An Unexpected Gentleman

by Laura Beers

  Aunt Nellie started laughing. “Good heavens, child. You are babbling. Get to the point, if you please!”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Amelia admitted, “I performed a cesarean delivery on a woman in the village.”

  “Did you now?”

  Amelia clasped her hands tightly in her lap and scrutinized her white knuckles. “Yes, Aunt Nellie, I cut the baby out of the woman’s stomach because she was unable to deliver it on her own.”

  “Oh my!” Aunt Nellie exclaimed, dropping her hands into her lap. “Did the woman live?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the child?”

  “She lived as well.”

  Aunt Nellie lifted her brow. “Then, what is the problem?”

  She lowered her gaze as she admitted, “I performed a procedure that is not medically recognized in this era.”

  “Does this procedure cause heavy blood loss?”

  “It does.”

  Aunt Nellie slapped her hand onto the desk. “That explains how your dress was ruined.” She smiled. “I told Marie that you were not slaughtering cattle.”

  “Why would I slaughter cattle?” she asked in confusion.

  “We just couldn’t figure out how all that blood got onto your dress.” Aunt Nellie shrugged and rose, changing the subject. “What would you think of joining Miss Turner and me? We are going to London to get some lemon ice from Gunter’s. I know it is almost a two-hour drive by carriage, but I keep hearing how delicious it is.

  Amelia gaped openly. “Aren’t you upset with me?”

  Aunt Nellie came around her desk and sat down on the chair next to her. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I am proud that you saved that woman from death.”

  “But didn’t I just destroy the very fabric of time?”

  Chuckling, Aunt Nellie gave her a head shake. “It doesn’t work that way. As I shared before, time is a fuzzball,” she explained. “Every person has their own thread of time, and there is no space-time continuum.”

  Amelia sighed in relief. “I was afraid that you were going to turn me into a mouse.”

  “A mouse?”

  She nodded. “Or a roach.”

  “Why would I turn you into a rodent or a bug?” Aunt Nellie asked, eyeing her with disbelief.

  “It seemed logical to me,” she said, feeling relieved at the tone of this conversation.

  “You have the most vivid imagination.” Leaning forward, Aunt Nellie patted her knee as she asked, “Now, how are things progressing with Lord Harrington?”

  Amelia smiled. “Things are going well. He is spending more time with his daughter and seems to be much happier than when I first saw him.”

  “Excellent news,” Aunt Nellie confirmed. “Have you found a governess for Marian?”

  “Not yet,” the younger woman admitted. “We were interrupted last night.”

  “I understand. I’m sure everything will work itself out in due course. By the way, you will be pleased to know that I secured invitations for us to attend the Duke of Albany’s ball in four days,” Aunt Nellie revealed, beaming with excitement.

  Amelia stifled a groan. “To be honest, I am tired of the thinly veiled insults about my American heritage.” She tossed up her arms. “I get it,” she stated dramatically. “I am an American, and we are at war with Britain. But I didn’t start that war, and I’m not a spy trying to discover British war secrets.”

  With a mischievous smile, Aunt Nellie said, “Just leave the specifics up to me.”

  Catching her hostess’s mood, Amelia grinned and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, I don’t believe you answered me about visiting Gunter’s tea shop for some lemon ice,” Aunt Nellie said, rising from her seat. “Let’s shop for some ribbons as well.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Amelia agreed. “I’ll go find Peyton.”

  Chapter 9

  “Blake!” Lord Harrington roared from his chair in his study. “Get in here.”

  Mr. Blake appeared from the hall and bowed. “Yes, milord.”

  “Where are the notes from the tenants’ meeting?”

  Giving him a curt nod, his butler slipped his hands into his pocket and pulled out a few sheets of paper. “They were just delivered.”

  Accepting the papers, he grumbled, “Next time, I want these notes sooner.”

  “As you wish, milord,” Blake replied. “May I get you anything else?”

  The earl waved his hand, dismissing his servant. He didn’t have time for such incompetence. He had an estate to run, tenants to be cared for, and his presence was requested at the House of Lords for a special vote this evening.

  Reaching into the pocket of his ivory brocade waistcoat, he removed the note that Miss Wright had written to him and slipped under his study door earlier. Despite her riding over to his estate to visit Marian, he hadn’t had any time to spend with the remarkable young female surgeon. He grimaced, knowing that was not entirely true. He was avoiding her. To make matters worse, he didn’t fully understand why.

  Unfolding the note, Adam shook his head fondly at Miss Wright’s straightforward and uncomplicated letter-writing style.

  Lord Harrington,

  I hope all is well. I have missed spending time with you.

  -Amelia

  Without thinking, he ran his fingers over her name. Did she now grant him leave to call her by her Christian name? After all, Miss Wright did not seem to care about breaking social customs. Why did the memory of her inflict turmoil in his heart and soul? He couldn’t explain why he was drawn to her to such a degree.

  “What do you have there?” a familiar tenor voice interrupted Harrington’s reverie.

  Folding the note, Harrington quickly placed it back into his waistcoat pocket before acknowledging the irritation before him. “How the blazes did you get past Blake, Wessex?” he grunted.

  “Blake did announce me, but you were too preoccupied with that note to notice. Was that from Miss Amelia Wright?”

  “It is none of your concern,” he declared, rising from his seat.

  “Tut, tut, Harrington.” Lord Wessex straightened up from the desk with an annoying glimmer of a grin on his face. “I didn’t realize that you two had grown so close these past few days.”

  “Leave it alone, John.” The earl stepped over to his drink tray and pulled the top off of the decanter. After he poured port into two glasses, he handed one to his friend.

  Accepting the glass, Wessex just watched him, and Harrington found the scrutiny disconcerting. “Do you care to comment on why I just saw Miss Wright playing with Marian on the lawn?”

  “Is she?” Harrington asked before he took a sip of his drink. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “They were chasing each other across the lawn, playing a game of… ‘tag’, I believe.”

  “It is an American game, I presume,” Harrington replied nonchalantly.

  “Why is Miss Wright spending time at your estate?” his friend asked as he swirled his drink in his hand.

  “It is none of your business.” Harrington gulped down his port.

  “It is,” Wessex insisted, lifting his brow, “if she is a spy.”

  Adam slammed his glass down on the tray. “Stop being so thick-headed, Wessex!”

  “Just hear me out,” his friend protested, holding up his left hand. “I have deduced that Miss Turner and Miss Wright have no reason whatsoever to be in England. Two lovely, intelligent American ladies appear out of the blue sky.” Wessex placed his glass down on the tray. “How they arrived is shrouded in secrecy, but we both know that they could not have traveled here on an American or British ship.”

  “Even if what you are saying is true,” Adam glowered, “what makes you think these two ladies are acting as spies?”

  “Perhaps their job is to befriend lords and high-ranking officials in hopes of stealing secrets,” Wessex speculated.

  “No,” Harrington insisted. “I can vouch for Miss Wright with certainty. She is no spy.”

  “You are blinded
by her feminine wiles,” Wessex accused.

  “Tread lightly, my friend. Choose your words with care.”

  His friend sat on a nearby chair before probing, “Then explain to me what happened with Miss Wright at Mr. Stevens’ house?”

  Realization dawned on him as he stared at his companion. “Have you been spying on me?”

  Lord Wessex shook his head. “No. However, we have been watching Miss Wright’s movements, and your paths appear to cross often.”

  Tilting his head back, Harrington looked up at the rafters before saying, “Miss Wright performed a cesarean delivery on Mrs. Stevens, the blacksmith’s wife in the village.”

  “A Cesarean delivery? What in blazes is that?”

  Harrington sighed. “It’s a procedure to remove the baby from the womb to preserve the baby and the mother.”

  Wessex frowned.

  “Mrs. Stevens would have died if Miss Wright hadn’t performed the procedure to save her and the baby.”

  Wessex perched on the edge of his seat, leaning toward his friend. “How did she learn how to do that?”

  He shrugged. “She claims she’s a surgeon.”

  “A surgeon?” Lord Wessex repeated incredulously. “I find that highly unlikely. Women can’t be surgeons, even American women. Their constitutions are much too delicate.”

  “I am just telling you what she said and what I saw,” Harrington retorted. “Miss Wright was magnificent.” He paused, recalling the moment accurately. “She did not hesitate to run to Mrs. Stevens’ aid, nor did she faint or squirm at the sight of blood. She performed the office as competently as any man I have ever seen. I tell you, Wessex, she was a triumph!” His words stilled when he saw Wessex’s obnoxious grin. “Why are you smiling like a bloody fool?”

  “You find her handsome, don’t you?” Wessex asked.

  “Yes, of course. What man wouldn’t?”

  “But her behavior, her manner of speaking is… unconventional, wouldn’t you say, Harrington?”

  “Yes, there is no denying that. What of it, Wessex?”

  “Then, are you in love with her, or are you just… toying with her emotions?”

  “What! No… you are speaking rubbish,” Harrington sputtered.

  “You love Miss Wright,” Wessex asserted.

  Harrington raked his hand through his brown hair. “I barely know her. That is impossible.”

  “Is it?” Wessex persisted. “If I recall, you fell in love with Agnes in a similar fashion.”

  “No, no, no…” he stammered out. “Agnes is my wife, and I love her.”

  Harrington’s oldest friend rose from his seat, his eyes reflecting pity. “No. Agnes was your wife, and you will always love her. But Agnes was my friend as well, and she wouldn’t have wanted you to remain alone. She wouldn’t have wanted Marian to be without a mother.”

  “I don’t have time to search for another wife,” Harrington mumbled, but his heart wasn’t in it.

  Stepping to the window, John looked out over the lawn. “Fortunately, you don’t have to search very hard… assuming she is not a spy.”

  “She is not a spy,” Harrington growled.

  “Then help me prove it.” Wessex turned back around. “Arrange a meeting with Miss Wright and allow me to ask her a few questions.”

  “I can do that…” His words stopped when Marian ran into the room with her arms wide open. Crouching down, he opened his arms as his daughter flew into them. “Miss Wright left for the day,” she informed him.

  “Did she?”

  “Yes.” Marian nodded. “And I came and told you straightaway, just as you instructed me to do.”

  Ignoring his friend’s chuckle, Harrington pressed, “What did you two discuss?”

  Marian pressed her lips together just as he had seen Amelia do in the past. “We discussed my lessons, and I played a song for her on the pianoforte.”

  “Anything else?”

  Nodding her head, his daughter whispered loudly, “Miss Wright was excited to go to a ball tonight.”

  “A ball?” he asked in surprise. “Whose ball?”

  “She didn’t say, Father.”

  He frowned. He was not pleased with this turn of events.

  Wessex chuckled from behind him. “Most likely, it is Albany’s ball.”

  Turning his head towards his friend, he asked, “Were you invited?”

  “I was, in fact.”

  The earl rose from his crouched position, attempting to keep his face expressionless. “Perhaps we should stop by the ball after the vote at the House of Lords tonight.”

  Lord Wessex’s smile grew as he asked, “Are you going to cite a reason other than going to spy on Miss Wright?”

  “I… haven’t been to a ball in ages,” Harrington attempted dryly. “Miss Wright’s attendance is merely an added bonus.”

  “You’re making yourself a fool,” Wessex warned.

  “Blake!” Harrington shouted, leaving his study. “Is my blasted coach ready?”

  He shook his head as he listened to his daughter giggling and Lord Wessex roar with laughter. Was he, indeed, making himself a bloody fool?

  Dressed in a beautiful gown with roses embroidered along the square neckline, Amelia watched out the carriage window as they approached the townhouse belonging to the Duke of Albany. At the top of the long drive was a massive estate with white columns framing the exterior of the home. “This is considered a townhouse?”

  “This is the duke and duchess’ primary residence, but they do spend time at their country homes during the fall and winter months,” Aunt Nellie informed them.

  “Where I live, a townhouse is very different,” Amelia remarked, keeping her eyes on the line of carriages still waiting to be unloaded.

  Peyton laughed as she ran her hands down her silver gown. “We should just move into that townhouse. After all, I doubt the duke would even know we were there.”

  “Now, girls,” Nellie said, drawing back their attention, “I have a wonderful surprise for you.”

  After a long, drawn-out moment, it became clear that Aunt Nellie wasn’t going to say anything more, so Amelia asked, “Can you tell us what it is?”

  “You will see,” Aunt Nellie replied with a secretive smile.

  The carriage jerked to a stop, and a footman opened the door, extending his hand towards them. Amelia placed her gloved hand into his and stepped down onto a stone pathway that led up to the largest set of red doors that she had ever seen.

  As she approached the entry, two uniformed footmen pushed open the red doors, and she walked into a magical ballroom. There was something to be said for stepping back into such an elegant era. The large rectangular room was lit with hundreds of flickering candles set in ornate chandeliers hanging low from the ceiling. Gold paper lined the walls, and a beautifully chalked mural was drawn onto the center of the dance floor.

  Despite being hated because of her American heritage, Amelia did not seem to mind being there as much as she thought she would. To be in this ballroom was a moment she knew she would treasure. She took a step forward towards the crowd but was stopped by Aunt Nellie’s hand on her arm.

  “First, I must introduce you to someone,” she instructed, leading her and Peyton towards a small hall off the ballroom.

  Once Aunt Nellie arrived at the door, she knocked and pushed it open. They were greeted by the sight of a lovely older woman with faded brown hair, dressed in a mauve-colored gown and draped with jewels, including a large tiara crowning her head.

  Once the door was closed behind them, the woman directed her next question towards Aunt Nellie. “Are these the girls you were telling me about?”

  “They are,” Aunt Nellie answered. “Your Grace, the Duchess of Albany, may I present Miss Peyton Turner and Miss Amelia Wright?”

  “Your Grace,” they both murmured in unison, dipping into low curtsies.

  The duchess rose and walked closer to inspect them, her eyes roaming their faces and clothing. In one hand, she held a fan t
hat she tapped into the palm of her other hand.

  “Aunt Nellie, they are exquisite.”

  “Do you think you can help them?” Aunt Nellie asked.

  “Of course,” the duchess said, flipping open her fan. “We time travelers must stick together.”

  Amelia gasped. “You are a time traveler?”

  The duchess sat down gracefully. “Please, sit down, and we can have a quick chat before we go out and meet your adoring fans.”

  “The English hate us,” Peyton sighed as she sat on an upholstered armchair.

  Nodding, the duchess responded, “They don’t hate you, but they do hate Americans and everything that the American people believe in.”

  Peyton giggled. “Thank you for that clarification.”

  Smiling, the duchess revealed, “I originally traveled from the year 1998 back to 1783. I visited Twickenham Manor while I was participating in a study abroad program at Arizona State University. I was a history major, in fact.” With a nod towards Aunt Nellie, she continued, “I decided to go exploring one night when the moon was full.”

  “On the fourth floor?” Amelia guessed.

  The duchess nodded.

  “Did you experience any effects from time travel?” Peyton asked.

  “I did,” the duchess confirmed. “My teeth chattered for almost an hour afterwards.”

  “My ears started ringing,” Amelia confessed.

  Peyton placed a hand to her stomach. “I was nauseous.”

  Amelia frowned. “If you were sent to the year 1783, why did you not travel back during the next full moon?”

  “Because of me,” a deep, male voice said, as he entered through a side partition. “I convinced her to stay and marry me.”

  As they started to rise, the barrel-chested duke put his hand out to stop them. “Please, stay seated.” Striding over to his wife, he joined her on the settee. “My wife informed me of your precarious situation, and we want to help you.”

  “How can you help us?” Peyton asked.

  The duchess had a twinkle in her eyes. “It is quite simple. You are our dear friends from America, and we invited you to England for the Season.”