. An ill-born child does not have an easy life if they wish any entrée to society, even country society.”

“Then why?”

“I will not ruin your place among the ton, and in Parliament where you have such great responsibilities, by leg-shackling you to someone so far beneath you, the daughter of a divorced couple.”

“That is not a burden you should have to bear.”

“This is an absurd argument, my lord. I am not carrying your child, so it is a moot point.”

Absurd it might have been, but on it went until it became clear that neither one of them would give their ground.

So that hour in the boathouse was the one and only time they had made love. No, neither of them regretted the act, but it had brought too dangerous a subject to the fore, and had crushed his hopes of marrying her. It was better to avoid the action.

In the end the frustration of love unfulfilled had made living near each other too much to bear. He had gone off to London and she had left for Yorkshire and her first position preparing young ladies for their come out.

Now they were beside each other, but miles apart in all that mattered.

As he had the thought she turned toward him, her eyes open but still half asleep. “I did not mean to sleep in your bed.” She made to rise but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Nothing will happen that you do not want.” He meant that even as he wished that she would want what he did. “I do suspect the brandy left you confused.”

“Never say that word to me again. Brandy.” She shuddered and closed her eyes as he watched her. “I may have been confused before, but now I feel fine. Even the headache is gone.”

“Lucky you, Alice. That is not the norm.”

She gave him a look that said her episode in the bathroom had been punishment enough.

“Can you guess how many times I have wished for this, Wes?”

Now there was a change of subject, but he was not sure the subject was a wise choice.

“Us in bed together? I imagine that I have wished for it at least as many times as you have.” He would wait for her to decide how much more it would be than lying side by side.

She raised her head and, oddly, kissed his shoulder. Then she moved away and turned her attention to the ceiling.

“They no longer have bed curtains,” she said, changing the subject.

“No, the rooms are warm enough that they do not even need a fire, either,” he said, following her lead.

“Without curtains, sleeping feels so much more public to me.”

“This from a woman who made love in a boathouse.” He knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“I am not talking about making love!” she snapped.

“It’s all I can think about.”

“You know, Weston, you know,” she repeated the words with emphasis, “from our one experience that making love makes our world even more complicated.”

Yes, it did. Making love satisfied him, them, physically, but to be satisfied emotionally was something else entirely.

“Only because we allow it to complicate.”

“Perhaps for a man the act is simpler. For a woman it means a kind of commitment. At least for this woman it does.”

“Then make the commitment, Alice. Say you will marry me. That one yes will be as binding to me as any said before a vicar in a church.”

She did not answer him with words. Alice pushed the covers back, slipped from the bed, gathered her clothes and then faced him. “I wonder if women today feel less of an emotional commitment when they make love? Weston, in all the ways that matter I have been yours since that first time we were together. You are the one and only man I will ever love. But the very act of marrying you would mean living with the constant reminder that I am not your equal and never will be.”

Alice left the room, and he was smart enough not to call her back or follow her. One moment of honesty was enough for tonight. She loved him. Would love him forever. He held that thought as closely as he wanted to hold her. And actually fell asleep smiling.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mr. Arbuckle was waiting for them in the library. Weston wished he had been with them at breakfast, a meal made awkward by the housekeeper’s nonchalance and Alice’s embarrassment. Her discomfort made him so restless it was all he could do not to stand up and prowl the room.

“Good morning!” Mr. Arbuckle announced, rubbing his hands together as if he were preparing to share a special treat. “Is there something specific you would like to do today?”

“I want to go back to my proper time and place,” Alice announced. Her discomfort dimmed some of Mr. Arbuckle’s enthusiasm.

“I am afraid I have no control over that. The coin does, and it is most certainly at the earl’s country house, Westmoreland, far out of our reach.”

“Alice, try not to worry so much.”

“Oh, Weston, that is so easy for you to say. My whole livelihood depends on creating and maintaining a good packet of references. I am so afraid that Miss Amy, despite her best intentions, is ruining the profession I have nurtured so carefully.”

“This is not easy for me to say, my dear.” He sat across from her and leaned forward. “My uncle left the estate a financial disaster. I have been trying to find a way out of the mess.” He looked at Arbuckle and smiled. “But if I am right, then the coal investment will be the solution. It makes me more willing to believe that the gift of this time travel has not been all one-sided.”

“And, so it is, my lord,” Arbuckle agreed. “As I told Miss Amy and Mr. West, this passage through the space-time continuum was always meant to be. What happens here and in 1805 is part of the long-accepted history of your family. You are not changing history in any way.”

Arbuckle stepped closer to Alice. “That is true for you too, Miss Kemp. There is something in this experience that will enrich your life, make it better, make it happier, make you wiser. The magic coin does not deal in misery or unhappiness, nor does it only affect one person. It grants wishes, and one rarely wishes for bad things, now, do they?”

“But we did not wish on the coin,” Alice pointed out with unnecessary asperity.

“You will have a chance to make a wish when you return, and in doing so you can use the insight you have gained in this century to make your world as you would wish it.”

“The world I wish and the world in reality are two very different things.”

“Have faith, Miss Kemp. Have faith that the coin will make your heart’s dearest wish come true.”

She looked at the earl with a question in her eyes.

“Yes, my dearest love, if your wish is to find a life together as man and wife, then my wish is the same.”

“How can you put that before your family and the estate’s needs?”

He shrugged. “Because with you anything is possible.”

Mr. Arbuckle found his hat and bowed to them. “I will leave you to discuss the details of your future. If you should leave before I return I must say that knowing you has been both a pleasure and a unique experience.”

“The feeling is most assuredly mutual,” the earl said, and Alice nodded in agreement. “When you return to the nineteenth century please come to Westmoreland. You will always be welcome.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Arbuckle answered, smiling with delight. “I will see you again then, if not tomorrow morning.”

When he left and it was the two of them alone, they sat together on the settee, holding hands as they had not since they arrived in this time and place.

“This moment is perfect.”

“Yes,” the earl agreed. “I was thinking the same thing. I wish this was our future.”

“Oh, so do I, Weston. So do I.”

Suddenly overcome with an amazing fatigue, they both fell asleep, and their dreams took them home.

* * *

As he awakened, the earl recognized the disorientation, the odd sense of travel with his mind as much as his body, that he’d felt the day before. Weston was not surprised when he opened his eyes and found he was on the settee in one of the salons at Westmoreland, surely in his own time.

Alice was beside him, her head on his shoulder, still sound asleep. He smiled and decided to wait for her to join him in 1805. He looked around the room, at the spot above the shelves that would hold his portrait, where the painting of Venice by Guardi currently hung.

Or should have.

The space was empty, the wallpaper a bit less faded than what surrounded it. Someone had stolen the Guardi! Or had the trustees taken it upon themselves to remove it for sale, to pay the most egregious of the estate debts?

“What is it, Weston?” Alice whispered to him, obviously having woken up and followed his gaze.

“There should be a painting there, and I have no idea why it’s been moved. I will have to investigate or have someone do it for me. What I want to do most now, besides kiss you, is find the coin that has been at the heart of this bizarre adventure.”

“You certainly are not kissing me.” Alice stood, a little unsteady on her feet, but paused a moment and then straightened, smoothing her gown. “Thank goodness I am wearing my own clothes!”

“I rather liked the jeans we wore. They were comfortable.”

“But hardly appropriate for 1805. Nor is my presence alone with you. I must leave this room at once.” She smoothed her hair and looked at the door as if someone would burst in at any moment.

Did she learn nothing in the twenty-first century? he wondered. “Very well, preserve your name for now. But I know you love me, and with that magic coin Arbuckle insists anything is possible, even having you agree to marry me.”

She would have argued, but he took her by the shoulders and turned her around. “If you take that door, it will lead you into a room that is almost never used and you can come out into the passage. Tell the footman you are newly arrived and have lost your way to Lady Anne’s chambers. You will have the day with my sister, and then I will see you at dinner.” He twirled her back around and pressed a kiss to her mouth; a kiss that left no doubt of his intent.

Alice merely shook her head, though Weston thought he saw the ghost of a smile before she gave him her back and hurried to the connecting door.

He watched her leave, the future firm in his mind, then folded his arms across his chest and waited for the magic coin to find him.

In the meantime he decided he would circle the room and try to recall if anything else was missing. He didn’t think anything was.

It was not long before there was a scratch at the door. The butler came in at his “Enter.”

“My lord, I have been trying to find you for the past hour.”

“Really, Stepp, I thought you knew my every move.”

“Yes, sir, but you have been so unpredictable lately.”

“I have?” And he could just guess why. Simon West had had no Arbuckle to help him adjust to 1805.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but yes.”

Weston nodded and moved to sit behind his desk. Not that he was tired, but he had a feeling that it would be a while before life returned to normal, if it ever did. Sitting at his desk reminded him that he was the final arbiter of all that happened at Westmoreland. And something must have happened, besides the disappearance of the Guardi, or Stepp would not be looking so, um, tense. Yes, tense. He usually never betrayed his sensibilities.

“You have found me now, Stepp, and you have my full attention. What is it that you need?”

“Thank you, my lord.” The man bowed with some formality, which was hardly the norm. “I would never bother you with a domestic issue, but this involves money. A coin, to be precise. And, oh, my lord, Lady Anne has dismissed her maid.” As Stepp spoke he placed a coin, the magic coin, on Weston’s desk.

Weston did his best not to grab the coin and shout for joy. He barely contained his smile. “What a relief,” he thought, aloud, unfortunately.

Stepp looked shocked, and Weston hurried to assure him. “The coin, Stepp. The coin is mine. I brought it from London and somehow it disappeared. I am so relieved that someone found it.” Now he did pick it up and tuck it in his pocket. Please God, it would stay there until he had addressed the other, and to Stepp, far more important issue.

“As for Lady Anne and her maid. Am I right that my sister’s maid is your daughter Martha?”

“Yes, my lord,” Stepp acknowledged without any emotion.

“Did Lady Anne give any explanation for Martha’s dismissal?”

“Not much, my lord.” The butler spoke with asperity, then seemed to recall to whom he was speaking. “I do not mean to sound rude, sir. It was something to do with the coin. One of the maids found it, Martha took it, and it went awry from there.”

“I am sorry it has come to that,” Weston said as he felt the beginnings of a headache. “I will talk with Lady Anne and Martha and see what I can do to help.”

“Thank you, my lord. But you had best know right away that both Lady Anne and her maid are adamant about never working together again.”

“I understand, Stepp. Two strong-minded women.”

“Yes, sir. I do think you understand.” Stepp drew a deep breath, which did not seem to ease the rigidness of his posture. “There are one or two other issues that would benefit from your attention. If you do not think it too impertinent.”

“Never, Stepp. Please go on.”

“First, the coin, my lord. It bears the date 1808, but quite it is only 1805. How can that be?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Ah, yes.” Weston prayed for inspiration as he pulled the coin from his pocket. “Well, you see, Stepp, the coins are being minted for use in India, as you can probably tell by the foreign wording on it.”

Weston handed him the coin so Stepp could examine it. “Yes, sir, I noticed that. Everyone has.”

“The coin has no value in itself. It is a medium exchange like the paper currency the government is trying to have us use now.”

Stepp nodded.

“The estate has interests in mines in Wales, and the ore from those mines is being used to mint these coins. This is a sample given to me as a gesture of . . .” He hesitated, trying to think of the right word. Stepp was hanging on every detail and, no doubt, this would be the official explanation spread belowstairs.

“The project managers gave it to the trustees and thence to me as a gesture of goodwill and commitment to the process.” In fact they had sent a small, toylike train, but Stepp did not need to know that.

“Thank you, my lord. There has been much speculation belowstairs, up to and including the absurd idea that it is a magic coin.”

Weston smiled and shook his head.

“Would that all headaches were as easily cured,” Stepp said, as he handed the coin back. “Next, my lord, you may not know, but Miss Kemp has been unavailable and sent a replacement, a Miss Amy Stevens. I have no doubt, sir, that Miss Stevens did her best but even I am grateful that she is only temporary. I do hope Miss Kemp will return soon.”

“I do believe that she will be arriving today.”

“Indeed!” Stepp’s relief was profound. “Thank you, thank you very much, my lord.” The butler did relax now and nodded. “I suspect that Lady Anne’s upset with Miss Stevens had much to do with Martha’s abrupt dismissal. I am certain that Miss Kemp’s arrival will ease Lady Anne’s sensibilities.”

“I’m sure,” Weston lied. He was not sure at all. If the day proceeded as he hoped, Alice would be his fiancée very soon, and not someone Anne could order about.

As he spoke, he realized that Martha’s dismissal was probably something for which he and his fellow time travelers were responsible. He must do something to help the maid find a new position.

The idea struck him at the same moment that the coin glittered a brighter gold. Give the servant the coin and send her out to fulfill wishes. Who could resist such a task? Of course, convincing her of the truth of its magic would have to come first.

Stepp had turned to leave the room and literally swayed on his feet. “My lord, where is the Guardi painting that should be hanging on that wall?”

Dear God in heaven, when would this confusion end? The painting. Where had it gone? Had it time traveled? The thought was cynical, but the weight of the coin in his pocket gave him the answer. Weston suddenly knew what had happened to the painting. It was with Miss Amy and Simon West. The painting was what they had taken with them to the twenty-first century when they left the coin behind. So, again, he opted for the truth, or a version of it.

“I do believe it has been stolen.”

“Stolen!”

“Yes.”

“But by whom?”

“I will tell you more when I am certain.” That is, as soon as I think of some way to explain the theft. “In the meantime make a notation in the journal you keep that the painting has been stolen.”

“I will do as you wish, my lord.” Stepp left the room, to find a glass of brandy, no doubt. It’s what Weston wanted. He thanked God and the magic coin for the inspiration of the last few minutes and then begged those same powers not to abandon him anytime soon. He still had more than one person’s world to set right, and he could see he would have to speak carefully to ensure that all the loose ends were done up.

He made a mental list. First, talk to his aunt dowager about the changing times. To him it was a formality he owed his uncle as his heir. His wife, the dowager countess, would need to know that changes were coming. Her support would be welcome but, he reminded himself, not essential. She would be a challenge and best tackled first.

Second, inform his sister that he had every intention of making Alice Kemp his wife and that she would be introduced to society by her sister-in-law rather than assisted by a hireling. Yes, that was the approach to take, but still it would not be easy to convince his status-conscious sister that her servant would be elevated above her by marriage.

Third, put the coin, the locket and the train in the portrait to inform the future that all had gone as he had planned. Perhaps best to do that last, when it was indeed proved that all was going his way. No, he would do it as it came to him. And embrace the conviction that his future with Alice was secure.

The two last items were the most important of all. One, he would be sure that Alice had her wish, and two, trust that it would be the same wish he held so close to his heart. That they had a future together, and love was the key.

If convincing the dowager that Alice was to be made welcome would be a challenge, then convincing Alice herself would be an even greater one.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Finding the dowager was easy. At this time of day she would be walking through the garden, dictating to the gardeners—the only place at Westmoreland where she still had authority.

“Good morning, Lady Aunt,” Weston called out, loud enough for half the garden to hear.

“Weston,” she said, quite formally.

“The gardens do appear to be ready to make quite a show.” It was the best that could be said of the space where tulips were the only flowers ready for a vase. “The bulbs from the Dutch seem to be thriving.”

“Yes,” the dowager agreed, “the expense was well worth it. My husband understood those things.”

“The blooms remind me of him every time I see them.”

Those ungodly expensive bulbs were another example of his uncle’s misguided generosity.

“What do you want, Weston?” The dowager sat herself down on the bench and looked up at him. “I cannot imagine you came out here to discuss the garden.”

To the point, he thought. “Very well, though it is always good to share a lovely day with you.”

The old lady’s “Humph” told him that he had overdone it with that heavy-handed compliment.

He sat down next to her but was not so bold as to take her hand. “Times are changing, Lady Aunt, and to survive we must change with them.”

Her body tensed; he did not need to be holding her hand to see that.

“Please listen,” Weston continued. “Times are always changing. King George has remained loyal to his wife and all their children for all these years. That certainly is different from previous monarchs.”

“And he has gone mad for it.”

“Perhaps that is not the best example,” Weston acknowledged. “We no longer need to fear smallpox, and more and more men and women are marrying for love rather than money or power.” Before his aunt could reply he stopped her with a raised hand. “This is my way of telling you that I have every intention of marrying Alice Kemp. We love each other and want a life together. The only thing that is keeping her from accepting my proposal is your disapproval.” That was a slight exaggeration, but his aunt’s opinion was a factor.

“You want my approval?” She looked surprised.

“I value it above most things, but I must tell you that with or without it I will do my best to convince Alice to be the next Countess Weston.”

The old lady sat very still for a moment, and then allowed the smallest of smiles. “About time, Weston. About time that you actually believed that you are the earl and what you want is what will be.”

It was his turn to look surprised.

“I am not saying that I will welcome her with open arms,” the dowager added. “She will have to prove herself worthy. But I will do nothing to hinder the proposal.”

Weston took her hand and kissed it. She pulled it from him as quickly. “There, you see! You are being obsequious again! It is your right! I am nothing more than an old lady sitting among the tulips waiting to die.”

“Nonsense, madam.” He stood up and bowed to her. “You are the keeper of an old and ancient title and I value your willingness to pass it on to the woman I have chosen.”

Her smile grew to almost a grin. “Now that is well said, nephew.”

They parted on such good terms that Weston was convinced that the coin had more influence than even Mr. Arbuckle knew.

The conversation with his sister was next. He found her in the small music room, playing Bach. He was relieved. Bach meant that her world was ordered and as happy as it ever could be. If she had been playing Beethoven he would have left the room and waited for another day.

He took a seat, knowing full well that interrupting her would not be in his best interests. Less than a minute later, she played the final notes and looked over her shoulder at him.

“I doubt you have come for music appreciation, Weston. And I can go further and guess that you have come to plead for me to reconsider Martha Stepp’s dismissal. I will not.”

She turned back to the pianoforte and began shifting the music sheets. Dreading Beethoven, Weston came over and sat on the bench beside her, facing the opposite direction.

“Anne, I respect your decision to dismiss your maid. I know it must have been difficult for you.”

“No, it was not,” his sister said, raising her chin a little. “And I do not regret it.”

Anne never made anything easy. He could not imagine how she would ever find someone who would be able to bear her moods. “Yes, be that as it may, I trust you will allow Miss Kemp to help you find a new dresser.”

“Yes.” Anne drew breath. “She certainly is an improvement over that person she sent as a substitute when she was delayed. At least she had a reasonable explanation for her delay.”

Anne began to fiddle with the sheets of music in front of her again, and a thought occurred to him.

“Sister, dear, do you even want a Season? Do you even want to go to London; and if you do, then why?”

“Of course I want to go. And finding a husband is what the Season is for.”

Hmm, he thought, not exactly enthusiastic about finding a spouse. He thought about the women he had seen in the twenty-first century and wondered if there was a way for Anne to have what she truly wanted.

“I do believe there could be more to the Season than husband hunting. If that were just a side interest, then what would you really like to do with your time?”

He looked at her as she furrowed her brow and stared into the middle distance as if trying to find an answer.

“Music. I would spend all my time attending musicales and operas and meeting composers.” She spoke with a kind of defiance that made him realize how rarely anyone took her seriously.

He smiled at her and nodded. “Then that, my girl, is what you shall have. You do not have to go to Almack’s once if you would rather not, and, I would think, one ball a week would satisfy your more traditional relatives.”

This next sigh was more like a huff. “You are not serious.”

“I truly am. I have had a recent experience that convinces me that living the life we want is more important than bowing to the conventions.”

“I suppose this is what comes when one unexpectedly inherits a title,” Anne said. “My father would never have even considered such an idea.”

“Well, your father held the Earldom of Uxbridge, one of the oldest in England. Let me remind you, however, that our mother was the one time in his life when he gave in to his heart. He had no need to make a second marriage. So even he had a moment of doing what he wished rather than what he must.”

They rarely spoke of their different fathers, of their mother’s two marrages. His father was no more than an earl’s second son without even “Lord” before his name. Anne’s father had been an earl.

Lady Anne had always held her title over him, and then fate had intervened, giving him a title he had never expected. Now, if he chose, he could hold his title over her. But he did not so choose. He wanted only one thing now.

“But what will we tell Miss Kemp? She expects to lead me through a typical Season.”

“Miss Kemp will be part of your Season, but—and brace yourself for this—she will be doing so as my wife, as the Countess Weston.”

It had just the effect he expected. It took him some time to convince his sister that if she could live life as she chose, filled with music first and foremost, then she could certainly grant him permission to do so himself.

“But we know nothing about her.”

“I do, Anne. I met her in London last Season and we came to know each other quite well. I proposed to her then but she refused, as she thought my family would take offense at my connection to a woman whose parents were divorced.”

He made himself stay relaxed and waited for the explosion.

“Divorced? Truly?” She thought a moment. “How have I never heard of it?”

“You have not been to London.” Weston put a hand on the instrument she sat before. “And music is all you truly need, Anne.”

She nodded her agreement and was silent a moment. “So, her parents were divorced. How very awkward.”

It was not the reaction he expected.

“Is that all?”

“I am not an idiot, Wes. I gather that her influence is what has led you to a more, shall we say, open mind about my Season. I expect you brought her here for more than my education.”

“Do not insult her, Anne. She is as much a lady as anyone with a title.”

She actually patted him on the arm. “I do not mean any insult, brother, only that I see your motives more clearly now.”

He stood up then and gave her a formal bow. Best not to let this go on any longer or they would wind up hugging each other. “Thank you for your support, my lady. I look forward to sharing the Season with you and my countess.”

A shake of her head was Anne’s only answer. As he left the room he heard her begin to play something lighthearted, perhaps even happy. Definitely not Beethoven. The notes sang through the air and touched his heart so deeply that he laughed. He laughed out loud.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Weston thought the portrait artist would be the easiest of the lot. More fool he.

“My lord, you cannot be serious! The painting is virtually complete. To add elements such as these will require a complete reconsideration of the composition so that the eye views what is important.”

As far as he was concerned, the train, the locket and the coin were what was important, but he knew better than to tell that to the man.

“I understand that this may entail more time than anticipated. I am willing to consider additional support if that makes the decision easier for you.”

The artist brightened a little at that suggestion. “I do have other commissions.”

That may or may not be true. The trustees had found him, and insisted the portrait be an immediate priority. Clearly they feared the third earl would die before his portrait was done, as his uncle, the second earl, had.

“I trust they will understand your commitment to excellence.”

The artist smiled a little and picked up the coin. Weston felt a moment of panic but the man merely looked at it, then set it down. Weston wondered what the man might have wished for, had he known it could grant wishes.

“All right, my lord. It will be a challenge, but I can rise to the occasion. Can you tell me what these items symbolize so I can cast them in the proper light?”

The locket was easy; the others took a moment of thought. “The locket symbolizes the love of my life. The train car is the future of England, and the coin, well, the coin represents all that we wish could be.”

The artist nodded as though he understood perfectly. “I will consider, my lord, and let you know if I need you to pose again.”

Weston grimaced. He hadn’t considered that possibility, but it was too late to back out now.

He left the conservatory and sent one of the footman to ask Miss Kemp to join him in the library. It seemed to take forever but he suspected that was only his imagination.

He was not going to tell her that he had already told his aunt and his sister that he was going to marry her, nor that he’d included the locket in his portrait. He would tell her he loved her and that he hoped the twenty-first century had shown her, as it had shown him, that anything was possible where two hearts were as one.

He paced the room while he waited, touching items at random; a porcelain figurine on the mantel that reminded him of his sister, one of the leather-bound books that looked as though it was frequently pulled from the shelf, the velvet softness of a tulip in one of the arrangements that appeared on a regular basis. His aunt’s doing, no doubt. How many rooms did she fill with flowers?

Why should a trip through time awaken in him the realization that he did not know his household, his family, or his world as well as he should? Because he now knew how temporary it was? How easily space and time could be shifted to a different reality?

Weston doubted that he would ever time travel again, but once was enough to change his view of this world and to realize that the future was, in some part, up to him.

The footman opened the door and Alice entered. She came to him, smiling a little but with her hands folded neatly at her waist and not the slightest sign of nerves.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Kemp.” He gestured to the footman to leave the door open.

“Thank you, my lord, for considering the proprieties.”

He nodded. “It’s nice to see you smiling,” he began.

“I do believe that Mr. Arbuckle’s Miss Amy did me a favor. Lady Anne is so relieved to have her gone and me in her place that she has yet to find fault with any of my suggestions.”

“About that, Alice, there have been some changes in the last hour. I talked to Anne about what she truly wants from her London Season. What she truly wants.” He went on to explain his sister’s true wishes and how he was going to permit her to have the Season she longed for.

Alice took it all in and stayed silent almost a minute. Well, for thirty seconds, at least. “Does that mean there is no place for me here now?”

He took a step closer to her, but when she stiffened just a little he did not reach out for her. “There is a place for you here. If there is one thing I learned in the future it is that times change, but they can only change if someone sets the change in motion.”

“Yes, divorce is so commonplace in the future that it seems absurd that it spells social ostracism here.”

“And we can begin that change if we set it in motion by marrying and announcing to the world that love is more important to us than social acceptance.”

“So our possible marriage is going to change how the Regent and the ton view marriage and divorce?”

“I have no doubt of it,” Weston said, ignoring her skeptical tone. “If we show the world that we mean to be a part of society despite your parents’ behavior, then I am convinced that eventually they will accept us.”

Alice nodded but was still not smiling. “And given that Lady Anne’s true reason for her Season is to enjoy music and not necessarily to find a match, we need not worry about how our marriage will affect her prospects?”

“Exactly.”

“Weston, darling man, I would marry you in a minute if the reaction of the world were my only concern.”

As she spoke, Alice took a step back; several, in fact. Her voice was so full of regret that Weston was afraid, actually afraid.

“What society would think was a logical reason to refuse you before, but now, the reality of the future has made me see it differently.” She drew a deep breath and shook her head. “The real reason is far more personal.”

“Tell me.” He was angry now, and he knew it showed in his voice.

“I will.” With another breath she began. “Do you know how many times my aunt told me I was just like my mother? Just like her.” Alice closed her eyes. “The very thought terrifies me.” She put her hand on her heart. “It fills me with a soul-wrenching fear that I will commit myself to you and then make your life, our lives, a living hell.”

“Alice, I cannot imagine that happening.” Though he could see by the fear, the pain, in her eyes how real it was for her. “We love each other. Your mother’s marriage was presented as a fait accompli. I can only wonder why someone with her spirit agreed to it.”

“Wes, you’re thinking like someone from the twenty-first century. The marriage seemed ideal to her. A husband with wealth and position. A fabulous country home and a town house in London. She assumed that she would provide him with an heir and then be free to find entertainment elsewhere. No one, no one warned her that his jealousy was so easily aroused. No one suspected that every physician they consulted would tell her that after me there would be no more children. The divorce, when it came, was almost as businesslike as the marriage proposal. My father wanted an heir and would give up my respectability to attain it.”

She threw up her hands in disgust. “Based on what we saw in 2005, I agree that the rejection she experienced is ridiculous. But it is the way it is in this time and place.”

Before he could answer her, she went on.

“My whole view of this world is different, now that I have seen the future.” She grasped his arms. “Please tell me you agree that women should be free to choose the life they want.”

Weston nodded. “Have I ever denied you that, Alice? When you said no I did not press you or go to your father and have him add his support.”

“It was never you I feared. I worried endlessly about what society would think. What your sister would say. How your trustees would respond.”

“Alice, we completely agree that women should be free to choose the life they want. We agree that means you are free to choose marriage, if that’s the life you want?”

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears.

“Honestly I cannot see you as a military officer, as fine as you would look in the uniform.” His attempt to lighten the moment failed.

“Wes, I am still afraid that I will fail you.”

“I am not. I know Alice Kemp’s heart as well as I know my own, and while we may sometimes differ in our views of the world, I have no doubt we will listen and learn from each other with open minds and hearts.”

She pressed her lips together for a moment and then laughed out loud. “How can you know me so much better than I know myself?”

“So you will consider marriage?” He was afraid to say it aloud, to give words to his hope. Before she answered, Alice walked over and closed the door.

She came back to him, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him lightly, which was just as well, since her touch was a wild distraction.

“Yes! Yes, I will marry you, my lord earl!” She leaned back in his arms. “To be married to you, to share a lifetime, is all the wonderland this Alice could ever want.” She laughed out loud again. “Oh dear heaven, it feels so wonderful to say it. To admit it is what I have always wanted.”

They sealed their agreement in the traditional way, so it was quite a little while before Weston brought up his next item for discussion.

“The coin, Alice.” She was tucked against him on the sofa, and he thought she might have fallen asleep. “The very magical coin.” He felt her nod and kissed the top of her head.

“Did you ever actually wish on the coin, Wes?”

When he shook his head, she nodded. “Neither did I.”

“And I am not going to start now, since I already have my heart’s fondest wish.”

“There are any number of practical things we could ask for.”

“If you want to make a wish, I will fetch the coin from the conservatory where the artist is finding the proper place for it in my portrait.”

“You are having it added to the portrait? What a wonderful idea.” Alice sat upright and patted her hair, which did nothing to make it look less tousled. “It will let Miss Amy, Mr. West and Mr. Arbuckle know it is now firmly entrenched in the nineteenth century.”

“Yes, thank you. I think they will appreciate it.”

“Let me think about a wish for a day or so. I am so happy now that to ask for more seems selfish.”

“Only a day or so, Alice, if you please.” He narrowed his eyes, considering his decision once again. “I want to send the coin on its way. I want it to go somewhere, anywhere else but here.”

Alice laughed. “You do not want to have a tussle with it over who is actually in charge?”

“You could put it that way. Not to put too fine a point on it, I am afraid of what will happen to Westmoreland if wishes run rampant.”

“But how will you, as you said, ‘send it on its way’?”

“Anne’s disgraced lady’s maid will be leaving Westmoreland. I thought that we could ask her if she would like to take charge of it, after explaining its peculiarities, of course.”

“Of course.” Alice thought about it. “What in the world makes you think she would be interested?”

“I hate to admit it, but I was holding the coin when the thought came to me. According to the butler, Martha has held the coin too. I suspect she made a wish.”

“Oh dear,” Alice said, raising her hands to her cheeks. “I see why you would rather the coin be somewhere else.”

“Thank you,” Weston said with real relief. He felt as though he were somewhere between a fool and a coward.

“I would suggest that you give Martha some financial support. Quietly, so no one thinks unkind thoughts. It may be a while before she is able to find another position.”

“An excellent notion. And a letter of reference from my soon-to-be countess would help as well.” He took her arm. “Let’s find her now and prepare her for an adventure so that we can begin on our own.”

Arm in arm, they left the library. Weston felt the coin warm his hand and knew they had made the right decision. They no longer needed a magic coin and, for more reasons than one, he would be happy to share its magic. He was certain that he and Alice would have quite enough adventures without it.