Marcus stabbed his fork into another french fry before holding it in front of him, eyeing the length of crisp, browned potato as if it might bite him. He really liked french fries; almost as much as he favored the finely chopped fried beef cakes Cassandra called hamburgers—even though there wasn’t a bit of ham in them.
Ever since Cassandra’s visit to the kitchens the week before, the eating habits of the residents of the Grosvenor Square mansion had undergone a radical change. For one thing, his chef had thrown a monumental French fit and refused to leave his rooms for three days, until cajoled from his sulk by a plate of these same french fries. Cassandra now spent several hours each day in the kitchens, and the resultant dishes that appeared nightly on his dinner table had run the gamut from mildly interesting, such as “lasagna,” to downright ridiculous, such as “chicken fingers.” Fingers? What was the world coming to when grown men, supposedly civilized human beings, were expected to eat poultry with their hands?
But the french fries had become his favorite, no matter how often Cassandra told him he hadn’t really tasted french fries until he had eaten at a “fast food” restaurant. “They’re nothing without the chemicals, preservatives, and additives, I guess,” she had told him, licking her fingers after downing an entire plateful of the greasy potatoes as she sat in the window seat in his study, her legs tucked beneath her skirts.
Marcus ate the last french fry, then pushed his plate to the far side of his desk, remembering that the kitchen was not the only place Cassandra was leaving her mark. Only yesterday he had walked into the music room to see Cassandra, Rose, and a half dozen other housemaids jumping and twisting in something Cassandra called “aerobics, Marcus. Got to keep the old heart pumping, you know. Try it!”
The marquess had politely declined, then retreated rapidly to his study, where Peregrine Walton was happily involved in practicing the steps to a dance Cassandra had called “the moonwalk.”
“Jolly fine, ain’t it?” Perry commented, beaming as he seemed to slide backward effortlessly across the highly polished floor. “Showed Henry Jamieson down at Boodle’s, and he said I looked absolutely splendid. What’s the trouble, Marcus? You look as if your ship just came in while you were waiting at the airport.”
“Perry!” Marcus remembered shouting (yes, unfortunately, he had been reduced to shouting in his own household). “How many times must I remind you not to use Cassandra’s ridiculous cant? You could land us all in the basket.”
“Oh, cool it, Marcus,” Perry had replied, grinning. “You’ll get yourself all strummed out.”
“That’s stressed out, you nincompoop,” Marcus had corrected wearily, deliberately sitting at his desk and opening a book, burying his head, and his anxieties, in the pages of Milton’s Paradise Lost—and some good English.
Now, looking at his empty plate, Marcus came to a decision. He had to find something for Cassandra to do, something that would keep her out of trouble, yet something that would preserve his household from any more of her “improvements.”
The evening at Lady Blakewell’s had not been an actual disaster, for Cassandra’s behavior—as a result of her horror over her nearly fatal faux pas in the park—had become considerably subdued. But it had not been a success, either, thanks to Lady Blakewell’s overbearing presence. The woman had pumped Cassandra for most of the evening, asking her probing questions about America, the war, and her knowledge of ton personalities—all done with the Reverend Mr. Austin hovering just behind her, smiling thinly as he rocked back and forth on his heels. It was an interrogation, nothing more, nothing less, and by the end of the evening Cassandra had been near to weeping with anxiety and fatigue.
Their argument in the park had not been touched upon again these past two weeks, presumably (he hoped) because Lady Blakewell’s probing questions had shown Cassandra the inherent danger in going about London trying to act the savior. But it seemed as if their romantic interlude in the music room had been similarly banished to the realm of forgetfulness.
And that, Marcus believed, was a damnable pity.
Where once he had done his best never to be alone with Cassandra, it was now she who shunned his company. She involved herself with Aunt Cornelia, Perry, and the staff of the mansion; regaling them with her amusing parlor tricks and sopping up knowledge from each of them like a thirsty sponge. She made fewer and fewer mistakes these days, leaving that sort of thing to Perry. He had become enamored of her ludicrous sayings and most vigorously with the concept of flight, which, considering how ill he had become merely watching a balloon’s ascension, seemed totally out of character.
But then Cassandra Kelley had a way of creating immensely attractive word pictures. Her stories of New York, of America, of the inventions and strides of the twentieth century, were like a siren song not only to Perry but to Marcus as well. He would gladly give anything he had to be able to see for himself these wonderful inventions Cassandra had told him about: to pilot a jet, to program a computer, to watch television, to drive an automobile. All, if only he were able to walk the corridors of the Metropolitan Museum, to stand at the top floor of the Empire State Building and look out on the city, to ride on the subways, buried deep under the streets, and visit the library at Columbia University where he could immerse himself in the knowledge of the ages.
And then he and Cassandra would travel to the Grand Canyon, to glory in its magnificence (and perhaps to spit in it, as Cassandra had done as a child), then on to California, and Disneyland, and to Hawaii, to see the volcanoes and the beaches of white, pink, and even black sand.
He and Cassandra. Cassandra and he. All his daydreams included her, all his hopes revolved around her, and all his fears concerned her. He had to find some way to return her to her own time, this laughing, loving, argumentative, maddeningly adorable spirit who had come into his house and captured his heart, all their hearts. She could not stay here, she must not. It was too dangerous, and it would become even more so if he were to believe what he had read in one of her guidebooks.
Pushing his troublesome thoughts aside for the moment, Marcus reached for the London guidebook he had been ignoring for the past weeks, let it fall open on the desktop, and began reading.
Fifteen minutes later, when Cassandra entered the room, he was so absorbed he did not notice her until the enticing fragrance of her floral-based perfume reached his nostrils. He raised his head and saw her standing just on the other side of his desk, her slim body clad in the same gown she had worn that momentous day in the music room, her violet eyes twinkling with some hidden amusement.
“Hello there, Marcus,” she said, seating herself on the edge of the desk just as if she hadn’t been warned a dozen times—a thousand times—that such behavior was unfeminine. “Busy solving the world’s problems again this afternoon, are you? It’s time for my refresher lesson in titles, remember? I think we’re up to barons. Perry promised to join us shortly—although at the moment he’s pretty busy in the drawing room, making paper airplanes. He’s really getting the hang of sailing them, although Corny didn’t appreciate it too much when one of them landed in her soup plate.”
Marcus waved his hand, dismissing Perry, his relative, and the paper airplanes. “Cassandra,” he asked, closing the guidebook, “you said you entered the room in the White Tower at about three in the afternoon, didn’t you?”
Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Are we back to that? I thought you didn’t want to talk about time travel anymore. At least not with me. Perry says you talk about it all the time with him. So why are you asking me about it again? What have you discovered? You’ve already told me that you think I’ll travel back to my own time eventually—not that you’ve explained why you think so. Oh, no. Not the great Marcus. He doesn’t discuss. He pronounces. He teases. And then he ignores.”
Marcus rose from his seat and began pacing behind the desk. “Is that what’s been bothering you, Cassandra?” he asked, turning to face her. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? Because I haven’t been entirely open with you?”
She tilted her head and smiled at him—evilly, he thought. “And Perry said you were slow,” she said, stepping back from the desk. “Hell, Marcus—haven’t you learned yet that I don’t appreciate being treated like a child?”
“Don’t swear, Cassandra,” the marquess corrected her mildly, remembering that she did very well in her role of Regency miss—but only when she wanted to. There were still times, regrettably, when she—
“The hell I won’t, Marcus,” Cassandra said, her fists jammed on her hips. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me. Hell, I said, Marcus—hell, hell, hell!”
It would be so easy to fall into a slanging match with her, Marcus knew, for he had come to enjoy her temper, but now was not the time, no matter how sure he was that she was deliberately baiting him. He had discovered something—rediscovered it actually, for he had been through the guidebook several times—and he wanted to discuss his findings with Cassandra before Perry barged into the room.
“Feel better now?” he asked when it appeared as if she had concluded her outburst. He looked at her, seeing her flushed cheeks, the way her breasts rose and fell in anger, and he had to fight down the impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her into a better humor. Later, he silently promised himself. This overwhelming attraction, this passion he believed to be entirely mutual, would have to be dealt with—but not now—no matter how she provoked him. He had waited these past two weeks; he could wait another day. “I think I have discovered a way to test the reason for your presence here.”
“No kidding? You mean besides the thought that I might have been drawn here to meet you, for all the good it’s doing me?” She was immediately all attention. Slipping into a nearby chair, she placed both feet flat on the floor and folded her hands delicately in her lap—the model of Regency perfection. The pose didn’t fool him for a moment. “Go on,” she said tightly, her intelligent eyes unblinking. “What have you found?”
Ah, those clever violet eyes. They could see through any artifice. Marcus winced and scratched a spot behind his left ear. “I don’t know where to begin,” he admitted, carefully measuring his words so that he wouldn’t say too much. “Do you remember what we discussed the day I took you driving in the park?”
“You mean before or after I told the Reverend Mr. Austin that I flew to England?” Cassandra asked, grimacing. “And you told me not to swear! I’m not kidding, Marcus, you could have blistered paint with some of the words you used on our way home. And then, once we were alone in your study—”
“I have already apologized for my language, Cassandra,” Marcus interrupted her. He sat on the edge of the desk, aware that he had to anchor himself somewhere sooner or later and get down to business. “And you were very good at Lady Blakewell’s later that evening.”
“I was too frightened to be anything else but good, the way that woman was milking me for information. I’m sure the vicar has convinced her that I’m a witch,” she said self-deprecatingly, sitting forward in her chair. “But that’s what I came to talk to you about this afternoon and why I sent Perry chasing off to Bond Street with Aunt Cornelia. I lied when I said he’d be joining us Marcus”—she hesitated, then went on after a moment—“I’ve figured something out these past two weeks. I’ve figured out that while I do know some things about Regency England, I know only enough to make me dangerous. Dangerous to you, and dangerous to myself. You’re right not to allow me out in company, Marcus, and I was wrong to think I could help people like that poor Marquess of Anglesey, much as I wish I could.”
She leaned back in the chair and spread her hands. “So, now that I’ve admitted what an idiot I’ve been, why don’t you forgive me and tell me what you’ve discovered? What sort of test? And why do we need a test?”
Would she ever cease to amaze him with her clear, if slightly belated, deductive reasoning? “We need a test because what we are dealing with is a theory, and theories must by rule be tested,” the marquess answered, picking up the guidebook and opening it to the page he had already marked. “Here, Cassandra—read this. And read it out loud, if you please.”
“Out loud?” Cassandra put out her hand, accepting the guidebook with all the wariness of a person being handed a loaded pistol. “Here? Where you’ve marked the page? All right. It says ‘Known as the New Palace of Westminster, the Houses of Parliament continue to rank as a royal palace even though it has not been in use as such since the reign of Henry VIII, who moved to Whitehall Palace. In 1547 the Royal Chapel of St. Stephen, as was the case with all private chapels, became secularized, and by 1550 the building took on the name Palace of Westminster and was used as the meeting place of the Commons. The Chapel was a tall, two-storied edifice and, as it had no aisle, it was wonderfully suited to its new use as a debating chamber. The Members were seated in choir stalls and the Speaker’s chair was positioned where the altar had formerly been. Indeed, the custom of bowing to the Speaker’s chair can most probably be traced to the genuflection to the altar.’ Marcus? This is all very interesting, but—”
“Keep reading, Cassandra,” Marcus intoned gravely, suppressing the need to rise and begin pacing once more.
“All right. ‘Once the canons of St. Stephen’s were dismissed in 1547 and, considering that the Palace was no longer a royal residence, Members and officials of both the House of Commons and the House of Lords began to occupy many of the vacant chambers in the huge building. This continued until 1834, when the building was all but destroyed by fire. The existing Parliament, including the Clock Tower, home of Big Ben, was not completed until 1858, and the House of Commons sustained extensive damage during bombing in 1941, when it was rebuilt once more.’ Marcus? Other than to prove what I’ve been saying about World War Two, and learning that the Parliament I saw was not the one that exists now—what am I supposed to be reading here?”
He rose, going to the drinks table to pour them each a glass of wine. “Go to the last paragraph, if you please.”
Cassandra read silently for a few moments, then turned the page, reading aloud once more. “‘—And on May 11, 1812, at the height of the Napoleonic Wars, Prime Minister and Tory manager Spencer Perceval was assassinated in the lobby of the House of Commons by a bankrupt broker who had come to St. Stephen’s to kill one Leveson Gower, whom he blamed for his financial problems. As Gower was not available, the man shot the Prime Minister instead, thus throwing the government into upheaval.’ May eleventh, 1812? Oh, wow!”
“Indeed,” Marcus said, handing her one of the glasses. “Perceval dies in less than a month—unless we can prevent it. A pity your guidebook doesn’t name the assassin. It certainly would make our job easier.”
Cassandra absently sipped at the wine. “Yeah, well, Marcus, you can’t have everything. So—are you saying that I was sent here to help you prevent this guy’s murder? No—no, you’re not, are you? You called it a ‘test.’ Marcus—are you planning to use this murder to see if we can change history?”
He nodded, knowing he was getting to the more difficult part of his theory. “If—if we can stop Perceval’s murder, perhaps we can change—change another bit of history as well.”
“But not the Marquess of Anglesey, or any of those people I’ve seen in the park? I’m not here to save the world, but only one person? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? Bottom line, Marcus,” Cassandra said, pinning him to the carpet with her violet gaze. “Whose history are we supposed to be changing?”
He broke eye contact with her, not without some effort. “This might be terribly self-serving, but I’d like to think it’s mine,” he said quietly. “According to everything I’ve read in the guidebooks, it is my conclusion that I am to die on the last day of May.”
“Die? You?” She sprang from the chair in one fluid movement, the wineglass dropping from her hand, its contents making a puddle on the pale carpet. A deep red stain, like spilled blood. “Oh, God, Marcus—how? Why?”
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t know.” Marcus bent to pick up the glass and placed it on the desk beside his own. “I have no enemies that would want to see me dead, or at least I don’t believe that I do. Perhaps I walk in front of a carriage, or choke on a peach pit. I have no idea. But according to your guidebook, the one that is a general informational pamphlet on rural England, Eastbourne, my family seat in Sussex, reverts to the Crown on May thirty-first, 1812, upon the death of the fifth marquess. I, my dear, am the fifth marquess. What happens to my cousin and heir I cannot know, any more than I know what happens to me. It is my theory—indeed, my devout hope—that you have been sent to me as a most personal messenger, delivering a warning that will prevent history from taking its course.”
She put her hand on his arm, her eyes brimming with tears. “You mean that I have been sent through time, not to be with you—but to save you?”
“Possibly. As I said, this is only a theory, and scarcely scientific. I have been aware of the Perceval information for some time. If we can save the Prime Minister, it would stand to reason that we can alter my future—or should I say, my seeming lack of a future. And if we can’t save Perceval—”
“—if the Prime Minister dies, you die. Oh, Marcus—how could you have kept this a secret from me? We’ve wasted so much time!” The marquess stood very still as Cassandra wrapped her arms around him and pressed her head against his chest.
“And,” he continued stiffly, “that is why I have decided—hoped, actually—that you will travel back to your own time on or before the last day of May, an event we must begin to prepare for now, so that Perry can help you if I’m no longer able to be of assistance. I cannot conceive of your remaining in my time once I am not here. The fates wouldn’t be that unkind.”
He put his arms around her and held her close to him, shamelessly feeding on her youth and her strength, jealously seeking her love when he knew it to be the height of selfishness. But Cassandra broke from him and began pacing the carpet as he had done not so many minutes ago. Her forehead was creased in a thoughtful frown.
“All right, Marcus, let’s see what we’ve got here,” she said dispassionately, delighting him with her lack of feminine hysterics. “It’s only the second week of April. We’ve got time—plenty of time. First things first. We’ve got to save this Perceval guy. May eleventh, you said. Okay, let’s suppose we can do that. From the way it’s described in the guidebook, all we’ll have to do is stake out the lobby of the House of Commons, looking for a wild-eyed guy with a bulge in his jacket—the gun, you understand. Then what?”
Marcus leaned against the desk, smiling as he watched Cassandra. He could almost hear her brain working, its gears whirling about, seeking questions; weighing theories, searching out answers. How could he have waited all this time to tell her? Why had he allowed her to avoid him, when all he wanted, all he needed, was to have her by his side, on his side, working with him toward what, he hoped with all his heart, might be their shared future? “Then what?” he repeated, picking up his wineglass and draining its contents. “Why, I suppose we will just have to take it one day at a time, until the thirty-first.”
She ran across the room and took hold of his arms, shaking him. “Are you nuts? It’s obvious you haven’t watched detective shows on television. Boy, could you have used a few episodes of Miss Marple or Perry Mason. We can’t just sit back and wait. I mean, you could die, waiting for the thirty-first. You could be shot tomorrow—today—and not die from your wound until the end of May. You didn’t think of that one, did you, Marcus? You could be challenged to a duel, or run afoul of some desperate French spy, or stumble onto a plot to overthrow the Prince Regent—or even be poisoned by your supposed heir. Or perhaps your mistress will hire someone to slit your throat. Those things happen in books all the time. And don’t tell me you don’t have a mistress, because Perry has already told me her name. Marianne Carruthers—so there! Although Perry says you haven’t visited her since I dropped in on you—which only gives her more reason to want to see you dead. You see?”
She shook him again. “There’s a whole world waiting out there to kill you. I’m not kidding. We have to be on our toes all the time, Marcus. Marcus? Are you listening to me?”
“You know about Marianne?” He couldn’t believe Perry would be so indiscreet. No wonder Cassandra had been avoiding him, the man who had all but seduced her in the music room. She knew about Marianne. “What do you know?”
“Oooh!” Cassandra let go of Marcus’s arms and punched him squarely in the chest. “I don’t believe you! Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said?”
Marcus snapped himself back to attention, rubbing a hand across his chest. Cassandra might be little, but she was strong. Must be those “aerobics” of hers. “Of course I’ve been paying attention, my dear. I’m a target for everyone from Boney on down. I can’t imagine how I shall have the courage to lay my head on my pillow tonight, for fear someone will jump out of the shadows to destroy me by way of some terrible wound that will lead to a long, lingering, undoubtedly unpleasant death.”
She dipped her head. “You think I’m being ridiculous, don’t you?”
“Only slightly,” he said, putting a finger under her chin and tipping her head up so that he could look into her eyes. “But I do appreciate your concern.”
She shifted her gaze, eluding his. “Yeah, well—don’t go reading too much into it, okay, Marcus? It’s just the way I am. I’m kind to dumb animals too. I mean—”
“Cassandra,” he said, slipping his arms around her waist, “don’t spoil it. You care. That’s enough.”
She looked up at him, tears once more standing in her eyes. “You’re really going to die if we can’t change history, Marcus? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? After that day in the music room, I thought—I thought—well, you have to know what I thought. What I hoped. But then there was that mess at the park, and Lady Blakewell’s questions, and—well, I thought you had decided I was more trouble than I was worth.”
“So you, in turn, began avoiding being alone with me,” Marcus said, helping her with her explanation. “And Marianne Carruthers had nothing to do with it?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe a little. But not much. I can’t blame you for what you did before you met me. No man lives like a monk, I suppose. Besides, Perry has promised me that you haven’t seen her in weeks. Perry is right, isn’t he?”
“And if he isn’t?” He was teasing her, he was sure she knew it.
“That’s simple enough. If he isn’t, I’ll murder you, and I won’t wait until the last day of May to do it,” Cassandra replied, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “I may be liberated, Marcus, but I’m not generous. I was always getting into trouble in grammar school because I wouldn’t share.”
The slight trembling of her fingers on his cheek told him that she was nervous, perhaps even as nervous as he was. He pulled her almost roughly against his chest, threading his fingers through her short curls. “Cassandra—do you remember that I was apprehensive about your ability to have an emotional involvement during your stay in my time? And do you remember, since you saw yourself standing at the bottom of the stairs, longing to climb upward, that I believed you had wanted to come to my time—to me?”
He felt her nod her head and he took a deep breath, knowing that they were about to take a giant step forward, yet not knowing if they were moving toward a greater happiness or a yawning abyss. “I want you, Cassandra. I want to be with you, I want to love you, for as long or as short a time as we are allowed.” He moved his hand so that she could tip back her head and look at him. “Is that selfish? Am I asking too much? Or am I right, and do you want me as much as I want you?”
He watched as a single tear escaped her eye and slowly traveled down her cheek. “For as long as we have, Marcus,” she said just before he drew her completely into his embrace.
“Marcus, you won’t believe who I saw on Bond—well, hullo! That’s Cassie I see behind you, isn’t it? Have I interrupted something? Sorry. I’ll just close the door and go away again. Pretend I wasn’t here. And I didn’t see anything, honestly I didn’t. No. Not me. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t tell your aunt. Not Corny. Not at all. Wouldn’t want to be anywhere near when that lady flew up into the boughs. Well, I’ll be off now—”
Marcus, whose back had been turned toward the door, released Cassandra but held her close to his side as he turned to see a red-faced Peregrine standing just inside the room. “Come in, Perry,” he said smoothly, doing his best to ignore Cassandra’s giggle. “We have no secrets from you. At least not until I can remember to lock my door.”
Peregrine advanced into the room and flung himself into a nearby chair. “Well, I suppose not, Marcus, old friend. Dashed difficult keeping secrets if you’re going to be playing April and May all over the house, where just anybody could walk in on you. Hullo, Cassie. Um—pretty gown.”
“Thank you, Perry,” Cassandra said politely, moving away from Marcus but still holding his hand and not breaking contact with him until she stepped out of his reach. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me? I believe I’ll go to my chamber for a while. I have some thinking to do.”
“Thinking?” Peregrine shook his head. “Is that all you people do? Think? No, I suppose not—considering what I just walked in on. Isn’t that right, Marcus? Not that I’ll breathe a word of it, you understand. What are you going to be thinking about, Cassie? Did Marcus tell you about the reception at Carlton House tomorrow night? You aren’t thinking you won’t go, are you? That would be a pity, seeing as how Marcus has already decided to let you wear his mother’s pearls. You did say the pearls, didn’t you, Marcus? I’m sure it was the pearls.”
“Perry,” Marcus asked wearily, “aren’t you thirsty? I’m convinced I’d be thirsty if I had talked only half as much as you have since entering this room. Why don’t you fetch yourself a drink?”
Perry looked from Marcus to Cassandra, and then back at his good friend. “Why don’t I go drown myself, you mean,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “Sorry, Lassie. I didn’t mean to spoil the surprise. But you will go, won’t you? You said you were dying to see Prinny.”
Cassandra’s smile did something very strange to Marcus’s equilibrium, filled as it was with a mixture of happiness and sorrow. “I suppose I’ll go, Perry,” she answered, “although suddenly, seeing the Prince Regent just isn’t all that important. Is it, Marcus?”
“Not important?” Perry exclaimed, nearly dropping the wine decanter. “Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch. For weeks you’ve been beating me over the head, pestering me to get Marcus to take you someplace, and now that he is willing to take you, you say it ain’t important. Women! No wonder I’ve decided never to marry. A wife would have me running straight to Bedlam within a fortnight. Stap me if she wouldn’t.”
Cassandra walked over to Peregrine and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry, Perry. Of course I’m delighted by the prospect of seeing Prinny. As a matter of fact, I’m so delighted that I think I will take special care not to tire myself anymore today with lessons, or playing cards with you and Aunt Cornelia after dinner. No, I’ve decided to be a good little Regency miss and take a warm bath after my meal and then go straight to bed at ten o’clock, so that I’m well rested for tomorrow night.” She turned to look meaningfully at Marcus. “Don’t you think that’s a good idea, my lord?”
The minx! She had as good as invited him to her bed, although, thankfully, Peregrine—just then downing a glass of wine—remained happily unaware of that fact. Marcus looked past his friend and smiled at the woman he loved, the woman who loved him—even if neither of them had as yet said the words. “I think that is an excellent idea, my dear. So good, in fact, that I believe I shall do much the same thing. The Season is not yet three weeks old and I’ve already had too many late nights.”
Her blush delighted him as Marcus watched Cassandra sweep out of the room.
Perry replaced his empty glass on the table, frowning as he, too, watched her go. “Leaving me to spend the evening losing all my money to Corny, are you? Plays a wicked game of cards, your aunt. Oh, no. Thank you for the warning, Marcus. I believe I’ll be off now, to have dinner at my club. You can tell Corny I’ll be very, very late!”
Marcus waved his friend on his way, then took up his seat behind his desk once more, no longer interested in theories, or guidebooks, or possible disasters. His entire mind was concentrated on moving the hands on the mantel clock until they reached the hour of ten.
~ ~ ~
Cassandra was able to reach the privacy of her bedchamber before breaking down, throwing herself onto the satin coverlet, and muffling her sobs with one of the pillows. Her hands shook; her stomach felt queasy after holding her emotions in check for so long—putting up a front of courage for Marcus, exhibiting a bravery and an optimism she didn’t feel.
Marcus was in danger. Terrible danger. She hadn’t even thought to doubt him, to ask to see the guidebook for herself in the hope of disproving his statement that he would die on the last day of May unless, together, they found some way to change history.
But they would find that way, she tried to assure herself. Deliberately cutting her tears short, she slipped from the bed and dashed cold water on her face. Why else would she have traveled back in time, if not to save the man she loved—the man she hadn’t known even existed until a little more than a month ago?
After drying her face she put down the towel and wandered over to a window. She pushed back the drapery and looked out over the Square. How she had come to love this place, this mansion, this Square, this hustling, bustling city, this glorious time in history. If it weren’t for the fact that her parents must be beside themselves, wondering where she had disappeared to, she wouldn’t ever want to go back. “Although I’d have to find some way to invent Coca-Cola,” she thought out loud, turning away from the window. “And Twinkies. And Dove bars. Lord, yes, definitely Dove bars.”
She shook her head, wondering why she couldn’t keep her mind on the subject. It certainly was an important enough subject. She would have to take this one step at a time. “One—Marcus is supposed to die the last day of May. Two—Marcus believes I may have been sent to help him avoid that death. Three—I either go back to my time on the last day of May, mission accomplished, leaving a healthy Marcus behind, to live out the rest of his life without me, or, God forbid, Marcus dies and I’m either sent back to my time anyway or I’m left trapped here, with Marcus gone.”
She pressed her hands to her cheeks and they came away wet with her tears. “Four—no wonder I’m still crying!”
Locking the door to the hallway, Cassandra pulled a chair over to the armoire and reached up to feel about for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter she had stolen from Marcus’s study and hidden behind the raised, ornamental wood carving. The time had definitely come for a healthy—or unhealthy—infusion of nicotine to the brain, a sort of jump-start to her thinking processes.
A flick of her lighter and a deep breath sent the smoke into her lungs and the nicotine into her bloodstream. It hit her brain cells in a short, satisfying seven seconds—at least, according to an article she had read a while before, that was the accepted progression of events. Unfortunately, it took only one more drag and about fifteen seconds for the chemicals to hit her stomach, and once more she felt the light-headedness and queasiness she had experienced that first morning in Marcus’s study. She felt as if she were back behind Feinstein’s Bakery, turning green as she tried to inhale one of her father’s unfiltered Pall Malls.
This time she fought it, finishing one cigarette and quickly lighting another, the ashes deposited in the washbasin she must remember to empty out the window before Rose found them. As she smoked, she thought about Marcus and his admission that he loved her. Well, not that he loved her. Not exactly. He had said that he wanted her. That was close enough for now, because she wanted him, too, and had wanted him, it seemed, forever.
She butted the second cigarette in the washbasin and returned to the bed to lie on it, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. He would come to her tonight, after everyone else was sleeping, and they would begin their future. It was only April. They had time; they had lots of time. Between them, they’d figure out a way to save Spencer Perceval, and then they’d figure out a way to save Marcus. That wasn’t theory; that was fact. Because he wasn’t infallible, her dear, handsome, desirable Regency scientist and gentleman of the world. He wasn’t infallible, because she, Cassandra Louise Kelley, had absolutely no intention of losing the man.
Not now.
Not on the last day of May.
Not ever.