Roses in Moonlight

by Lynn Kurland

  “Bad?”

  “They have a way of turning up where they shouldn’t and the result is never pleasant. Do you remember that fellow traveler we acquired during that trip a couple of months ago?”

  “Vividly.” They had spent a week on board a Victorian frigate with a C. S. Forester nut who had heard a rumor about Jamie’s familiarity with time periods not his own and had been determined to test its veracity. He had followed them back in time, then continued to follow them onto the ship. It was only when he succeeded in poaching the captain’s sword that they had realized who he was and what he was up to.

  And, well, Jamie was right. That sort of thing belonged in its proper time and place. He and Jamie had had a hell of a time getting the sword back where it belonged. They had managed, again just barely, to also get the would-be Horatio Hornblower back to the current day, but the man had eventually had to be institutionalized.

  Time travel wasn’t for the faint of heart.

  “I’d pop back and get it, were I you.”

  Derrick could see the wisdom in it. “There’s just one problem,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure that the woman who stashed the lace will come along. And I’m not sure I want her to.”

  “Can she give you directions?”

  “I don’t think she will, even if she could,” Derrick admitted. “I think I could find it myself. She didn’t venture too far afield.”

  “Then what’s the trouble?”

  Derrick hardly knew how to voice his thought, but he hadn’t called just to chat. “I was thinking,” he began slowly, “that perhaps if I used a gate to simply go backward a day, just to yesterday, and managed to get the lace back from her before all this madness . . .”

  Jamie made a noise that wasn’t quite disapproval, but it was definitely warning.

  “Have you ever tried it?” Derrick asked.

  “Aye,” was all Jamie said.

  Derrick waited, but Jamie didn’t say anything else. It had to have been terrible, else he would have described the experience in minute detail. Derrick sighed.

  “Very well, I’ll go back to the proper time myself.”

  “Want company?”

  Derrick smiled. “I think I’ll manage, though I’ll try to send word if things go awry.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on the Tower inmate list.”

  Derrick would have laughed, but he didn’t suppose he dared. “That would be very kind.”

  Jamie laughed a little. “You’ll be fine, laddie. We’ll go have ourselves a goodly adventure somewhere safe after you’ve restored old Epworth’s treasure to him.”

  Derrick thanked Jamie for his help and rang off. He considered, wished he hadn’t ditched his Elizabethan costume, then decided there was nothing to be done about it. He would scrounge something out of a rubbish bin, perhaps, and see if he couldn’t find the treasure. He couldn’t lay claim to many skills, but he had a very good sense of direction. He would retrace Samantha Drummond’s steps, then see what he could find. With any luck, he would run across her phone as well.

  He told Emily he was going out, then left the suite.

  • • •

  Two hours later, he was sitting back on the couch, suppressing the urge to indulge in colorful language. He had sent Emily home courtesy of Rufus, who also never seemed to sleep, then settled down to brood. That he hadn’t slept very well in a pair of days most likely contributed to his foul mood. The fact that the gate hadn’t worked was also adding to his unhappiness.

  He turned his mind back to the problem at hand, namely figuring out how to get back in time to rescue Epworth’s lace. Perhaps he had to have Samantha with him. Perhaps he would never get back to where he needed to go and the lace would languish back where it had come from, though now there were two copies of it where there should have been just one. The fabric of time would be forever marred and Jamie would frown. Derrick supposed he would have deserved it if Jamie had suggested a wee trip out to his training field where he could show his displeasure by using Derrick’s gut as a resting place for his very well-loved Claymore.

  The other bedroom door opened, startling him. He looked up to find Samantha Drummond standing there, dressed in clothing he was sure she never would have bought on her own. She had gone from looking about forty to looking like she was scarce sixteen. She was wearing jeans, a trendy shirt, and a sweater that he would have bet good sterling was cashmere. He would get a bill for the entire outfit, he was sure.

  She was, he had to admit dispassionately, rather pretty now that she was out of her librarian’s gear. Her hair was still behind her—in a braid, no doubt—and she still exuded an air of a woman who had grown up in the relative safety and innocence of the 1950s, but that only added to her charm.

  Of course, he wasn’t interested in her in more than a purely academic way, but he was a man, after all. It would have been impolite not to at least look.

  She looked at him, lifted her chin, then marched over to pull her bag up off the table. She pulled it over her head, then continued her purposeful march to the door. She stopped in surprise at the sight of her backpack sitting there next to it.

  “Where did this come from?” she asked suspiciously.

  “It was fetched for you.”

  “I don’t suppose I should bother asking how you knew where to go get it.”

  “I don’t suppose you should.”

  She shouldered her backpack, muttering under her breath what he was certain were very uncomplimentary things.

  “They’re still out there, you know,” he said mildly.

  She paused. “Who?”

  “Those two lads who were searching for us in the fair today,” he said, “as well as another two who have apparently decided to join in the fun.”

  He heard her quick intake of breath. It wasn’t quite a gasp, but it was close.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Test it and see, if you like.”

  She had her hand on the door and was wearing what she no doubt considered to be a look of fierceness. He would have smiled if he hadn’t suspected her of nefarious deeds. Then again, she didn’t look at all capable of nefarious deeds. She looked like a fresh-scrubbed, wide-eyed Yank who was completely out of her depth.

  “You know,” he said slowly, “we might both be served by something to eat. I think I could order us dinner that wouldn’t be poisoned.”

  She didn’t move. “And if I rip the phone away from you and start screaming?”

  “I’ll have the concierge ring the bobbies and they’ll lock you up in Bedlam.”

  She turned to look at him. “You’re bluffing. You don’t have Bedlam anymore over here.”

  “I think there might be worse things.” He looked at her evenly. “I don’t think you want to test it.”

  She pressed herself back against the door. “Where’s Emily?”

  “I sent her home.”

  “If you think I’m going to stay in this room for one more minute with you—” She paused for breath. “You’re crazy.”

  “The alternative is, I assure you, much worse.”

  She glared at him. “I don’t know you well enough to dislike you, but I would if I did.”

  “You were couriering a piece of lace stolen from one of my clients by your employer,” he said with a shrug, “and that makes you rather unpopular with me.”

  “I already told you,” she began through gritted teeth. “I had no idea that lace was in the package!”

  “But you were willing to carry the package—”

  “Well, of course I was,” she said, looking at him as if he were the one who was daft. “The Cookes are friends of my brother’s and I’m working for them. Lydia asked me to run that embroidery down to London for her, so I said yes. What else was I supposed to say?”

  He sat back and studied her for a moment or two. “You could have asked her why she wanted it delivered.”

  “It’s none of my business why she wanted it delivered,” she said in frustration. “I’m work
ing for them. I’m house-sitting for them all summer. She was giving me a chance to see a few sights before I’m trapped in Newcastle for the next three months.”

  “And it didn’t occur to you that she might be up to something?”

  Her mouth fell open. “She and her husband are very reputable academics. They’re Shakespearean actors, for heaven’s sake. What’s more reputable than that?”

  Derrick shut his mouth before he answered. His opinion of actors was something he was probably better off not voicing.

  He studied her for a bit longer. He didn’t like to give any potential thief the benefit of the doubt, but he also could say with a fair amount of certainty that he had a finely attuned BS meter. He could spot a liar from across a ballroom. The woman in front of him might have been a Yank—and she could hardly help that unfortunate circumstance of her birthplace—but he was almost positive she wasn’t lying. He wasn’t willing to commit to that fully, because that mucked up his neat-and-tidy solution to his lace problem, but he was willing to consider it.

  He studied her for a moment or two longer, then leaned forward. She opened the door, but didn’t go out into the hallway. She only looked at him as if she fully expected him to jump up and throttle her. He held up his hands.

  “I think I’ve misjudged you,” he said slowly.

  She looked at him suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means just that,” he said carefully. “Why don’t we have supper in this place that’s safe and we’ll discuss it.”

  She peeked out into the hallway, then looked back at him.

  “The devil you know,” he offered.

  “I’m not sure you’re an improvement.”

  “I might be when you consider that those lads there haven’t bought you supper or offered you a safe place to sleep.”

  “You threatened to call the cops on me,” she said. “Oh, and I forgot about Bedlam.”

  “We don’t have Bedlam anymore.”

  “You said you have worse.”

  “I might have lied.”

  She clutched the doorframe. “I’m finding that quite a few people lie.”

  He leaned back and tried to look as harmless as possible. After all, he needed her to get where he was going.

  “They do,” he agreed, “but I don’t.”

  “Ha,” she said, though she seemed less eager to bolt than she had been just a moment earlier. “Spoken by one who’s been lying about his identity for the past three days.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “In Newcastle, in York, at Hedingham, on a couple of trains?”

  “You’re imagining things,” he said dismissively. “Many people take trains to London.”

  “Via Sudbury?” she said pointedly. “First as a Brit, then a Canadian, then a German, then a scruffy-looking nobody?” She looked down her nose at him. “Your German is lousy, by the way.”

  “And yours is very good,” he conceded without hesitation. “My fault, I suppose, for choosing amiss. What else do you speak?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  He shook his head. “Trying to distract you so you’ll shut the door and I can order supper.” He leaned forward. “Miss Drummond, I give you my word I will not harm you. If you’ll shut the door and come sit, I’ll be completely frank with you. Perhaps there is a way out of this mess for the both of us.”

  She considered. Apparently good sense prevailed because she finally shut the door, though she didn’t move away from it. She simply looked at him.

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Lord Epworth trusts me. What does that tell you?”

  “That you might be a criminal who has turned his life around,” she said without hesitation. “You might be a very good criminal, which doesn’t say much about your character.”

  He sighed. Perhaps he was getting old, or tired, or jaded, but there was just something about the woman that shouted innocence. If she’d cheated on a test and lasted ten minutes without a full confession, he would have been surprised. He stood and gestured toward the sofa.

  “Leave your gear, Miss Drummond, and please come sit. Let’s see if the kitchen is still willing to prepare something for us to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  She looked at him for another moment or two in silence, then she set her backpack down by the door. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I haven’t eaten very much today.”

  “Let’s remedy that.”

  She crossed the room, then sat as far on the opposite end of the sofa from him as possible. He fetched the menu, had a look for himself, then handed it to her. She named something very small indeed, which surprised him a little.

  He was beginning to think he had seriously misjudged her.

  He ordered enough for four people, then sat and shifted to look at her.

  “How did you know it was me?” he asked, because that was what interested him the most.

  “Set of your shoulders,” she answered absently. She had picked up the menu again and was obviously adding things up in her head. “I’ve fitted my father’s costumes for years.” She glanced at him. “I’d suggest shoulder pads in your jackets, but maybe you don’t want to go that far.”

  “Most people aren’t that observant.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  “I’m beginning to suspect that.”

  She looked at him then, bleakly. “I feel like I’ve fallen into a bad dream and can’t wake up.”

  “Trust me,” he said, with feeling, “I understand.”

  “I’ve never been kidnapped before.”

  “I’m not kidnapping you now.”

  “I don’t hold your driver responsible,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him, “because he’s probably just doing what he’s told to save his wife and dozen children.”

  “Living in Dickensian squalor,” Derrick said wryly. “And he only has four, all grown up and moved on.”

  “You know, for all I know, you’re a thug who just wants that lace,” she continued. “Maybe you stole it in the first place and this is all an elaborate ruse to get it back from the unsuspecting patsy.”

  “You read too much.”

  “Prove me wrong.”

  He started to tell her he absolutely wouldn’t when he realized he had basically said the same thing to her. He rubbed his hands together, not because they ached, but because he was tired and needed something to eat.

  “I could tell you what I do for a living.”

  “How about you show me instead,” she said pointedly. “A website for your business. Maybe a business card.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Don’t have either. We’re very exclusive.”

  “Most high-end thieves are.”

  “And you would know?”

  “I can read the news, just like everyone else. And who’s we?”

  He supposed he owed her that at least. He sighed lightly, then attempted a smile. “Let’s begin with introductions—”

  “After all we’ve been through?” she asked. “Why bother?”

  He considered. “I saw that Elizabethan ghost in the great hall at the Castle.”

  Her eyes almost bulged. “You didn’t,” she breathed. “Really?”

  “Really,” he said. “He did good work on your boyfriend.”

  “Dory’s not my boyfriend.”

  Then the wench had at least some amount of taste. He looked at her seriously.

  “My name is Derrick Cameron,” he said, “and I am the, ah, owner of Cameron Antiquities, Ltd.”

  “The Ah Owner? Is that something British I don’t understand?”

  He was torn between scowling and smiling. “It’s a recent thing.”

  “And you’re not comfortable with it yet.”

  “Actually, no, I’m not,” he agreed.

  “What sort of business is it you’re uncomfortable with?” she asked. “Or should I not be curious?”

  He lifted an eyebrow brief
ly. “We deal in the very rare and hideously expensive. Antiques, mostly.”

  “Would my brother know you?”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I’m afraid he would, but I wouldn’t suggest you go to him for a character reference.”

  “Steal something filigreed from him?”

  “Salt cellars,” Derrick clarified. “And I didn’t steal them. I used my impressive powers of persuasion and vast amounts of charm to convince the owner to give them to me instead of to your brother.”

  “That couldn’t have been too hard,” she said with a snort. “Gavin has no charm and a lousy personality.”

  “But he drives a hard bargain,” Derrick said. “He wasn’t pleased.”

  “He rarely is.” She assessed him. “Did you give this Lord Epworth the lace in the first place?”

  “I sold it to him, aye,” Derrick said. “It came from a private collection.”

  “How did you know it was in this private collection?”

  He shrugged. “I like old things, so I accept any invitation to view antiques people are proud of. I keep those in mind, on the off chance the knowledge becomes useful. When a potential client thinks of something he or she wants, they contact me and I get it for them.”

  “Always?”

  “Almost always.”

  “Why are you so competitive?”

  “I have a brother.”

  “That answers that, I suppose.”

  A knock saved him from explaining that further. He rose, swayed, then cursed silently as he made his way across the room. He was going to have to do something about his arm, and sooner rather than later. He opened the door, waited until room service had done its bit, accompanied of course by one of the assigned flunkies whose job it was to see that his every need was catered to, then happily collapsed in a chair in front of food that smelled thoroughly edible.

  “Your shoulder is bleeding.”