Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  “Are you mad?!” Arthur whipped his head around, staring like Marc had just sprouted fairy wings. “Did you not clearly understand everything I just said about Linwood and the danger around those suspected of spying activities? If Linwood gets wind of this, you could find yourself incarcerated, particularly if you are found doing anything suspicious. You need to lay low here. Do nothing to attract attention to yourself. Bumbling around and asking questions about shady characters would be the worst thing you could do. Besides, I will not risk the reputation of my family if anything were to happen. As my guest, your behavior reflects upon me too.”

  Marc wanted to pull his hair out. Here was the Arthur he had heard about. More concerned about appearances than reality.

  “But there is no truth to any of this—”

  “Yes, but Linwood does not believe that fact. You are just going to have to trust me,” Arthur said. “Someone in the village may have seen something. I know the right people to ask discreet questions and will be able to send out tentative feelers without raising any eyebrows. Your job” —here Arthur fixed Marc with a stern look— “will be to stay put at Haldon Manor and work on polishing your manners.”

  Marc chewed on his cheek for a couple seconds. The idea chafed. He hated sitting and not doing.

  That said, given his ignorance of this time period, he could easily find himself on the wrong side of the law. Besides, he had no clue how to conduct a criminal investigation in 1814. And, really, given his situation, Arthur did call the shots.

  “Fine.” Marc nodded in capitulation. “I’ll lay low.”

  “Good. Now, we just need to give you an alias.”

  Ah. An alias . . . that could be fun.

  “Do you have any thoughts as to a name?” Marc asked.

  Arthur shrugged. “Something innocuous would be best.”

  “Say like Albert Einstein?” Marc laughed, expecting Arthur to join him.

  Arthur didn’t. He just looked confused.

  “If you are to be an old school friend of James’, you probably would not be German,” was all he said.

  Marc blinked. He really was in 1814, wasn’t he?

  “So would Gregory Peck or Cary Grant be better?”

  Arthur nodded. “Solid British names those. Either would work well.”

  “Clark Kent?”

  “That does have a nice ring to it. It really does not matter which name you choose. It should just have a generally British sound.”

  Marc thought for a few moments, the grin on his face becoming more and more maniacal. The options were endless . . . if he could choose any name, who would he want to be?

  “Uhmm . . . I’m thinking maybe something a little more formal. Darth Vader perhaps?

  “Darth?” Arthur considered for a moment. “That is an odd first name—”

  “Garth then?” Marc groaned and then slapped his leg in irritation. “No, it won’t work. I’m an idiot. I already slipped up and told Miss Ashton that my first name is Marc—”

  “Dash it!”

  “I know. So I think we have to leave my first name as Marc. Which is such a pity, as being Garth Vader would have about made my year.”

  Arthur grimaced. “Well, we will leave your first name as Marc. There’s no helping it. But to prevent mentioning your first name too much, we should make you a lord.”

  Marc pinched his lips together, holding in a decidedly un-manly giggle.

  “So . . . you’re saying . . . you want me to go by Lord Vader?” he managed to gasp out.

  “Does that work?” Arthur asked, his eyes completely innocent.

  Marc could only nod.

  “If you are a lord, then no one really ever needs to use your first name to introduce you. You can just be Lord Vader to one and all and—I say, are you quite all right?” Arthur paused, looking at Marc with concern.

  Marc’s lips were twisted into tight grimace, trying valiantly to hold back explosive laughter.

  Get it together, man!

  But . . . Lord Vader! It was just the funniest—

  Why, oh why, wasn’t there someone here who could laugh with him over this?

  Life was so unfair sometimes.

  Marc let out a long, slow breath of air, forcing his giggles back.

  “That is settled then.” Arthur gestured up the road. “Lord Vader, allow me to welcome you to Haldon Manor.”

  A peaked roof came into view, punctuated with gables and mullioned windows. Winter-bare wisteria vines climbed over red brick and a multitude of chimneys rose to the sky.

  Marc frowned for a moment. He had been expecting to see Haldon Manor, but this house wasn’t it.

  Oh, wait. Now he remembered.

  The Haldon Manor of 2014 was a somewhat newer building—a Victorian Gothic mansion turned into a hotel and day spa in the 1950s. But this building was much older, from the time of King Henry VIII if he remembered right. Which explained the sprawling structure and crenelated gables.

  A touch of fear crept in. So far, Marc had been calm . . . just doing what needed to be done. But now . . . what if he were stuck here? What if the portal never let him return?

  His breathing sped up. Panic stuck in the back of his throat.

  Staying in 1814 was just not an option.

  Not. Going. To. Happen.

  Even people bowing and calling him Lord Vader didn’t compensate for losing his twenty-first century identity.

  Though . . . almost. Really, it almost did . . . but not quite.

  He just needed to figure out what the portal expected of him, sort out . . . whatever needed to be sorted . . . and then he would be on his way.

  It was that simple.

  Chapter 7

  The rose bedroom

  Haldon Manor

  February 20, 1814

  The cut of zees coat suits you well, my lord.”

  Arthur’s valet brushed Marc’s shoulders free of invisible lint.

  Michel—not Michelle—it turned out, was definitely male and decidedly French (“You call me Mee-shell, my lord, like your Engleesh Michael.”).

  Marc had also mentally dubbed him ‘Most Likely to Win a Nicolas Cage Look Alike Contest.’ Really, the resemblance was uncanny. His bright blue eyes were wide below his expansive forehead, his lean frame constantly in motion.

  Upon arriving the previous evening, Marc had been introduced to Arthur’s petite wife, Marianne, as well as two house guests: Lady Ruby Knight and her son, Jedediah. They all had questions about his sudden appearance—awkward questions that Marc struggled to answer.

  Arthur had come to his rescue almost immediately, saying Marc needed time to deal with the news that his friend, James, was in fact deceased. Everyone had backed off, saving Marc from saying something incriminating and allowing him to retreat to his room.

  The rose bedroom, Marianne called it. Named not for the color of its draperies (which were an uninspired gray), but rather the extensive profusion of rose-themed objects decorating the room: rose vases on the fireplace mantle, an enormous rose painting over the bed, roses twining through the floor rug.

  Not the most masculine of rooms, but . . . whatever.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, as Marc lay staring at the shadowy rose-embroidered pillows on the window seat wondering what time it was—the room sadly lacked a rose-painted clock—it hit him again (and again and again) that he really was in the past. Unmoored from everything he had ever known.

  Cast out to sea, to use a nineteenth century metaphor.

  He was going to need to get used to speaking like that anyway.

  He was in 1814. What was he supposed to do now?

  Lord Linwood suspected him of being a spy for Princess Pepsi of Toyota Camry (!) with possible knowledge of local French espionage (!!), forcing Marc to adopt the pseudonym of Lord Vader (!!!).

  What was it they said? You can’t make this up, people?

  Stranger than fiction?

  Yeah, definitely.

  Though Emme had made it all up,
curse her.

  But that didn’t answer his question. What was he supposed to do? Who was his life linked to?

  In short: what did he need to do in order to return home? Preferably as soon as possible.

  He could practically hear Jasmine’s voice in his mind, chiding him.

  Relax, Marc, she would assert. Just enjoy the process. The universe has your best interests at heart.

  Easy for Imaginary Jasmine to say. She wasn’t the one trapped in 1814 with no Sports Center. Or refrigeration. Or even indoor plumbing.

  Or, quite frankly, a clock.

  After mulling over the problem of how to return to his own time, he had landed on an answer.

  Namely, the blackmailer was probably his link. But knowing that didn’t help much.

  Arthur had made it clear Marc was not to interfere. Arthur had plans to track down the man, and Marc needed to lay low. Avoid hitting Linwood’s radar. Marc would just be a blundering idiot crashing his way through rules and laws he didn’t fully understand.

  That didn’t make it any easier to sit still, doing nothing.

  Arthur had pathetically little to go on. Just a description of that distinctive brass button with the vine-covered shield crest.

  How did one conduct a search of coat buttons in 1814? For all he knew, that particular button was extremely common in nineteenth century Britain.

  Finding it could be like a proverbial needle in a haystack.

  Again with the nineteenth century metaphors.

  Maybe he could do this.

  After all, he had held his own in that brief conversation with Miss Kit Ashton of the snarky wit and tumbling hair.

  Not that Marc had seen her again. Yet.

  Kit who he had discovered worked as a paid companion to Arthur’s aunt, Lady Ruby. He remembered Emme and Georgiana talking about it once. An unmarried woman of genteel birth with no money or relatives to support her had few respectable avenues of employment. Working as a governess or paid companion were nearly the only options.

  Marc’s mind boggled at such a life. So that was it for Kit, was it? She would spend her days doing . . . whatever it was a paid companion did? All that vitality eventually snuffed out of her through the sheer drudgery of life.

  Something within him rebelled at that thought. It seemed so terribly unfair. Kit should be free to be anything she wanted to be: the head of a company or a lawyer arguing cases in court or . . . or a lion tamer in a circus. Something more than a paid-companion-nobody to a snooty aristocrat in the rural backwaters of nineteenth century England.

  No wonder women had fought so hard for change over the last two hundred years.

  Marc twisted to lay on his back, pushing thoughts of Kit aside.

  She wasn’t his problem. Though part of him wanted to make her his problem. Interesting idea that. What had prompted it?

  Which was his last thought before drifting off to sleep, only to wake hours later with the sun high in the sky and a maid placing a breakfast tray on the table next to his bed. She bobbed him a curtsy and then exited the room.

  Breakfast in bed. That he could get used to.

  Michel arrived just as Marc finished the last of his bacon. Thank goodness there were still smoked breakfast meats!

  Servants trailed behind the valet, carrying coats and pants. Not pants . . . breeches, Marc mentally corrected himself . . . or were they pantaloons?

  In any case, Michel had instantly begun the process of transforming Marc into a Gentleman of Quality, as he put it.

  Michel was a master of the craft. His own words.

  This started with a bath, for which Marc was grateful. Though bath was perhaps too generous a term for a large bucket filled with water. Michel called it a hip bath, which seemed appropriate, as only Marc’s hips got wet.

  And then there was that incredibly awkward moment when Marc realized Michel and a footman were going to watch him bathe.

  Talk about Not. Going. To. Happen.

  After a not-so-subtle cough and jerk of his chin, they exited the room.

  After the bath, Michel had proceeded to ruthlessly scrape every whisker from Marc’s face with a straight razor and then styled his curly dark hair into a wild, tousled look Michel called a la Brutus.

  All the while, Michel spouted a non-stop stream of instructions and advice.

  “When zee lady enters a room or stands, you must stand as well. When you bow, you may hold a lady’s hand and lean over it, but you do not kiss it.” Michel made a tsking sound. “Zat is not the done thing in England nowadays.”

  The list went on and on. Marc felt like he was preparing for a new film role. Which, in a sense, he supposed he was.

  It would be like playing Mr. Darcy . . . though really that sounded quite stuffy and not fun at all. Who was the scoundrel in Pride and Prejudice? Whitman? No. Witless? Wickham! That was it.

  Marc would just pretend to be more like Wickham. Only without the seducing of innocent girls (obviously). Just someone with a little more dash than Darcy. He could do that.

  As Michel continued his monologuing, servants presented a selection of coats, shirts, pantaloons and other clothing—all borrowed from Arthur’s closet—for Michel’s inspection. Michel had an opinion about everything. None of which he kept to himself.

  “Lord Vader you are most fortunate in your physique. Zee ladies, they like the broad shoulders, n’est-ce pas?”

  And then a moment later, after assisting Marc into a pair of skintight buckskin breeches—

  “Your fit into the pantaloons is adequate, my lord. Though you should consider exercises to increase the size of your thighs. They are well-muscled but could perhaps have more girth.”

  Marc just really . . . he had no words in response to that observation.

  At one point, Marc made the (apparently) cardinal sin of touching his styled hair.

  Michel let out an exasperated sigh. “No, no, my lord. That will not do. You must not touch zee hair once I have done with it. You will appear a very ninnyhammer.”

  Michel also used words like ninnyhammer.

  Was Marc supposed to adopt words like that too? Because he didn’t think he had it in him. At least, not without busting out laughing.

  All in all, it was a decidedly illustrative couple of hours. At the end, Michel meticulously brushed the dark green coat free of tiny specks of lint. As he did, Marc glanced at the coat buttons. Plain silver.

  “Do buttons ever have a design on them?” Marc asked. “Like something in brass with a crest and vines?”

  Asking a simple question about buttons couldn’t hurt, right? He wasn’t doing any investigating. Nope. He was just trying to understand the culture better. That was all.

  Michel paused in his brushing. “Silver buttons are the mark of a truly wealthy gentleman, my lord. Why should you wish for brass buttons? Though if you desire, we could have a family crest worked into your buttons—”

  “So a crest on a button would perhaps belong to a family?”

  Michel shrugged. “Not always, but it eez a possibility. Voilá. You look magnifique.”

  Marc studied himself in a mirror, turned sideways, studying the effect of the coat over a cream waistcoat shot with subtle gold stripes, tan buckskins disappearing into the top of polished Hessian boots. Marc and James shared the same shoe size, which was fortunate, as it allowed Marc to appropriate all of his brother-in-law’s footwear.

  Though James would certainly snicker at the sight of Marc in full Regency regalia, knowing him for the impostor he was.

  Marc nodded at his reflection. “I look good.”

  “Of course you do, my lord. I would expect nothing less from myself.”

  Humility was also not Michel’s forte.

  And with one last swipe of his brush, Michel proclaimed himself done. Releasing Marc to do . . . whatever it was that nineteenth century gentlemen did . . .

  Which was what . . . exactly?

  How did one pass the time in 1814?

  “So, now I . . . ”
Marc trailed off as Michel turned to exit the room.

  The valet blinked. “I shall return at six to dress you for dinner. Until then, you may do what you will, Lord Vader. Perhaps you wish to take a walk in zee garden? Or visit zee library for something to read? I am sure that Mr. Knight has a copy of Debrett’s Peerage you may study to remind yourself of the order of precedence.”

  Debrett’s Peerage? Right . . . Marc had a vague memory of his English grandmother talking about Debrett’s. It was a catalog of every living (and many dead) members of the British aristocracy. Anyone with a title would be listed in its pages. His grandmother had been obsessed with it.

  Marc and Emme had spent summers in Britain with their father’s mother who had drummed into her American grandchildren all the important parts of British life. Like having clear upper-crust elocution, a confident seat on a horse and knowing how to dine within the peerage. He could still hear his grandmother in her crisp, polished tones, You must never forget that we are third cousins to the Dukes of Devonshire on my grandfather’s side of the family.

  Perhaps a refresher on the British peerage wasn’t such a terrible idea. He needed more ammunition to help him stay in ‘character.’ And seeing how all in-depth sleuthing was denied him . . .

  Marc paused. “Right. Well then, show me the way to the library.”

  The library

  Haldon Manor

  A few minutes later on February 20, 1814

  Kit turned the page of the book. Again. Still not reading a single word. Concentration escaped her.

  Nestled sideways into cushions on a window seat with her back against the deep window embrasure, she sighed and stared sightlessly into the library. Or, at least, the sliver of the library she could see through the edge of the drawn window curtains.

  The library was one of her favorite rooms in the house, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and dark wood lining nearly every surface. An immense fireplace dominated the left end of the room opposite the doorway. So large Kit and several of her friends could practically stand up in it. The fireplace recalled Haldon Manor’s beginnings as a Tudor estate when life was more communal. A cheery fire roared in it, sending seeping warmth through the room.