Kiss the Earl

by Gina Lamm

  Ella ran a hand over her forehead in relief. “Sounds great. And hey, I have a little problem I could use some help on. Think you and Leah could lend a hand?”

  Jamie’s laugh was thin through the speaker, but definitely genuine. “Sure! Anything for you, babe. We’ll pick you up in a few.”

  Disconnecting the call, Ella slipped the phone back into her pocket. This would be perfect. Jamie and Leah had lived here forever. They had to know of some nice single guy who wouldn’t mind geeking out at an exclusive Whisperwind Comics gala. And she’d introduce him to Mr. Land as her boyfriend. She couldn’t take Anthony if she already had a date, right?

  Wow. Boyfriend. That was a novel concept. Humming, she grabbed her keys and headed for the door. Her girlfriends would help her out. They were like the Powerpuff Girls—a great team of kickass chicks. They’d have her back. A date would be no problem at all.

  The door closed behind her with a click.

  Two

  May 10, 2015

  Ella eyed her reflection critically. She was much more used to jeans and a T-shirt, or even a fancy Renaissance dress, than anything like this. The short blue cocktail dress hugged her generous curves, and the Spanx she wore underneath, plus her lacy-patterned tights, concealed her less-than-wonderful thighs. The scooped back didn’t allow for a bra, but fortunately the bodice of the dress held things in the right place. Bright blue high heels sparkled on her feet, the circle made of stars that was Admiral Action’s logo decorating the toes. She smirked down at them, glad she’d taken the time to be crafty. Mod Podge could make anything better.

  With a last shot of hair spray to her dark locks, she smoothed them down, pulling one of the purple streaks forward so it showed better. Her lipstick, phone, and keys disappeared into the tiny evening bag she’d borrowed from Leah. She’d protested loudly when her friend had dragged her out shopping, insisting that she could get by with her usual outfit at the gala. Black jeans were dressy, right? Or she could wear one of her corseted Renn-Faire dresses. But she had to admit, Leah had been right. She looked polished, posh, and professional.

  The drive over to Jamie’s house only took about five minutes, but it seemed to stretch out longer. Ella tried to calm her nerves, taking slow, deep breaths. It didn’t work. By the time she rolled into Jamie’s driveway, she was nearly hyperventilating.

  Cutting the Jeep’s engine, she shoved open the door and bent over, dangling her head between her knees. Her Spanx nearly cut her in two at the sharp angle, but she didn’t move until she’d closed her eyes and counted to ten.

  “It’s going to be fine,” she whispered to the cracks in the driveway. “I’ve got the job; there’s nothing to worry about.”

  But it wasn’t meeting her new bosses that made her so nervous, not really. It was the date. No matter how many times Leah and Jamie had assured her that this was a great guy, a nice guy, a pop culture–savvy guy who wouldn’t be intimidated that she knew more about comics than he did, she couldn’t wrap her mind around actually having a date.

  Ella pressed a cold hand to her forehead, staring at the dark ground beneath her sparkly blue shoes. High school had been a nightmare and college even more so. She’d had a couple of disastrous dates, and after the last one, she’d pretty much given up on the whole institution. A whole lot could go wrong on a date, and nobody knew that better than Ella.

  “You’re going to be fine. Suck it up, cupcake.”

  When she could consider breathing normally again, she straightened, adjusted the waistband of her Spanx, and bumped the Jeep’s door shut with a hip.

  But her ankles wobbled as she made her way up the walk to Jamie’s front door. Something was prickling in the warm spring air, and it made the tiny hairs on her body stand on end.

  What the hell was wrong with her? She was a grown woman, after all. It was just a few hours with a nice guy. Butterflies started an MMA cage match inside her ribs, like she was a teenager on prom night. It was just that word, date. It made her skin crawl and her sweat glands work overtime. Despite her misgivings, she stabbed the doorbell’s glowing button.

  What could she say? It wasn’t that she’d never wanted a relationship—it had just never worked out. And her career had been much easier to focus on. With the male-centric climate of the comics business, she’d had to work hard to be taken seriously. That hadn’t left much time for romance.

  She only had to wait a few seconds before the door swung open.

  “My dearest Ella,” Mrs. Knightsbridge crooned as she dried her hands on her apron. “How lovely to see you again.”

  Ella started, a nervous smile breaking across her face. “Hi, Mrs. K. I didn’t know you were here.”

  The memory of the first time she’d met Mrs. Knightsbridge came rushing back, despite the determined repression Ella had done. Magic wasn’t real, or at least that’s what Ella had believed before she’d taken a trip to the past, courtesy of the magical matchmaking British housekeeper. The woman had bespelled an ordinary mirror to send people into the past. Ella wasn’t sure how it worked, but it was undeniably effective.

  She’d only gone because Leah’s grandfather had been on his deathbed, and Leah herself was stuck in Regency England. The whole thing had felt like a dream—running through the streets of London with Leah, dodging carriages, and almost getting stranded in the past when the magic mirror had shattered. But they’d made it back, and Leah’s grandfather had recovered.

  Ella shivered with the memory. That had been one of the weirdest days of her life, and she still wasn’t convinced it had really happened. But even if it was a nightmare, Mrs. Knightsbridge was really here and was looking at her with something like excitement.

  The woman laughed, pulling Ella into the house and shutting the door behind them firmly. “But of course I am. I must take care of his lordshi…er, Micah and Jamie. They simply can’t do without me, you know.”

  Ella smiled wanly. Mrs. K looked way too cheerful, and there was a light in her eyes that was almost mischievous. If Harley Quinn were an upper-middle-aged housekeeper, she’d be the spitting image.

  “Right. Speaking of Jamie, she’s here, right? She and Leah were going to—”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. K trilled as she bustled Ella into the living room. Ella had to sidestep quickly to keep from being shoved directly into a fluffy, cream ottoman. “They will be with you momentarily. My goodness, how beautiful you look tonight. What a lovely shade of blue your gown is.”

  Ella smoothed the fabric down her thighs self-consciously. “Thanks. This gala is kind of a big deal for my career. I’m really nervous about it.”

  Mrs. Knightsbridge’s eyes sparkled. “My dear, you have nothing to worry about. You will be the belle of the ball tonight. I daresay this might be the most important evening of your life.”

  The hairs on the back of Ella’s neck prickled in warning. “What do you mean?”

  Stepping forward, Mrs. K grabbed Ella’s icy hands in her warm ones and squeezed. “Oh, my dear, I had so hoped that you would come here soon. I’ve got the most wonderful plan for you, you see.”

  Ella backed up a step, but the housekeeper didn’t release her hands.

  “Plan? What plan?”

  Mrs. Knightsbridge tutted and tapped the side of her turned-up nose. “I cannot reveal all my secrets, dear. But I promise that you will be fine. No, I daresay you’ll be deliriously happy.”

  Ella opened her mouth to reply, but Mrs. Knightsbridge shook her head. “We’ve no time now. Your gentleman is on his way. Your hair is out of place. Oh dear, do attend to yourself. There’s a mirror on the bureau over there.” She gave Ella a pat on the back, guiding her toward the bureau in the corner.

  “Oh gosh,” Ella said, her butterflies kicking into high gear again. Why hadn’t she gone on any blind dates in high school? She shouldn’t be twenty-five and just doing this for the first time. Of course, the full-sighted da
tes had been such winners that there was no way she’d ever have agreed to a setup like this unless she was completely desperate—which she currently was. She went straight across the room to stare into the bureau’s mirror. Fine cracks lined the glass, but it didn’t bar her vision at all. Ella nervously patted her hair. It hadn’t really been bad, just a little wisp escaping across her forehead. She leaned forward slightly, baring her teeth. She never should have gotten salad for dinner. How would that come across? Hi, nice to meet you. I draw superheroes for a living and there’s an organic garden in my incisors. Let’s make out.

  She frowned at her reflection. Other than a tiny smudge of her lipstick, she looked fine. No, wait, the smudge wasn’t on her lip, it was on the mirror. Without thinking, Ella reached forward to wipe the spot away.

  Her finger dipped into the center of the glass.

  Ella’s heart squeezed in fear and she jerked backward. But the mirror refused to release her hand. A pressure started then, a gentle pull that clasped her fingers and drew her body forward toward the bureau.

  She hadn’t thought. This wasn’t just a mirror; this was that mirror—the one she’d passed through before. It was a portal through time and space, and now it had hold of her.

  Ella braced a foot against the bureau’s wooden bottom and cast a desperate glance over her shoulder.

  “Mrs. Knightsbridge! Please, help me!”

  The housekeeper shook her head. “Do not worry, dear. All will be well.”

  Ella’s arm was gone. She could still feel it, but it wasn’t visible anymore. The pull was stronger now, more insistent.

  “But my gala! I can’t miss this. Mrs. Knightsbridge, help me, please!” Her head disappeared through the glass. Ella slammed her eyes shut, certain that she was dreaming. But her body eased forward, cradled by some unseen force. A moment later, Ella opened her eyes and looked down. The bureau was below her, its wood glossy in the dim room. She glanced backward, then cried out in dismay. Her body wasn’t there. She was halfway through the mirror.

  That crafty old witch.

  “No, Mrs. Knightsbridge! Bring me back! I don’t want to be here!” Her howl went unanswered as she scrambled backward. But the pull refused to stop. Whatever was guiding her through the glass was much stronger than Ella.

  A gentle laugh floated through the mirror. “Trust me. You’ll be just fine, dearie.”

  Mrs. Knightsbridge’s voice disappeared as Ella fell forward, finally overbalanced by the woman’s pushes. She tumbled to the floor, grunting at the impact.

  Leaping to her feet and nearly twisting an ankle thanks to the too-tall shoes, she shoved against the mirror. Cold glass met her anxious fingers. The portal was completely closed, and she was stuck.

  “Damn it!” she yelled, and stopped her fist an inch before it slammed into the glass. It was spider-webbed from the trauma that had almost stranded her here before. She probably shouldn’t do that if she ever wanted to get home.

  Speaking of which, where the hell had that old biddy sent her? Or should she say when?

  She turned and faced the nearly black room. White sheets draped over what was probably furniture, the odd shapes looking like monsters in the dark. Shivering, she crossed to the window and shoved it open. Her jaw went slack as she looked outside.

  “Holy crap,” she whispered, hanging out of the window. “Holy crap, holy crap.”

  It was almost dark, but the lamps along the street’s edge were lit. The streets were cobbled and clogged with people, shouting and singing and cursing one another. Horses and carriages rolled along the narrow street, their drivers shouting at pedestrians to clear the way.

  Their voices were very British. Their clothing was very outdated. And the streetlamps were flickering with actual fire.

  Ella sank back into the darkened room. She’d been thrown back in time again, that was clear. But this time, she was totally alone and without any guarantee that she could ever get back. Mrs. Knightsbridge had said she’d be fine, but she hadn’t said a word about how Ella could return home. With a glance down at her skimpy dress, Ella moaned.

  “What am I going to do?”

  She spent a good half hour wandering through the empty house, hoping that there’d be someone there, something she could use to reopen the portal and get back home. But no matter how many empty cupboards she opened, she never found the first magic candle, black cat, or gris-gris bag. It was a huge house with ornate furniture and huge, dark portraits of people in historical dress. She shivered as she walked down the long, empty hallway, not quite able to shake the feeling that the paintings were following her progress with their eyes.

  Finally, in the sixth bedroom she went through, she found an old, beat-up trunk at the foot of a bed. Blowing dust from the lid, she yanked it open.

  “Of course it’s men’s clothes,” she grumbled, holding up pants that would be way too small for her ample hips. “This must have belonged to a kid.”

  Ella bit her lip as she looked down at her dress. She was going to have to leave this house and find some help somewhere. But if she went out in the street dressed like this? She’d start a riot. She knew enough about the time she was in to be sure that her dress was kind of a big deal.

  “There’s got to be something,” she said, digging deeper into the trunk. There, at the bottom, was a long, full, black cloak. Ella pulled it free, shaking out the wrinkles and fine layer of dust that had accumulated on the fabric.

  “Well, it’s better than nothing.”

  With her paltry disguise in place, Ella ventured from the house and into the street. There had to be someone around who knew how to send her back. And if she didn’t find anyone within the next half hour, she’d just come right back to the house, wait for daylight, and keep searching.

  Mrs. Knightsbridge would have a lot of explaining to do when Ella got home.

  If she got home.

  * * *

  May 10, 1820

  Patrick waited atop Argonaut on a quiet side street. The sun was sinking low in the sky, and carriages rumbled down the main thoroughfares, carrying their passengers toward their evening’s entertainment.

  “Damnable fool,” he cursed himself as Argonaut sidestepped, his hooves clomping on the cobbles. “The chit will be the death of me.”

  Amelia’s plan, as she had explained it, was simple enough. Patrick would abduct her and take her up to Gretna Green, only to abandon her at the altar before they could be wed. Then saintly vicar George would charge in and save the poor maiden’s tattered virtue. Patrick would return to London painted the most heartless rake and despoiler of virgins, and Amelia and George would be wed and penniless. And presumably happy, if Amelia’s declarations were to be believed. All the debutantes would swoon at Patrick’s approach, and he’d be next Season’s most eligible bachelor. At least in theory.

  Iain would call him a mutton-headed, maudlin fool for agreeing to Amelia’s scheme. And Patrick would not disagree. But no one cared for him like his friend Amelia, and if he could assist her, he would. No matter the cost to his reputation.

  But for now, it was the appointed hour, and Patrick waited to swoop down upon the maiden as she and her lady’s maid traveled this way. The maid—or the many onlookers who would witness the abduction—would carry the tale back to the baron, and then the chase would begin.

  Argonaut snorted as a tradesman’s cart rumbled by. The driver gave Patrick a curious stare.

  “Easy, boy,” Patrick said in a calming voice, patting the stallion’s neck. “We’ll be on our way shortly.”

  He stared down the lane in the darkening twilight. She should be along at any moment now, her black cloak streaming behind her. Stomach tight with anticipation, he kept his gaze trained on the busy corner, as both carriage and cart rolled by. The plan wasn’t wise. He should never have agreed to this, but he couldn’t bear to see his friend unhappy.

 
“There she is,” he whispered to the horse as he caught a glimpse of a black-cloaked, hooded female rounding the corner. “Gee-up!”

  Argonaut shot forward like the ball from a cannon, and Patrick bent low over the horse’s neck. The powerful stallion ate up the space between them quickly, his hooves thundering on the cobbles as he swerved to avoid an oncoming carriage. They came close, and Patrick reached down to grab her hand. “Amelia!”

  It was a game they’d played many times as children, but one she seemed to have forgotten. Instead of grabbing his arm and pulling herself up behind him like she’d done a thousand times before, she cried out and stumbled backward. Thinking quickly, Patrick grabbed her arm and swung, cursing as his elbow connected with her temple. Pain shot through his arm, but he didn’t release her until she lay facedown behind him. Surprised shouts followed them, but Patrick ignored them as he continued their flight.

  “Damnation,” he cursed as Argonaut slowed. She had been knocked senseless.

  Guiding Argonaut with only his knees, Patrick reached behind him and maneuvered Amelia until she sagged against his back. Bringing her arms around him, he bound them with a bit of leather strapping from his saddlebag. Footsteps pounded behind them, and Patrick looked back. Several men gave chase, but they were no match for Argonaut.

  “We must away, dear girl,” he said as he gathered the reins again. “Or your father will catch us before we’ve left London.”

  Urging Argonaut faster, Patrick gritted his teeth. He hoped she wasn’t hurt too badly. If she wasn’t, he’d certainly upbraid her for such unnecessary theatrics. They could have cost her dearly.

  Let her not be injured, he prayed, bending low over Argonaut’s neck as they outpaced their pursuers.

  * * *

  Ella moaned. What an awful headache. She must have drunk way too much—that was the only explanation for the pounding in her temples and the roiling nausea in her guts. Tequila? No, she’d sworn never to touch the stuff again after Comic-Con last year. She’d thrown up on Stan Lee’s shoes. Not good.