“Just send Fleming in when you’re ready. And get Dainty to stand by in case you need a witness. That harridan didn’t look likely to accept anyone’s word, not even God Almighty’s handing down the commandments.”
Dainty almost dropped the large copper kettle she’d been watering the rug with, into the tub.
“Whot? Not bloody likely. Me mam will take old tadger off me arse, good and proper for seein’ anythin’ like that. If yer wants a witness, yer’ll need to do it yerself.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, darling. You’re hardly going to see anything. I’m very modest that way.”
“She’s not hitting you again, is she?” Mitchell Killgower glanced round.
“Again? She don’t never stop, sir. ‘Specially when she takes to the drink and as she takes to it day and night, she’s been busy. You should see her, ma’am.”
Brittany shrugged. “Oh, I think I’d be frightened to.”
Any woman who could take a strap off this girl’s broad back must be a giantess.
“We all are. I kid yer not. This is how high she is.” Dainty held her hand a few feet off the floor. “But see when she swings tadger? Well, yer don’t want ter tangle, that’s as much as I’ll say. ‘Course she won’t hit no lady, nor gent.”
Mitchell nodded. “I’ll speak to her.”
“Yer can try, sir. but I still can’t witness somethin’ I shouldn’t, till yer do.”
Brittany tightened the belt on her dressing gown mainly to distance herself from the thought that flickered. The man was happy to see his son ruined but offered to speak to a midget who beat the giant Dainty when she looked perfectly capable of beating her back? “It was only a precaution to ensure Mitchell’s inheritance. You’re not going to witness anything untoward. However, if you can’t, you can’t.”
“I can’t.”
“Then, if you’d both be so good?”
She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. It was surprising that beneath her calm, her stomach fluttered and her heart was going faster than usual. But then she needed to find that portal. She couldn’t do it if they, or Fleming were here. Maybe being alive was better than being dead, but she still heaved a sigh of relief when the door shut behind them.
Now, to find what she was here for. She tore across the floor towards the bed. Remembering she’d said bath, she tore back. Mitchell Killgower might have his ear to the door—she would—listening for splashes. He probably had his eye to the lock too.
Bending down she scooped a handful of grey suds. These were to take care of him. He shouldn’t be hanging about when his son was likely to come in. She pressed her palm over the lock. Dainty had said she couldn’t watch so the splutter had to be him.
That portal must be somewhere. Now she’d dealt with him she’d find it. There was no time to waste. She scudded across the floor and dived on the bed. It was where she’d landed when she came here. The chances were this was it. She lay down, closed her eyes, listened to the sound of her own breath scalding her throat. Nothing. What was more she’d lain here earlier. If the portal was here, she’d have fallen through it then. She flicked her eyes open. The ceiling? It had to be. Most beds of this period were canopied four-posters. This one wasn’t.
The mattress sunk as she scrambled up, waving her arms in the air. What if she jumped up and down? It was undignified, but she wasn’t quite locating it. She breathed deep and leapt upwards. It was also undignified for the bed to creak beneath her so she landed on her backside on the mattress almost the second she left it.
What was that deafening crack? Please don’t tell her she’d broken it—the bed not her backside— so now she’d not only no hope of finding the portal, she’d have to face Mitchell Killgower and tell him what she’d done. Maybe it was her head whacking off the floorboards because she tipped backwards clean off the bed? They didn’t make things very well in 1765, did they?
Christ, someone was coming along the corridor as she lay looking at a galaxy of stars. The brass handle turned. Not just someone coming along the corridor, someone coming into the room. She sprung onto her knees, flew across the floor. Water cascaded as she leapt into the bath. Mitchell Killgower would expect to see she’d hopped to it after all. The door squeaked open.
“Fleming.”
On a sliding scale of one to three, with one being a miracle on a par with Christ walking on the water, how she kept her voice from notching through the ornate ceiling was three, a miracle on a par with the whole bible. Shock jarred her whole body with such force, the wonder was her teeth didn’t clatter clean out of her head and ping across the floor. The bath was so deep she’d probably broken her coccyx jumping in it and the water was freezing. At least she was wearing her dressing gown and it wasn’t Mitchell Killgower.
“My God.”
The alacrity with which Fleming shut the door, spoke well of her plan to ruin him though. Only that hadn’t been her plan exactly.
His jaw dropped. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh.” She fought to stop her teeth chattering. “I’d have thought that was obvious, darling. It’s what you wanted me to do. So, let’s not split hairs.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I say.”
“You can’t be here.”
She especially couldn’t be here in water that didn’t cover her middle when that middle was also covered by her dressing gown but her body was shaking so badly she couldn’t say he could say that again. She lay out flatter in the hope of covering herself with what suds didn’t sail about the floor.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
The floorboards creaked as he advanced. It dashed her hopes that he’d stay put.
“Did Father put you up to this?”
“Father?”
“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know who he is.”
She wasn’t pretending. She was wracking her brains trying to think of how to explain the business of sitting in a bath in her dressing gown to a youth who’d know this was a deliberate ploy, when she’d promised his father she’d sort this.
What if there was no portal? All she had here was a dressing gown, an empty fag packet and a letch who’d probably throw her out on her backside, having felt it first, if she didn’t come good on that promise. It gave her no option. She adopted her most glacial expression. Hardly difficult when she was freezing cold and soaking wet.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And I don’t know what you think you’re doing fully clothed in a bath in my bedroom in the middle of the day.”
“Is it? Good gracious.”
“You know perfectly well that it is and that I don’t want you here, that I just want you to leave. Now.”
“Do you know that’s the second time someone’s said that to me recently? It must be the effect I have on people. Well, I’m not going before I scream blue bloody murder. It’s what comes of opening your big mouth and saying what you did to Christian and Clarence.”
He leapt towards her. “Don’t you dare—”
“Here goes.”
“No. Don’t.”
She parted her lips. Astonishment rippled as he froze. Before she could make a kind of sound, he flumped down on the chair, digging his fingertips into his forehead. His shoulders sagged.
“All right. All right. I know I shouldn’t have done it. I felt put upon. I thought you were one of Father’s—Father’s— W-Well . . .”
“What? Women?”
Fleming’s face reddened. He bit his lip. “You know. Ones he pays. And sometimes ones he doesn’t.”
“But, not recently, surely? I mean he said . . .”
She snapped her mouth shut, What was it to her that Mitchell Killgower plainly couldn’t keep it zipped?<
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“I’m sorry to see you are the same, Miss Carter.”
“Me?”
A forlorn smile touched his mouth. “Please don’t apologize about it.”
“I’m not. I mean –” She tightened her jaw. “I mean, I’m not the same.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest he was paying you. I’m sorry if you think so.”
“So you bloody well should be. Look, I saw you in action out there. Don’t think you can play these games with me in here.”
“I’m not. I just had no idea how you got in here. That’s why I said what I did. If . . . if you want to shriek blue murder, Miss Carter, then go ahead. I can understand.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
She clasped the sides of the tub. “Hang on.”
“It’s the effect he has on women. Please, Miss Carter, let me help you.”
She raised her chin. He seemed such an embarrassed kid, unable to look at her, to suppress his discomfort, her throat caught. It was most unlike it, especially when she’d no choice but to shriek blue murder. But, if he was meaning to help her out of this bath she was stuck in, she’d take his offer. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t still scream.
“Well, getting out is far harder than getting in which was certainly hard enough. I will say that, darling. And that it’s no wonder people never had baths in the past. I don’t want to upend the lot on the rug.”
“Then, please.” He rose to his feet. “Take my hand.”
She hesitated. If Mitchell Killgower walked in now it would solve this. She hadn’t really come in here to ruin Fleming though. She’d come in to find that portal and failed miserably too, meaning she’d now have to come back here. Unless . . .
“Actually Fleming, I could do with your help and not just out of this bath either.”
“My help?” His flush deepened. “No-one’s ever wanted my help.”
She grasped his hand. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. Even for me being nice like this. So here it is. I’m not really from here. And that’s what I need your help with. To get home to where I come from.”
“Leave here you mean?”
“In one, Fleming. In one.”
It was risky taking him into her confidence like this, but she’d be long gone by the time they incarcerated her in a lunatic asylum, paraded her as a witch. Relief pumped into her veins, revitalized her heartbeat. It took every ounce of restraint not to dance about the room.
“But Aunt Christian and Uncle Clarence think you’re . . . Well, Father will be furious if you disappear. I’m not going to willingly help you with that.”
He let go of her hand as if he wasn’t going to help her out the bath either.
“But you just said to me to scream blue murder and I didn’t. As for making him furious? I hope you think me being here like this was my idea?”
“Nothing would surprise me.”
“Look, help me out of the bath will you?”
“Not when I’ve already withstood everything Father has tried to make me do. The drink, the visits to the Swan, you—”
“Fine.” She grasped the copper rim of the tub. “I’ll get myself out then. I wouldn’t like to die of pneumonia.”
“The Hellfire club.”
“What?”
“Yes.”
His voice rose. Did he see how far her jaw had dropped open?
“That’s how low he’s stooped, Miss Carter.”
“So you’re saying he took you there? How old are you?”
“I don’t see what where he took me—”
“So he didn’t?”
“Obviously he didn’t, but what’s it to you?”
Mustering her calm she tweaked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. She’d heard of the Hellfire Club. She wrote historical romance. Why wasn’t she surprised Mitchell Killgower went there? In the name of research she wouldn’t mind going herself. She hoped that wasn’t why she said,
“I can’t be wife to a man who goes to such places. My God, it’s imperative you help get me out of here. Just think when I go how it will clear the way for you. You can go to your aunt Christian and tell her—very well, not that you lied, but that she was right about your father. I just couldn’t live with him.” Although he was staring in the opposite direction from her and his brow was knitted, she fixed on her best look of honeyed desperation. Surely enough to seal this deal? “All I need is your help for five minutes.”
He frowned harder. “What have you done to my bed?”
“Oh that? Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. Look at it.”
The bone-jarring thud as he strode towards it, said that was an understatement. Realization slapped her that she needed to make her move now, not stand with the hem of her dressing gown in a soapy bath, equally bone-jarring chills spreading up her legs, her teeth chattering, stomach churning. Where was the portal? In the wardrobe? Because that same realization drove her over the rim and across the floor, leaving wet footprints behind her.
She pulled the door open. The smell of mothballs was so overpowering, she could barely stick her head inside, but stick it in she did, despite being jabbed with an empty coat hanger dancing above her head. No joy. How could there be no joy?
“You’ve broken it. My bed.” Fleming’s voice was a thread of sound. Anyone would think she’d broken his heart, his arm, his neck. Was he really so frightened of his father?
“Yes, I know.” She strode towards him. The portal wasn’t just above the bed. It was high above it. “It’s because I was jumping on it.”
“Jumping?”
“Yes. Like this. Watch and learn.”
The mattress sank beneath her. He groped for her blindly, still managing to catch her wrist.
“Jumping? What do you mean jumping?”
“It’s fun, darling. You like fun, don’t you?”
His eyes, boyish, wistful, said he would give his right arm to have some but his fingers tightened on her skin. His voice was a taut, strained whisper. His face red as a robin’s breast. “No, I don’t. I never have any. And I know—you only want to break the bed worse so you can make out you seduced me in it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, me seduce you? Get a life.”
“Get off of it. Get down. Now.”
“Oh, live a little.”
“No.”
She tugged her wrist free. Oh God, don’t let her be stuck. Not in this place. She couldn’t bear it and she couldn’t let this boy stop her either. He climbed up beside her, tried on his wildly swaying feet, on the bent mattress, to catch her. She leapt higher. No mean feat with her feet slithering on the sloping mattress, his bony knees nearly taking hers out.
“If I was going to seduce you, darling, it wouldn’t involve breaking your bed. It would involve lots of warm baths and kisses and—”
What was that creak? The portal? At last. She was there. Thank God. Back in her own time. Back in Sebastian’s. Yes. Yes.
“Well, he’s one lucky bastard, Miss Carter.”
Her breath caught. Only if she was back, what was Mitchell Killgower doing standing in the doorway, silhouetted by light that wasn’t a halo? The faintest glimmer of amusement in his killing blue eyes. His voice bulldozering her spine. Because she clutched his son on the floor, in a heap that was so tangled she couldn’t tell what were limbs and what were bits of wood and he wanted to join in? Or because the bed frame had juddered completely apart?
Her heart plummeted down her ribcage like a broken elevator plunging forty floors—a feat since she was lying flat. The bitter knowledge she was still here hit like an express train.
Fleming jerked his head up.
“But I thought . . . I thought you were my friend? I thought—”
She drew her breath in. Acquaintances, for heading down to the pub and getting off her face at Skinny Joe’s? Yes. Friends? Especially ones who never had any fun? She’d never known such a thing. Anyone who thought of her that way either. The invisible hand that fastened on her heart squeezed bleeding drops. Milky warmth set its chisel on her heart, lifted its hammer.
She sucked her breath further, fixed her gaze on the ceiling. Friends?
“Oh, that’s been many people’s misfortune, darling. The truth is I’ve always found friends vastly overrated.”
“But Brittany, how can you do this when you’re not his wife?”
“Because.” She shrugged faintly, stared harder at the ceiling. “I’ve always found lovers vastly overrated too.”
“But—”
“Sorry, darling.”
She was. For the silly vanity that flooded, the memory of the woman she couldn’t be any more. She had this, just as promised. Why complicate it, especially now Mitchell Killgower stood over her and must see her lip trembled albeit faintly? She needed to get home by whatever means it took.
“Son,” The low growl curled around her spine worse than the sight of Fleming’s tortured face, curtained by his lank hair. “Are you saying you were lying to Aunt Christian?”
“You want me to answer that when your whole life, where women are concerned, is nothing but—”
“Lies and subterfuge? Let me get that for you and save you the trouble.” Mitchell Killgower shoved his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket.
“When you drove me to saying what I—”
“Actually . . .” Brittany’s gaze widened before she could stop it.
“Did you just say something, Miss Carter?”
If ever there was a warning to stay out of things it was Mitchell Killgower’s voice icing, so even the ceiling nymphs froze mid-frolic.
“I— No.”
“Good.”
“Just— just ignore me.”
“Even better.” He flicked his gaze her way. “Is it all right if I speak now?”
The Writer and the Rake Page 7
