Riki would be safe on the beach, Belmont told himself as he strode briskly through the shrubs toward the forest. He spotted an overturned dory and his spirits rose. There would be a house or even a town nearby, and probably a path that would lead him there. Once he knew where they had been left, he could set about obtaining help. He wished he had money—even one of his cards—on him. In these unconventional garments he had borrowed, no one would take him for a gentleman. He had only his voice—and his habit of command.
A few minutes walk beneath the wind-swept pines brought him to a narrow cart track. Fresh hoof prints mingling with the narrow ruts of wooden wheels, neither completely washed away by the overnight rain, encouraged him further. There must be frequent traffic. Five minutes of following this brought him to a lane—and to the conviction that his boots had suffered irreparable damage.
A signpost pointed the way to Rottingdean. Satisfaction washed through him. They were in East Sussex—and not that far from Brighton. Still, he’d be damned if he’d walk the whole way in these boots. And now he had to return to the beach to get his companion. He turned to start limping his way back, only to draw up short.
A sigh of exasperation, not unmingled with relief, escaped him. “Don’t you ever obey simple requests?”
Riki moved out from beneath the trees and joined him. “Only when they’re sensible. I couldn’t see any point in your coming back for me, and the way you’re walking, you ought to be glad. Does the signpost help any?”
“It tells me where we are but it fails to suggest how we are to reach help.”
“Walk?”
“It’s all of nine or ten miles.”
“To—” She looked past him. “Rottingdean? Do you know anyone there who would help us?”
“To Brighton. I have a friend—Sir Julian Taggart—who keeps a house there. Even if he’s not presently in residence, his servants will give us shelter.”
“Are you in the habit of calling on your friend in unusual circumstances?” She started along the lane at his side.
“One of my brothers has, upon several occasions.” Was he becoming as madcap as Aubrey? The thought startled him. The responsible and always proper Viscount Belmont, engaged upon some lark? If Julian were indeed at home, his friend would never let him live down what would seem to him an unparalleled freakish start.
He could always tell his friend the truth, of course. Then Julian would merely have him conveyed to Bedlam without further ado. A muscle twitched at the corner of Belmont’s normally sober mouth. He’d been raised to respect his position and his dignity, while Aubrey and Hillary kicked up larks and got up to every sort of entertaining bobbery. Just this once it wouldn’t hurt him to enjoy himself a little.
“What will you tell your friend about me?” Riki spoke quietly. “Or do you intend to leave me hiding in the bushes outside so I won’t inadvertently blurt out I’m from the future?”
“Minx,” he murmured. He looked down at her. She hugged herself against the cold and water trickled down her neck from her auburn hair. There were freckles there too, he noted with interest.
Such a delicate little creature, yet she faced storms and smugglers without one word of complaint. Only the absence of her fortune made her tremble. Well, he could understand that, he supposed. Any other female of his acquaintance would have succumbed to a fit of hysteria by now, and without nearly as much provocation. Except, perhaps, for his sister Felicity.
Unfortunately, his thoughts concerning Miss Riki van Hamel were far from fraternal at the moment. Those tightfitting “jeans”, which clung in a most unseemly and enticing manner to her slender legs, wreaked havoc with his gentlemanly intentions. The wispy Grecian drapery worn by the ton ladies over the past few years had never affected him as strongly as did the bulky knitted shirt that had lost its shape and now clung to the slender curve of her breast and her fully rounded hips. He moved a step farther away from her.
“Your friend will know I’m not your brother,” Riki continued. “What was his name? Sir Julian—?”
“Taggart. And anyone who sees you in the daylight will not be fooled into thinking you a youth, despite your shocking attire.” He spoke more sharply than he’d intended. She was temporarily under his guardianship, he reminded himself firmly, and it irritated him when that thought chafed.
“My presence is going to make things awkward for you, isn’t it?” She peeped up at him from beneath her long, thick lashes, sudden mischief lightening her somber expression, mixing with unspoken apology.
“As you say.” What a damnable little minx, to create havoc in him with just a look! It would serve her right if he succumbed to impulse and kissed her. But a Randall of Falconer’s Court—and the Viscount Belmont, at that—did not behave in an improper manner. For the first time since his childhood, he found that dictum frustrating.
“I suppose we’d best stick as closely to the truth as possible.” Her brow wrinkled in concentration. “He’ll know I’m an American from my accent—if you let me speak—and the boat wreck will explain a great deal. Where should we have met?”
The next few minutes passed in a discussion of the most plausible story. Belmont encouraged this, for it kept his thoughts in a more proper vein. They were still arguing over details when he became aware of the steady clomping of a horse’s hooves and the rattling of an ill-sprung cart approaching.
He broke off in midsentence and turned to see a farming wagon nearing them. A weathered, slightly built man of indeterminate years perched on the seat as his placid old cob plodded along. Belmont waited, and the man at last drew abreast.
“Could you give us a ride? We were fishing and our boat sank.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as Belmont spoke. “Quality,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Aye, climb in back. I’m goin’ t’ Brighthelmstone, if that’ll be of any help t’ye.”
“Thank you, it would.” Belmont grabbed Riki’s hand and strode around to the rear of the wagon. She had a remarkably tiny waist, he noted as he picked her up and set her on the floorboards. The wooden planks smelled suspiciously of fertilizer. He didn’t even have a coat he could spread on which she might sit.
“Where is he taking us?” Riki whispered as he jumped up beside her and the cart started forward once more.
“Brighton. He used the old name—though I don’t suppose it’s old to him.”
They fell silent as the wagon lurched along. Despite the crawling pace they were jarred considerably, but Belmont resisted the temptation to cushion Riki by drawing her against him. An inner voice warned him he might not stop at that, and a gentleman did not take advantage of a lady. Damn being a gentleman, he thought, for the first time in his very proper life.
“How soon can we reach London?” She didn’t look at him but stared back along the lane the way they had come.
“By tomorrow afternoon, I should think. My friend or his household will help us obtain suitable clothing and there will be no trouble hiring a carriage. We should be able to confront your cousin by the day after, at the latest. I don’t like it, though.”
“I know. Don’t worry, I’ll be good. And maybe when I see David I’ll really start to believe in all this.” She fell silent. A few minutes later, she asked, in a very small voice, “What will happen then?”
He stiffened. “Provided I don’t call him out, you mean?” In her disturbing presence, he had almost forgotten the traitorous activities of her cousin, the reason for her presence in his world.
“You mean challenge him to a duel? You can’t! I won’t let you murder him. Promise me you won’t!” She caught his arm, gripping it tightly in her vehemence. “Promise!”
He drew a deep breath, then let it out between clenched teeth. “Very well, I promise. Only get him out of my vicinity—out of my world!—before I forget and treat him as he deserves.”
She didn’t ask him how she was to remove Warwick, for which he was glad. How the devil were she and her cousin to get back to the future, where they belonged?
He studied the tiny patches of blue sky that peeped through the heavy gray clouds. By tomorrow the last traces of the electrical storm would be gone. The prospect of Miss Riki van Hamel being stranded in his time should not please him so much. It was too dangerous. They were a world apart—and had to remain that way.
Farms replaced the pine forest, with small fields separated by hedgerows or low stone walls. The road led through the center of Rottingdean, and Belmont sat in stony silence as village children stopped and stared at the plodding wagon’s unconventional passengers. His companion, he noted with stoic philosophy, gazed about with wide, avid eyes. They would probably prove a seven-day wonder, providing the local people with a topic over which to bless themselves and marvel. At least no one would know who they were.
The village passed at last, Belmont relaxed, only to come to another unwelcome realization. He had no idea how long it had been since they had eaten, and a gnawing hunger made it a matter of considerable importance. Yet they had no money, nothing with which to purchase food. They would have to wait.
He glanced at his companion, who sat as erect as possible in the lurching cart. At least he had the hope of rectifying his penniless state in the near future. Undoubtedly she would be anxious to return to her own time, to the security of her own life.
“Not much longer,” he assured her, but whether he meant ‘til the end of their journey or the end of their adventure, he wasn’t certain.
She managed a wan smile. “Just as long as your friend doesn’t take one look at us and throw us out.”
It must be almost two o’clock, Belmont judged by the sun that peeked out from between parting clouds, when the cart jolted onto the cobbled street of Brighton. He wished they could have arrived under cover of darkness. This might not be the fashionable quarter of town, but he loathed being stared at by every vulgar mushroom or farmer who happened to catch sight of them.
They turned into the yard of a rickety old inn, and the farmer drew the cob to a halt. He knotted his reins over the brake and the horse dropped its head.
“Far as I’m goin’,” he called back to his passengers. They were the first words he’d spoken since picking them up hours before.
“Thank you.” Belmont climbed stiffly to the ground, vividly aware of far too many sore muscles. He offered a hand to Riki, but she took it only for balance as she jumped down. He turned back to the farmer in time to see that worthy disappear through the darkened doorway into the tap room.
“You’d think no one had ever seen a couple of people wearing jeans and sweaters before,” Riki murmured as she moved a step closer to him, as if for protection.
Belmont resisted the urge to put a comforting arm about her. “Come on. The best course would be to hide somewhere until dark, but I’m too hungry for that. Let’s just brazen it out.” He walked out of the yard.
Riki followed. “Pity we can’t juggle. People might take us for clowns. Or do you call them Merry-Andrews?”
“Merry-Andrews,” he confirmed. “We should have my brother Hillary with us. That’s one of his questionable talents.”
“Being a clown or juggling?”
Belmont actually smiled. “Both.” Somehow, walking through Brighton dressed in these remarkable garments, looking as if they had just dragged themselves from the ocean, didn’t seem so bad. Was it because few Fashionables populated the summer resort in the freezing cold of January or because he found a measure of enjoyment in the companionship provided by the young lady at his side?
He led the way through a maze of narrow back streets, always heading toward the beach. By walking along the sand, they should be able to avoid curious eyes. The overcast sky would not lure many people out to enjoy the icy sea breezes.
Sir Julian Taggart’s tall brick house stood on the Marine Parade, a bare block from the Steine. Casting a quick glance about to assure himself no one was watching, Belmont grasped Riki’s elbow and drew her across the paved street and up the four steps to the porch. Resolutely, he applied the knocker.
Several interminable minutes passed in which Belmont imagined the occupants of the neighboring houses to be staring out at them from behind the curtains. At last the door opened and a very proper butler faced them, his expression of outrage fading beneath justified shock.
“Good afternoon, Ferndale. Is Sir Julian at home?” Belmont managed a nonchalant smile.
“My…lord?” Shaken, Ferndale retreated a step. With obvious difficulty, he mastered his expression. “If you will wait in here, Lord Belmont, I will ascertain.” His eyes rested for a moment on Riki, who hovered behind Belmont.
The butler escorted the visitors to the front salon and tottered off to find his master.
“It is to be hoped Ferndale is not one to gossip with his fellow butlers.” Belmont glanced at the comfortable upholstered chair, considered the state of his jeans thanks to the ocean and the farming wagon, and remained on his feet.
“At least he let us in. For one moment I thought he would slam the door in our faces.”
The door into the salon flew open and a dark-haired youth half swung inside. “I say, Julian, I—” He broke off and an expression so horrified as to be comical replaced his engaging smile. “Gil?” His voice squeaked.
“Hillary?” The name exploded from Belmont as he stared at his young scapegrace brother. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I-I thought you were still at Whitehall.” The boy took a cautious step into the room and managed a grin. “What a surprise!”
Belmont drew himself up, as imposing as he could manage in spite of his bedraggled garb. “And you, you young jackanapes, should be at Oxford.”
“Oh, I just thought I’d pop down for a visit. You know how it is.” Hillary Randall folded his arms across his brilliantly flowered waistcoat and tried to brazen it through.
“I rather think I do. What was it this time?” Belmont regarded his enterprising young brother with resignation.
“Oh, it wasn’t anything bad, just the greatest lark. We wanted to see how many chairs would fit in one of the dons’ rooms. You’d be amazed how they can stack!” The youth’s eyes twinkled as he assumed an air of breezy innocence. “Aubrey would have done the same.”
“There is no need to tell me that. There was never much to choose between the pair of you. Why didn’t you go to the Court?”
“What? And upset Mama? I’m not such a shab-rag as that! Lord, when I think how glad she was to pack me back off to school after the Christmas—” He broke off, his grin broadening. “I say, Gil, you’re not going to lecture me on propriety at the moment, are you?”
A revealing warmth crept into Belmont’s face. Hillary crowed in delight, obviously feeling that for once he’d gotten the better of his eldest brother. And Belmont couldn’t disagree.
He turned to Riki. “This, Miss van Hamel, as you may have gathered, is my youngest brother, Hillary. Hil, you are forgetting your manners. Come make a leg to Miss van Hamel.”
“Miss—” Hillary’s dark eyes widened in delight. “And you accuse me of getting up to bobbery!” he murmured. He swept her a magnificent leg, accompanied by a winsome smile. “How do you do?”
Uncertain, Riki held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“You won’t be when you know him better,” Belmont informed her.
Hillary threw his brother a quizzical look but refrained from comment. A sound at the open door caused them all to turn.
“Belmont?” A dandy, beautiful to behold in a lavender swan-tail coat and white small clothes, stepped daintily into the room and stopped dead at the sight that met his shocked eyes. He groped for the quizzing glass that hung about his neck from a purple velvet riband and raised it to inspect his friend. It dropped from his fingers as an exquisite shudder ran through him. “Belmont!” he repeated in failing accents.
“Hallo, Julian. It seems the entire Randall clan is descending on you for help.”
Sir Julian’s gaze lighted on Belmont’s bloodied wrists, then moved on to search for other signs of injuries. “Help, is it? What the devil happened to you?” His carefully cultivated affectations fell away and he strode forward, for once forgetting to mince.
“Our boat sank. And if you are about to offer aid, some food wouldn’t come amiss.”
“Certainly.” Sir Julian, whose glance had come to rest on Riki, seemed incapable of movement.
Hillary, enjoying himself hugely, obliged by pulling the bellrope. “You haven’t introduced Miss van Hamel,” he pointed out.
“Haven’t you somewhere to go?” Belmont cast his brother a fulminating look, which promised a rare rake-down at the first convenient moment.
Hillary grinned in response, obviously thinking the ensuing scene would make it worth being hauled onto the carpet. “No, nowhere at all. What an unnatural brother I’d be if I didn’t want to hear all about your adventures.”
Riki touched his arm. “I believe it will be safe to let these gentlemen into my secret,” she whispered in a voice calculated to let everyone hear.
Belmont made a show of hesitation. “Perhaps it will be the best way to assure their silence,” he agreed at last in that same hushed tone. That ought to send Hillary into alt.
The youth’s eyes widened. “Lord, Gil, is this some secret mission?”
“Not a word out of you!” Belmont fixed him with a compelling eye. “Miss van Hamel is an American agent. If you have been reading your newspaper of late, you will know that relations between our two countries are strained. She has come to try to prevent war by exposing another American who may have infiltrated our government with the purpose of sabotaging our efforts against Napoleon.”
“Has she, by Jupiter!” Hillary stared at her in round-eyed awe.
Sir Julian swung his quizzing glass by its riband, his thoughtful gaze narrowing on Riki’s face. “An American agent,” he murmured. The next moment, he recovered and drawled, “My dear Miss van Hamel, you are to be congratulated. I do not believe our friend Belmont has ever before engaged in so dramatic an undertaking.”
That nettled. “I did spend a couple of years in the Peninsula,” he pointed out.
Sir Julian’s reply was cut off by the arrival of Ferndale bearing a tray with decanters, glasses and a plate of cakes and biscuits. Sir Julian sent him back to the kitchens to obtain more sustaining viands, then returned his attention to his guests.
“And what, pray, brings you to my humble doorstep?” He poured wine for Belmont, then hesitated. Neither of the two decanters contained a beverage suitable for a lady.
“Our feet. And a farming cart.” Belmont solved the problem by handing Riki his own glass then pouring himself another.
Sir Julian raised an eyebrow but made no comment. Instead he caught Belmont’s eye and held his gaze. “Unless I am very much mistaken, you were headed in quite another direction.”
“Now where did you hear that?” Belmont took a swallow of wine, but his unwavering regard remained fixed on his friend.
Sir Julian shrugged. “Something someone in your office said just before I left town.”
“And what might that have been?”
“That you were headed for Dover, dear boy, and not, as you had been at pains to imply to me, to Kent.”
“And who, may I ask, passed on this interesting bit of information?”
Sir Julian raised his quizzing glass and studied Belmont’s disreputable garments. An exquisite shudder ran through him and he allowed the glass to drop. “Now to whom was I speaking about you? Was it young Warwick? No, I have it. I believe it must have been Lady Linton.”
“Clarissa? How the devil—” Belmont broke off.
Sir Julian inclined his head. “It is so difficult to keep things secret, is it not, my dear Belmont? But I am quite certain Lord Linton would have spoken of your movements to no one but his wife. She is, after all, your sister.”
“I don’t see where that makes any difference when our entire department was sworn to silence over my mission.” He took a deep breath and forced his jaw to unclench.
“Especially if he told Clary! She’s the worst gabster,” Hillary stuck in, obviously relishing his inclusion, in however minor a capacity, in Great Events. “It’s Lombard Street to a China orange she’ll spread your doings all over town.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your tongue between your teeth, you cork-brained young rattle-pate.” Belmont checked his rising temper. The events of the last few days had taken their toll on him. Clarissa possessed more decorum than to speak of his activities to any but such an old friend as Sir Julian—though in this case, even he should have remained in ignorance. He didn’t like his brother-in-law passing on information gleaned in Whitehall. He would take him severely to task for it, even if Lord Linton was a senior official and his elder by fifteen years.
“I assume your journey was aborted?”
He looked up to find Sir Julian watching him. The hairs prickled along the back of his neck, as if he were a dog sensing danger. He forced back the eerie—and ridiculous—sensation. “Actually, our boat sank. We were rescued from drowning by a band of smugglers.”
A gasp escaped Hillary. “Smugglers? No, really, Gil? You’re not shamming it?”
Ruefully, Belmont noted his young brother’s undisguised wonder and dawning respect. The boy must always have taken him for a slow-top. Nettled, he continued the story. “We helped them land their kegs, then they ferried us to a cove near Rottingdean and left us bound on the shore. When we freed ourselves, we were able to flag down a farmer, who brought us to Brighton.”
Sir Julian shuddered once more. “And all this, Miss van Hamel, you have been forced to endure? What a very odd notion this must give you of a British gentleman.”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. Lord Belmont has tried to…to invest our adventure with what propriety he could. He told the…free traders I was his young brother.”
Hillary shook his head, apparently for once awed into silence. When Belmont asked for the plate of biscuits, the youth passed them over without a word.
“You will have lost your baggage.” Sir Julian addressed Riki.
With her mouth full of almond cake, she nodded. After she swallowed, she asked, “How do I go about getting suitable clothes? I obviously can’t go around dressed like this.”
Sir Julian closed his eyes. “I should say not. A maid will be dispatched at once to see what can be obtained. In the meantime, I shall have my housekeeper conduct you to a bedchamber. At the very least she may supply you with something so you need not dine in that.”
Belmont intercepted a mischievous glance from Riki and directed a reproving look at her. She was more than capable of announcing that she wore such garments every day. Here, in his own time—in his own world—he suddenly felt improperly clad himself. That was odd, for he had grown quite accustomed to “jeans” and the knitted shirt—a “sweater”, she had called it—in only a couple of days. It appalled him now to think that he had dined with a young lady without so much as stockings on his bare feet.
When the butler returned, Sir Julian sent him for Mrs. Ferndale to take charge of Riki. His housekeeper, apparently already informed by her astounded husband of the shocking presence of a young female in outlandish gentleman’s garb, entered stiffly. But the hint of secret government business, combined with Riki’s unconscious air of well-bred gentility, went a long way toward soothing her righteous indignation. In a very few minutes, the motherly woman was clucking over her new charge, sending maids scurrying for hot water, towels and any clothing that might fit the unfortunate dear’s petite frame.
Riki numbly followed her guide up a wide staircase to the third floor, then down a blue plush carpeted hall to the open doorway of an unused bedchamber. Inside, a maid knelt at the hearth, arranging twigs in the grate to start a fire. A branch of beeswax candles provided the sole illumination. Riki entered slowly, staring about a room that was as elegant as it was antiquated.
Before her stood a large canopied bed with rose-colored velvet curtains. A highboy, a dressing table, an armoire and a small writing desk were positioned comfortably about the large chamber. A round pedestal table, flanked by two Hepplewhite chairs, stood near the hearth. She turned back toward the door and spotted a china basin placed in a wooden washstand.
If Belmont felt lost upon abruptly finding himself faced with modern conveniences, Riki thought, how much more lost was she without them? She shivered. Another maid entered, bobbed a curtsy and handed the housekeeper three long gray dresses. The girl’s wide-eyed gaze rested on Riki, but Mrs. Ferndale sent her quickly about her business.
Riki did no more than glance at the garments. She wished the woman would leave her alone so she could pull off the scratchy sweater and indulge in a good wash. What she wanted, of course, was a shower, to wash the salt and who knew what all else from her hair. Her face and skin felt as if she were encrusted. A tentative mention of this brought another flurry of activity, and ten minutes later two stout footmen carried in a tub large enough to sit in and placed it before the sputtering fire. They were followed by another and two maids, each carrying buckets of steaming water.
Only by persistent requests did Riki at last clear the room. The moment the door closed behind the housekeeper, Riki turned the key, then dragged off her ruined clothes. She washed out her underthings, then left the flimsy wisps of nylon hanging over the firescreen to dry.
Next she turned her attention to the steaming water scented with violets and indulged in a thorough scrub and hair-wash, followed by a leisurely soak. With the easing of her muscles—and tension—the unreality of the last few days hit with a vengeance. It wasn’t possible—none of it could be! Yet here she was, taking a bath of all things, in 1812, approximately one hundred and seventy-five years before she was even born.
And Belmont… Thoughts of him steadied her reeling world. He must have gone through this same sense of disorientation, of unreality, when he had been thrown into the future. He had survived it—and returned to his own time. She would do the same. For as improbable as it seemed, it had happened.
She climbed out of the tub, caught herself looking for the plug, remembered there was no such thing as plumbing yet and instead dried herself off. The chamber pot, discovered in the cabinet of the washstand, proved another lesson in the rigors of premodern life. I’m living in the past, all right.
And that meant no blow dryer. She looked at the tangled mass of her hair and groaned. It was so thick it would take forever to dry without help. Well, she’d faced it before, when her generator had gone out. At least then, though, she’d had her makeup to make herself feel a little more human.
She checked her underthings, found them almost dry and pulled them on. A check of the garments provided for her use revealed a corset. Damn, I’ll have to wear that. With a sigh she removed her bra, set it aside then donned the white, coarse chemise-affair that lay beside the three plain gowns. It brushed the carpeted floor, making her feel as if she were a child again, dressing up in her mother’s clothes. She winced at the memory. Candace, dear elder sister that she was, had suggested the game, then assured their furious mother that she had tried to talk Riki out of such dreadful behavior.
A knock on the door announced the return of Mrs. Ferndale, who assisted Riki into the corset, a garment Riki felt certain she would soon come to detest. That accomplished, they both examined the three possible dresses. The shortest touched the ground by more than an inch. If Riki tried walking in this, she would either tear the hem or more likely fall flat on her face. There were definite disadvantages to being five-foot-and-a-hair. Candace, from the vast reaches of her five-foot-six, had pointed them out regularly when they were in high school.
Mrs. Ferndale frowned at the garment and clucked her tongue. “Don’t you worry none, Miss. We’ll set that to rights. But first, let’s tend to your poor wrists.” This she did by bandaging Riki’s scrapes and cuts with a sweet-smelling salve and strips of cotton cloth. When the motherly woman was finally satisfied, she turned her attention to the hem of the gown.
In a very short time, Riki found her skirt and chemise pinned up so that she could walk with safety. A pair of fabric slippers, which tied about her ankles, fit well enough that she didn’t have to go barefoot. Feeling foolish, as if she had donned a costume for some play, she ran a comb through her damp but clean hair and allowed the housekeeper to lead her downstairs to where dinner—and Belmont—awaited. But so too did his brother and friend. Who knew how many unintentional traps lurked for her tired, unwary tongue?