by Bess McBride
Which reminded her—a warm bath, television, and hopefully a black and white I.C. Moon movie was what she wanted. Leaving the curtains open to allow moonlight to shine into the living room, she set the binoculars down on the sill and turned away from the window to head for her bedroom and bath.
“What the—!” Phoebe cursed as she stubbed her toe again, this time on something much softer but larger than the coffee table. She hopped around in pain and regained her balance before peering down to see a large shape lying on the white carpet. It muttered and attempted to rise. A man!
Phoebe screeched and jumped out of his way to run for the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She locked it and waited, holding her breath. A quick scan of her room reminded her that she’d left her bag—with cell phone—by the front door. No help.
“What the deuce!” she heard the man say. “Where am I?”
Phoebe said nothing but pressed her ear to the door.
“Madam! Madam!” he called out. “Are you there? I cannot see. Where am I?”
His voice was unexpectedly appealing, deep and resonant, the accent British. British? A British intruder in her apartment? Didn’t he have apartments in his own country to break into?
“Madam, please assist me. I mean you no harm. I saw only a glimpse of you as you ran past, but I know you are in there...behind that door.”
His voice seemed to come closer, and Phoebe backed away from the door. She heard a thump, and he let out a curse.
“Oooff! What is this infernal piece of furniture? Madam, I have injured myself on this table of yours. If you do not wish to assist me, could you at least direct me to a candle so that I may see more clearly? Or perhaps the door? I promise you, Madam, I am as worried about my presence here as you are.”
Phoebe almost laughed, but she suspected it would quickly turn into hysteria if she let it out. Was he serious with that accent? And the formal dialogue? He could be straight out of one of her favorite I.C. Moon books.
She gasped at the sound of his voice just on the other side of the door.
“Madam, my name is Reginald Hamilton. I am the eldest son of the Earl of Hamilton. I truly mean you no harm. Truly. Please at least tell me where I am.”
“You’re in my apartment, that’s where you are, buddy,” Phoebe barked. “I have a bat and, if you try to come through that door, I’ll bash you with it.” Phoebe promised herself that if she got out of this, she would get a bat.
“I assure you, Madam, I have no intention of bursting through your doorway.”
He sounded insulted. Phoebe touched the doorknob. What was he doing here? What did he want?
“Are you a friend of my cousin, Annie Warner?” Phoebe asked. If he hadn’t broken in, that could be the only explanation. In the first month of her stay in the apartment, a strange woman had let herself in with a key Annie had given her. They had scared each other half to death with their mutual surprise, and a quick call to Annie in Cannes had cleared the matter up. It did seem though as if her cousin might have handed out more than one key. Phoebe had promised herself at the time to have the place rekeyed, but she hadn’t had any trouble since.
“Annie Warner? No, I am not acquainted with this person. Your accent, Madam, it sounds...American. Are you American?”
Phoebe heard a strange note in his voice that she couldn’t interpret. Excitement?
“Well, of course, I’m American. You’re not though.”
“No, I am English.”
Yes, he was, Phoebe thought, a twinge of excitement working its way up her spine. An Englishman with a delightful accent. She wondered if he looked as handsome as he sounded. Phoebe caught herself on the edge of opening the door to find out. She gave herself a stern shake and deepened her voice.
“So, what are you doing in my apartment?” she demanded.
“I have no earthly idea, Madam. I remember walking my horse, Sebastian, toward home in the dark, and stumbling on a rut in the road. I have no idea where Sebastian is at the moment.”
“Well, I hope he’s not here. I doubt he’d fit in the elevator.” Phoebe stifled a hysterical giggle. “And exactly where were you when you lost Sebastian?”
“El-e-vator?” he repeated. “I was only a mile from my father’s estate, Hamilton Place, in Bedfordshire.”
Phoebe swallowed hard. Did he mean England? Because she was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about a town in nearby Massachusetts. Was he delusional? When, and if she finally opened the door, would she find a man in a red suit and cape, or a crown and an ermine-lined coat?
Phoebe couldn’t resist. She had to know what he looked like. Her instincts told her she was in no danger. He sounded harmless. She opened the door a crack and peeked out.
Reginald jumped back as if he expected her to attack him. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and peered at her in the darkness.
“Miss...?”
“Phoebe Warner.” She spoke through the partially closed door.
“Miss Warner! At last! Please be so good as to direct me to the door leading out of your apartments. I must find Sebastian.”
Phoebe reached around the doorframe with a tentative hand and flicked the light switch on. Several lamps lit the room with a soft romantic glow. Cousin Annie delighted in ambience, if nothing else. No overhead garish lights for her.
Reginald blinked and stared at her.
Phoebe stared back.
“What on earth are you wearing?” she asked. She pushed the door open wider. No, not a red-caped outfit. He wore a historical costume in keeping with his formal speech and English accent.
Reginald blinked before his eyes traveled the length of her body.
“Good gad!” he said before turning his back to her. “I fear I have caught you en dishabille, Madam...Miss! Please forgive me.”
Phoebe looked down at her suit skirt and low-slung pumps.
“Ummm...I’m fully dressed, Reginald.” Now she knew he wasn’t about to attack her. The back of his neck below thick dark hair was decidedly red. “You can turn around.”
He glanced over his shoulder, dropped his eyes to her legs, and turned slowly. Phoebe noted he averted his gaze as if with effort and kept it on her face.
He bowed at the waist, his gesture catching her by surprise.
“Reginald Hamilton at your service, Miss Warner.”
“So you said,” Phoebe said in bemusement at the gallant, if old-fashioned gesture. She guessed his height at about six feet tall. Broad shoulders supported his greatcoat well. A high-necked silver waistcoat framed his firm jaw line, and a bright white cravat was knotted at his neck. His beige pantaloons suggested long, lean, muscled legs, and his highly polished Hessian boots showed dust around the soles as if he had indeed been riding.
That she knew the terms for his style of clothing was due in large part to the writings of I.C. Moon. The strange man in her living room wore clothes from the Regency or late Georgian era.
His clothing, although delightfully unusual, could not distract her from his handsome face. Thick wavy, almost black hair and long sideburns framed a lean clean-shaven face notable for dark eyebrows over slate blue eyes. He looked to be in his early twenties, close to her age.
“The door, Miss Warner?”
Phoebe blinked. “The door?”
“Yes, if you would be so kind as to show me to the exit? I do not know how I came to be in your apartments, and I apologize. Now, where did I drop my hat?” He turned to study the floor. “Ah! There it is.”
Phoebe wasn’t sure her eyes could get any rounder as she watched him pop a top hat onto his head.
“Where did you come from?” she breathed.
“Bedfordshire?”
“As in England?”
He inclined his head. “Yes, of course, England.”
Phoebe took a deep breath to try to defog her brain, to bring herself back to reality. Or maybe it was Reginald who needed to be brought back to earth.
“I hate to tell you this, Reginald, but even if I sh
ow you the door, you’re still not going to walk outside and find your horse...in England.”
Reginald narrowed his eyes and scanned the room, stopping to focus on the window. He moved quickly toward the window and peered out into the night. Phoebe approached him cautiously, keeping a wary eye on him as she studied his movements. He swung his head from side to side as if to take in all the bright lights of the city, the neighboring buildings, the street below. He looked up at the moon, and she heard him exhale as if he had been holding his breath.
“I see one thing that is familiar,” he said quietly.
“The moon?” Phoebe followed his eyes.
“Yes, that at least is a constant. Pray, what are all these lights?” Reginald nodded toward the buildings across the street. “Are those large edifices homes? What is it that twinkles on the street below? Surely not lanterns? That many carriages?” He looked down and then turned toward the room. “Where are your candles? How did you light the room with a button on the wall? What is the name of this place?”
Phoebe smiled despite her own confusion. She had no idea where Reginald had come from before he entered her apartment, or whether he was delusional, but he certainly had a charming naïveté about him that seemed very real. Maybe he’d just never seen skyscrapers before, although she was pretty sure they had some tall buildings in England’s larger cities.
“Obviously, each entire building isn’t a single home—someone would have to be pretty rich and need a lot of square feet to call one of those buildings a home—but some of the lights come from apartments and some come from offices,” Phoebe said as she nodded toward the surrounding buildings.
She looked down. “Ummm...twinkling lights? Cars? I wouldn’t think there are any carriages on this street. Too far from the tourist areas.” She turned back toward the living room. “There are candles on the fireplace mantle. I flipped the switch to turn on the lights, and the name of this place is my apartment in New York City.” She thought she’d answered all his questions in the right order.
“Now seriously, where did you come from?” Phoebe asked, crossing her arms. “I totally believe you come from England, but I don’t think you just left your horse on a road near your father’s country home.”
“But it is the truth, Miss Warner. I swear it upon my honor. I am as taken aback as you. I cannot possibly be in New York!”
Phoebe found his gesture of hand over heart irresistible, and she decided then and there she wanted to keep him. Not that he was a toy or anything, but he was the cutest confused man she’d ever met! He had a definite little-boy-lost thing going that entranced her.
“Look, why don’t you take off your hat and have a seat, Reginald? I’ll make us some coffee. Then we can figure out how to help you,” Phoebe said in her best motherly tone. “I promise, you are not going to open that door and find yourself with your horse in England...not without a great deal of travel.”
Reginald opened his mouth as if to protest, but closed it as Phoebe held out her hand for his hat. He removed it and handed it to her.
“Your coat?”
He shrugged out of his coat and gave that to her as well. Phoebe sighed inwardly. She had been right. He did have broad shoulders. His double-breasted cobalt blue dress coat showed a narrow waist. He looked like the quintessential Georgian-era Englishman, and she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
“Shall I sit here, Miss Warner?” Reginald looked down at the chocolate brown chenille sofa.
“Yes, please,” Phoebe said, releasing a quiet sigh. She laid his coat and hat across a matching easy chair and made her way over to the kitchen area of the open concept apartment.
“How do you take your coffee?” Phoebe called out as she threw a single serving of coffee into the instant coffee brewer.
“Cream and sugar,” Reginald said.
“I hope milk and sugar are okay. I don’t have any cream.”
“Yes, that will suffice, thank you.” Reginald rose and approached the breakfast bar of the kitchen. “Forgive me for shouting at you from across the room.”
“Oh!” Phoebe murmured in some confusion. She hadn’t thought they were shouting. The apartment was only about 700 square feet. “Okay. Have a seat.” She nodded toward the high-backed, cushioned barstools. “Coffee will be ready in a second.”
Reginald slid onto a stool and watched her with a look of avid curiosity. Phoebe’s cheeks flamed under his gaze.
“Do you not have a cook, Miss Warner?” He looked over his shoulder. “For that matter, do you have a companion? Surely, you do not live alone.”
Phoebe, in the act of popping another container of coffee for herself into the instant brewer, paused. She reminded herself that she really didn’t know him and should use caution. No sense in revealing everything.
“A cook?” she laughed nervously. “No, not me. I think my cousin Annie has food delivered when she lives here. I mean, when she’s here...which will be at any moment.” A lie, but he would probably never know. It seemed likely that he really didn’t know Annie. Had a previous owner left a key? Hadn’t Annie rekeyed the place when she moved in?
“Ah!” he said. “Yes, of course, a cousin.” He nodded toward the coffeemaker. “And what is that device?”
“An instant coffeemaker? It’s my cousin’s. I can’t afford anything like this. It’s pretty nice though, makes coffee in a jiff.”
“And how is it heated?”
“Plug it in?” Phoebe wasn’t about to start describing electricity. They had electricity in England.
Reginald shook his head in apparent confusion.
“Here.” Phoebe handed him his coffee. “Let’s go sit on the couch and figure out why you’re asking me about coffee pots, Reginald.”
He took the mug gingerly and followed her back to the living room, waiting to sit until she lowered herself to a chair across from the sofa. He set his mug on the coffee table and seated himself on the edge of the sofa.
“Reggie,” he said.
“What?”
“If you intend to call me by my given name, please call me Reggie. I cannot abide the name Reginald.”
“Okay, Reggie. What can I do to help?” Phoebe asked. She slipped out of her shoes and pulled her feet up under her. “Let’s start at the beginning. How did you get into the apartment? I’m guessing you had a key somehow?”
Reggie watched her movements, his eyes straying to her legs and bare feet. Although she was covered, she realized she’d been rather informal with a total stranger. She straightened and thrust her feet back into her shoes.
“Yes?” she urged.
He dropped his eyes and cleared his throat.
“No, I did not have a key. I do not know how I came to be in your apartment. Frankly, I think I must be dreaming.”
Phoebe could have taken that as a compliment, but the confused note in his voice didn’t sound like he meant “dreaming” in the romantic sense. She sighed inwardly. No, she definitely hadn’t conjured this guy up just by dreaming about him in the moonlight. Otherwise, she would at least have found a man who kneeled at her feet and swore that he’d fallen in love with her at first sight—perhaps placing warm kisses on the inside of her wrist as he whispered endearments.
She voiced her thoughts...some of them.
“Well, you couldn’t just have dropped in by moonlight,” she said. “Have you been drinking? You seem sober.”
“Certainly not, Miss Warner. I am not inebriated,” he said as he rose hastily. Phoebe watched him pace in front of the window.
“What was that you said about the moon?” he asked.
“I said you couldn’t have dropped in here by moonlight.”
She watched him stop and stare out the window before pacing again, seemingly trying to work something out.
He shook his head. “No, of course not. That is not possible.” He stopped and stared at her. “Are you certain this is New York?”
Phoebe choked on her coffee and laughed. “Well, yes, I’m sure, Reggie.”
She jerked a thumb toward her chest. “I’m not the one who appears to be out of place. Where did you get that costume anyway? It’s very attractive, looks quite authentic.”
Reggie looked down at his clothing. “Thomas and Sons Tailors on Bond Street in London. Thank you. They do fine work.”
Phoebe had expected to hear the name of a costume or theater shop, but somehow she wasn’t surprised to hear him name a tailor in London. It would have been more ludicrous to hear him say “The Costume Shop on East 42nd.”
Reggie stopped his pacing to peer down into the shade of a lamp. At the light bulb?
“What is the date, Miss Warner?”
“The date? April 23rd.”
“The year?” He turned to survey the room, allowing his eyes to pause on her. Phoebe squirmed under his intent look. It was as if all her dreams had come true. A handsome historical gentleman gazed at her ardently. Well, more like shocked really, she thought.
“2013,” she replied.
Reggie drew in a sharp breath and looked around the room wildly as if he would bolt. “2013?”
Phoebe swallowed hard and jumped up, feeling suddenly as out of control as Reggie looked. She turned one way then turned another, unsure of where to go or what to do. The shock in his voice was unmistakable. There was no doubt that the date surprised him. Which could only mean one thing.
She stopped and stared at him.
“Reggie, what year is it where you come from?”
“1827,” he said a hoarse voice. “It is the 23rd day of April in the year 1827.”
Chapter Two
Reggie stared at the slender young woman standing before him, a stricken look upon her pale face. Had he been rendered unconscious when he fell and somehow awakened in the future? Or was this some fantastical dream—of twinkling lights, buildings which touched the sky, lamps which glowed without candles, and beautiful, if scantily clad, young women? Were it true, what a delightful dream he had engineered. If not, then some mystical force had transported him to the future—a future he could not possibly have imagined.
