by Mari Carr
Glancing back up at the shelf, she couldn’t help but wonder how her name could come to be in this book. It wasn’t hers. Most of the books in the library came with the estate, and in fact belonged to Philip McCormick before his death. The latest additions to the room were on a single lower shelf and consisted of her father’s current copies of P.D. James, Tom Clancy and Dan Brown novels. Tori had never met old Mr. McCormick, so it was highly unlikely he would’ve written her name in this book.
She struggled to make out the other words under her name. The ink was faded and whole portions of the note were gone. The only other words she could make out clearly were oak, past, 1817 and—her heart began to race as she read the signature at the bottom—Erin Delancy. Erin? Her Erin?
Oak, past, 1817. The washed-out writing certainly looked as if it could have been done in 1817. Oak, past, 1817. Tori considered the words again. Erin disappeared from the old oak tree at the edge of the property in 2007. The hair on her neck prickled as she considered the possibility Erin had actually written the note in 1817 as a message for her. She laughed at the idea. God.
The books must have knocked me senseless in the fall. This is what comes from watching repeats of The X-Files all the time.
However, the idea was unsettling enough that she dug into the history of Fernwood Grange. Her research uncovered a passage; a wedding announcement.
“Lord Alex McCormick, Marquis of Dorset, announces his betrothal to Lady Erin Delancy, great-niece of the esteemed Lord Richard Sipe, Earl of Langley on this day, thirty June, in the year of our lord 1817. The two plan to wed at Fernwood Grange, estate of the…”
Finding the Marquis of Dorset’s name opened the proverbial floodgates as there was quite a bit of information to be found on the nobility of the time period, and she continued her research, spending every night in front of her computer doing internet searches.
Then, she hit pay dirt, and her suspicions were confirmed, when she found the name of a Captain Jack Campbell, Earl of Wilshire. According to her findings, Campbell lived at the Homestead, an estate that bordered the Grange’s property at the time. Information about Captain Campbell revealed he was married to one Lady Hayley Campbell, Countess of Wilshire. Convinced she had solved the mystery of her lost June girls, Tori felt strangely happier and lighter than she had in years, even though the very thought they could be living in the past seemed like something out of an H.G. Wells’ novel.
Unfortunately, that initial happiness faded when she uncovered an old article from a newspaper of the time that reported the tragic murders of Lady Dorset and Lady Wilshire on the nineteenth of August, 1819. Tori shuddered to think of the deaths of her two best friends. As insane as it sounded, she refused to lose them after finding them again.
It was now her turn. She booked a flight to England in June. When the doorway to the past opened this time, she was walking through it, certain she could rescue her friends. Together the three of them would find a way to return home.
Tori was dragged from her memories beneath the tree when a strong wind blew open her three-ring binder tearing the pages and scattering her notes and research across the grass.
“No!” She jumped up and frantically tried grabbing six months’ worth of painstaking work. She had only taken a few steps away from the tree when a loud crash of thunder reverberated in the air, stopping her in her tracks.
The wind quickly took on gale force proportions. She struggled to catch her breath, her lungs seizing against the strength of the wind. Frantic to steady herself, she grabbed one of the lower branches of the oak tree, trying to keep from being blown over. She watched with dismay as her romance novel flew out toward the sea.
The current of air picked her backpack up like a feather and she ducked as it went whizzing by her head. She feared the only thing keeping her from flying away was her death grip on the tree branch, and were she not so terrified, she’d laugh about the fact she resembled Dorothy on her way to Oz, sans Toto and house, of course.
All feelings of false security vanished when the branch she clung to began creaking and groaning under the powerful wind. Leaning forward and using all the strength she possessed, she reached out toward the thick, sturdy trunk of the tree. If she could just get her arms around it, she felt certain she could ride out whatever weird kind of storm was occurring.
“So long as lightning doesn’t strike,” she muttered. No sooner had the words crossed her lips, than her worst nightmare came true. A bright light flashed, and a bolt of lightning struck the tree above her head, sending an electrical jolt surging through her entire body. Unable to hold on as the flow of electricity passed through her, Tori felt herself being lifted into the air, the wind tossing her body about like the pages from her notebook.
Strangely, she was no longer afraid. The excruciating pain of being lashed against the branches of the tree was definitely interfering with the proper operation of her fear gene. Covering her face, she screamed as leaves, twigs and branches slapped her unceasingly, each stinging blow more agonizing than the one before.
“Help!” She screamed over the roar of the gale, but the sound of her voice didn’t even reach her own ears. She was being thrashed about, and she quickly lost all sense of bearing.
When the pain became too insufferable, she felt herself being thrown high into the air, away from the tree. She fell hard and fast, everything around her a blur of colors; nothing clear or in focus. Nothing, but the very large, very hard rock toward which she hurtled.
Striking her head, Tori’s last conscious thought was, “Now I’m afraid.”
Chapter 2
V is for Vexed
June 1819
“Waaaaaa.” The sound of a baby’s scream pierced the air.
“Perfect. I clearly picked a bad time.” Lord Benjamin Sinclair climbed the porch stairs to Fernwood Grange. As was the custom, the front door opened before he had an opportunity to knock. Giles, the Grange’s ancient butler—efficient to a fault—bowed stiffly, giving what Ben suspected might actually pass for a smile on the old boy.
“Good day, my lord. You come at a very happy time.” Giles motioned for him to enter the house.
“Yes, I can hear that,” Ben replied, as the sound of the newly-born babe’s wailing continued to drift down the hall. “I assume Lord Dorset is with his wife.”
“Yes, my lord. Lady Dorset delivered a daughter, just moments ago. My lord was with her at the time.” Giles said the last with enough disdain that Ben grinned. Alex had written him several weeks ago and mentioned that Erin insisted he be present for the birth of their first child. He was shocked by the idea and even more shocked that Alex seemed to be looking forward to the prospect.
“I’m pleased to hear all is well. I do not wish to impose.” Ben inclined his head slightly. “If you would please congratulate your lord and lady for me, I will call again at a more convenient time.”
“But, my lord, surely you don’t intend to return to London after traveling all this way. Lord Dorset would be very displeased—”
“Oh, no,” Ben interrupted. “I have recently inherited a small estate from my great-aunt Mary. It is quite nearby. Perhaps you have heard of it? Waterplace?”
“Ah, yes sir, very lovely home and not far at all. I daresay my lord will be quite pleased to have you living so close. By any chance, are the Henrys still the caretakers there?”
“Yes indeed. Not sure the place would still be standing without the very capable Mr. and Mrs. Henry.” Actually were it not for the Henrys’ implacable sense of duty and diligent efficiency, Ben would have packed up and returned to London the first night after taking a tour of the once grand home owned by his wealthy, widowed aunt. The house had fallen into disrepair in the last decade, and he suspected it would take too much of his money to restore it to its previous splendor. In fact, he’d forego the splendor and settle for simply habitable.
The older Henrys, while capable, hadn’t been able to do much to prevent the overall decay of the house, as they w
ere the only servants left prior to his great-aunt’s death. Senility had taken hold of Lady Mary in her advanced years, and the only servants who’d remained steadfast despite the aged woman’s ravings and fits of madness were the Henrys.
“Actually,” Ben said, “I am in the process of hiring several more servants now that I have returned to stay. If you know of anyone looking for employment—”
“Ah, yes, my lord, I will certainly pass the word along,” Giles replied. “In fact, I know of several people in the area who would be delighted to join a household staff. I would be happy to send them to you, if that is acceptable.”
“Very much so. Thank you. Please give my regards to the McCormicks. I will return soon to see the newest McCormick.” With a nudge of the elbow, Ben joked, “I do hope she looks like her mother.”
Giles, ever stoic, simply bowed. Ben shook his head as he walked toward the stables. The butler had no sense of humor. The stable boy had only just taken the saddle off his chestnut bay, Scout, and looked a bit annoyed about re-saddling him so soon until he explained the baby had been born. The lads in the stable sent up a cheer at the happy announcement, and soon Ben found himself back on the road.
With a heavy sigh, he silently chastised himself for his depression. His best friend, Alex, and his lovely wife had delivered a healthy baby girl, and given the sound of her newborn wail, he ventured to guess that Alex’s daughter would be as outspoken as his wife.
At least, his daughter would be able to speak. If he were a true friend, he would be feeling jubilant, festive, anything but overwhelmed by this melancholy.
Damnation, I’m in over my head.
Attempting to shake off the blackness that enveloped his mind more and more these days, he considered the wasted trip he’d made. He was no closer to finding a governess for Chelsea now than he had been this morning when he’d left for the Grange. He was becoming desperate. His ward had been with him for nearly two months, and she had yet to utter a single word. Frustrated, he slumped at the prospect of returning to his newly acquired, extremely run-down estate and the stifling silence that echoed off every wall.
He’d placed all his hopes in the marquis and marchioness of Dorset being able to suggest someone in the area who could serve as a governess, nurse and savior.
Who was he fooling? He was failing miserably in his duties to the girl and was simply anxious to pass the daunting task of raising a seven-year-old, self-imposed mute on to whomever else would take up the reins. He had his hands full simply taking care of himself and making the numerous repairs Waterplace needed to become fit for human habitation, despite the fact his true interest lay in the stable.
He’d made the move from London to the Dover countryside, intent on breeding and training horses, while attempting to put his dark past behind him. Instead, the depression he’d begun to suffer from in London seemed to be getting worse, not better, in the damp, sea air. The ocean was supposed to calm and relax him, but instead he couldn’t rouse himself from his bleak office and the bottom of a whiskey bottle. The overwhelming blanket of doom he felt no longer covered only himself, but it engulfed Chelsea and the kind-hearted Henrys as well. The thought of dragging them into his never-ending despair only increased his misery.
“That damn war.” A soldier and spy in the war against Napoleon, Ben hadn’t spent a peaceful night in the three years since the war ended. His friends, Alex and Jack, had served as officers in the army as well, but the years back home had been kinder to them. Both had fallen madly in love and found their niche in life. Alex had taken up the reins as Marquis of Dorset, and Jack had inherited an earldom as well as a shipping business. Ben envied his friends’ happiness and the peace they’d found.
Upon his return from Waterloo, he’d immersed himself in the Home Office, ensuring peace with France continued and stifling any lingering insurrections. When work began to run dry as peacetime prevailed, he started working on cases with Bow Street. As the second son of a duke, his association with the runners was strictly in an “unofficial” capacity. Had his father, the Duke of Pelsham, learned his son was doing such menial and dangerous work, he would surely have suffered an apoplexy.
As a second son, he wouldn’t inherit the dukedom and the numerous responsibilities attached to such a title. Mercifully, his older twin brother, Adam would be the duke and enjoy all the accompanying headaches attached to the haughty title.
Ben’s work with Bow Street, while keeping him busy during the too long nights, had never truly fulfilled him as it most often led him back into the violence he’d been trying to escape after the war. At thirty-two years old, he felt his only true talent lay in being a killer. An expert marksman, feared for his amazing prowess with a sword, he also excelled in boxing. What a sad statement for a life. His years in the army and with Bow Street had honed his muscles and finely tuned his ability to use his fists and brute strength to overpower his foes. Well over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a dark disposition, he was an intimidating force with a reputation for aggression.
As his standing in the underworld grew, so did the violent nature of the cases he was asked to solve. In the past year, he’d tracked down two murderers and a brutal rapist. The end of those cases concluded in the death of the villain, and Ben walked away each time with yet another black mark on his soul. He spent the days following the conclusion of every case buried in the darkness of his bedchamber battling back the demons, existing only on liquor and pain until he could pull himself together enough to do it all over again.
Two events occurring almost simultaneously quickly brought his self-destructive lifestyle to an end. His great-aunt Mary passed away, leaving him in possession of Waterplace, and he’d become guardian of Chelsea Duncan. Chelsea’s father, Ian, had served in his unit and was severely wounded in the battle at Toulouse. As he lay dying, Ian had asked him to see that his young wife and daughter were cared for and Ben, anxious to grant his faithful friend’s last request, had readily agreed. Maggie Duncan’s untimely death in a fire several months earlier had brought Chelsea to his home. The silent, orphaned seven-year-old had been the single witness to the demise of the only family she had left in the world.
Ben realized the only thing he could do was take the girl in as his ward and raise her. Aware he could not rear a child in his bachelor’s apartments and continue to prowl the streets of London all night, he’d decided a move to Waterplace was the best thing for both of them. Of course, he’d been unaware at the time that the cursed estate was probably more dangerous than the worst parts of London, given its rotten floorboards, crumbling walls and overgrown, thorny gardens.
As he approached the edge of the Grange property, a glint of something caught his eye in the sunlight. Years spent as a soldier caused him to proceed with caution. Time to investigate. Turning Scout, he approached the large old oak tree that stood alone at the edge of the woods. He slowed his approach when he saw someone sleeping under its branches.
“Hello,” he called out, but the person didn’t move.
Moving slowly, the person, a woman he could now see, appeared to be sleeping soundly.
“Hello,” he repeated, louder this time. Leery, he glanced around, but he could see no one else.
“Miss?” He cautiously approached her as he reined Scout in. Glancing at the surrounding trees, Ben prepared himself lest the woman’s slumber was a ruse and some accomplice lay in wait in the woods to set upon him. Shaking his head, he realized the foolishness of the thought. This was Dover, not London, and he was still safely on the premises of the Grange estate.
Closer investigation revealed an injured woman. Ben sucked in a deep breath as he gazed down into the face of an angel. Long, wavy blonde hair hung over her shoulders. Her cheeks, with the help of the sun, were covered with a tan most English ladies would have been mortified to possess, but Ben found himself admiring. Her lips were rose red and plump while thick, dark lashes hid her deep-set eyes. His fascination with her face ended as he glanced at the rest of her f
igure.
“My God,” he whispered as he took in her scandalous outfit. She wore a tight shirt, cut low, allowing him an ample view of her more than abundant breasts. Her bare legs were totally exposed from mid-thigh down as he took in what he could only assume was the shortest, smallest skirt he had ever seen. It was bright and colorful, the edge of the hem flared slightly with some sort of lacy ruffle.
On her feet, she wore strange footwear, consisting of only a bottom sole and a strap of leather that stretched across the top of her foot, the end of which disappeared between her first and second toes. Around her ankles were two thin silver chains and there actually appeared to be a ring on one of her toes. Her outfit, or lack thereof, enhanced her generous figure and left very little to the imagination.
The strange woman’s lack of response to his voice sent his eyes back to her face, where he could clearly make out the large purple lump on her forehead beneath her hair, apparently caused by the rock that now served as her pillow. Leaping from Scout and tying the horse’s reins to a low branch in the tree, he bent over the inert form of the injured lady.
“Miss.” He shook the woman’s shoulders lightly. When she didn’t respond, he ran his hands through her flaxen hair, dislodging several leaves and twigs, in search of other injuries. Glancing up, he wondered if she could have fallen out of the tree. Given her state of dress he discounted the idea immediately. Who climbed trees dressed in such a scandalous fashion?
She had deep scratches and cuts on her arms and face, and he could see the beginnings of several large bruises on her legs, as well as one rather nasty looking contusion high on her right cheek. She appeared to have been beaten and knocked unconscious.
