by Nichole Van
Emme’s brother, Marc, had found his soulmate the same way, whisked away and returning with Kit at his side. Jasmine had attended his wedding to Kit Ashton over the holidays and, as Kit had walked up the aisle to Marc, both looking so radiant and happy, Jasmine had felt the relentless destiny of the moment. The tendrils of life twirling around them, as if Marc and Kit being together had been decreed eons before.
Why could she never see the course of her own life so clearly?
Despite their differences, Jasmine had really thought Mike was The One.
Wow. Had she been wrong.
So here she was. Thirty-two years old and starting all over . . . trying to meet guys, being set up on blind dates, her life full of all sorts of junior-high-like awkwardness.
Her own happily-ever-after just as far out of reach.
And no sense that it would ever happen—
“Uh, Jasmine. I really don’t need to hear this—”
“What?”
“You’re doing that ranting thing of yours. Ya know, where you talk out your internal monologue. Humpty-Dumpty? Really? And what is this about lives intertwined and James being a nineteenth century aristocrat?”
Wait—no! She had been thinking that, not talking . . .
“Nope. You were talking. I got all of it . . . And for the record, I don’t think I was ever The One . . .”
Jasmine groaned, feeling the tell-tale burn on her cheeks.
Why did mortification have to actually hurt? And when would she ever learn—
“Still talking, babe.”
Argh!
“I’m so sorry, Mike. You know how I am—”
“Trust me. I do. Still working on those filters, eh?”
He had no idea.
Jasmine set down her pen and purposefully pinched her lips, holding them between her fingers.
Her grandma, Marmi, had made Jasmine do that as a child when Jasmine couldn’t seem to separate her thoughts from her voice. She had gradually outgrown the bad habit, but stressful situations brought it roaring back.
And given how everything had gone down with Mike . . . Jasmine had not been her best self in recent months.
In fact, it had been Emme who had suggested her current stay in Duir Cottage. After ‘The Break-up,’ Jasmine had wanted to get as far away from Mike as possible. Bless Emme’s sweet heart. She knew that when bad things happened, Jasmine needed space. A getaway. The quaint cottage that James owned in rural Herefordshire had called to her.
The house always had, though this was her first time visiting. English-countryside picturesque with a gabled roof and honey-stone half covered in wisteria, the cottage pulsed with energy. The building had sighed in welcome when she arrived, the sinuous oak branches carved into the front door mimicked the swirling strands of energy she sensed encircling the cottage. As if the time portal thrumming in the cellar imbued the structure with a palpable energy, a rippling circle of awareness that felt nearly sentient.
Tendrils wrapping through and around each soul . . . drawing lives together.
Still holding her lips, Jasmine glanced up from her drawing and looked at the open-concept kitchen/dining/sitting room. Age-darkened beams cut across the white-washed ceiling, lit in sharp relief by a bank of paned windows to the right. The marble countertop was cool under her hand, the stainless steel appliances a quiet hum. She looked down the room toward the looming fireplace at the opposite end, so tall she could practically stand up in it. Though at only five foot two, she was short enough to stand upright inside most things.
Between the kitchen island and the fireplace, there was an expanse of rough-hewn dining table, overstuffed sofa and matching wingback chairs. All cluttered with dirty dishes, doodled sticky notes, graphite pencils, books, unfolded laundry, the remains of takeaway tikka masala and a bag of vintage clothing finds from Oxfam in Hereford.
Yeah. It was probably time to straighten up. Funny. She had no problem tolerating physical messiness.
But emotional upheaval? Not so much.
She knew what she needed to do. Man up. Put on her big-girl pants. Let the situation with Mike go.
She looked down at her sticky pad and then froze, studying what she had written.
Wow. Talk about karma. Just when she needed it most, the universe sent her a sign.
Bless the universe. It was always doing things like this.
The words drawn in scrolling calligraphy, surrounded by paisley swirls—
Trust the process.
Marmi’s voice drifted through her mind. A fleeting whiff of lavender. The hushed sense of a hand touching her hair.
And then it was gone.
Jasmine took in a deep breath, sending up silent thanks for the small gift, eyes pooling again.
“Jas? You still there?”
Yeah.
Wait . . . lips!
“Yeah,” she said breathlessly, wiggling her mouth to bring feeling back.
Mike cleared his throat. “Look, if this is too hard, I can try to find another way.” She could hear the pleading in his voice. He really didn’t want to find another way. “But we started down this path a year ago, and my dissertation committee is excited about the research. They’re already talking publication. Our personal history aside, this research is fascinating. Would you be willing to give it a try? Please?”
He knew right where to strike. Knew she couldn’t resist the plea for help. She was such a bleeding heart.
Trust the process.
She still stared at the words. Could she? Like exercise and teeth flossing, knowing you needed to do something didn’t automatically make it happen.
Deep breath. More wiping of her face.
Whew. Still not talking out loud.
See. Progress.
They were over and done. Jasmine and Mike . . . never to be. She wasn’t getting him back. Didn’t really want him back.
It was going to be okay. She could do this again. Meet someone, move through the initial awkwardness, build a relationship, find that right man who wanted to build a life together.
Trust the process.
With a determined lift of her chin, she picked up the sticky note and strode around to the fridge, slapping the paper onto its surface, right next to another sticky note which read:
Crying over a guy? Pick your head up, Princess. Your tiara is slipping.
Exactly.
Positive thinking. Karma. Let the universe bring back to her what she gave to it.
Mike had dumped her, but she could be gracious. Forgiving. Kind.
“Sure,” she heard herself say around the lump in her throat. One more sniffle. “You’re right. I want to know too.”
“Good.” His relief was palpable even through the long distance connection. She heard a shuffle and another beep. “Okay, I have the recorder turned back on. I am just documenting this for research reference. Could you clearly state your name and place of birth?”
Right. Clinical. Professional. Just the facts, ma’am.
“Jasmine Aurelie Fleury. Born in Boston, Massachusetts on June 21, 1983.”
“Thank you. Could you tell me a little about your family?”
Jas took in a steadying breath. “Sure. My parents were John and Aurelie Fleury. I am—or was, I suppose—the youngest of three children—”
“You use past tense. What happened?”
She closed her eyes. Mike knew all of this, of course. But for the research . . .
“My family was killed in a car accident in January of 1990 just outside Gainesville, Florida, when I was seven-years-old. We were living in Florida at the time and had just spent the day at Disney World. It was one of those foggy nights and forty-three cars plowed into each other. I was thrown from the vehicle. An oil tanker overturned and spilled its load and then somehow ignited. The rest of my family was trapped in our car.” Her mother and father, two older sisters. “Twenty-seven other people died in the crash, but I survived with just cuts and bruises. It was one of the worst accidents in Florida
history.”
Vague memories of that night surfaced.
Sensing the horror lying up the road, the world itself rippling with significance.
“Stop! You’ve got to stop!” Fumbling for the door handle.
Falling. Fire flaring. Figures coming at her through the mist. Screaming. Endless screaming.
“And then after that?” Mike prompted.
“Uh . . . Marmi—my paternal grandmother—flew out from Seattle and took me home. She raised me until her death when I was fifteen. After that, I lived with my aunt, Rita—” And then an uncle and then a newlywed cousin in a hippie commune and then back to Rita. No one had wanted her for long. Everyone too busy with their lives to worry overmuch about an orphaned niece, but why go into it? “—until I turned eighteen and came into the inheritance Marmi left me. I’ve been on my own ever since.”
And wasn’t that the truth? Always alone. Marmi had been the closest thing she had ever known to home.
Unconsciously, she reached for the pendant around her neck, fingers tracing the intricate Celtic design. A dara knot nestled inside a quatrefoil shield knot.
The gold pendant had been a gift from Marmi when she was very small—a charm of protection, strength and wisdom. Her grandmother’s legacy to her—that and a small trust fund.
Marmi’s estate had been divided equally between her four children at her death. As the only living survivor of Marmi’s middle son, Jasmine had inherited her father’s portion. The amount wasn’t mind-boggling, but it was enough to supplement Jasmine’s meager earnings as an artist.
“Thank you for that information.” Mike was in the zone. Totally professional. “To the best of your knowledge, what is your family’s history?”
“My grandparents immigrated from France in the 1950s. That’s my mother’s family. My father’s family is more of typical American mongrel mix, despite our French surname . . . a dash of Irish, some English. I am not sure when they came to the United States.”
“Excellent. As you know, we have found your genetics to be unusual, and we appreciate your help with this research.” Blah, blah, blah.
As a Ph.D. candidate in Genome Sciences at the University of Washington, Mike had initially drawn her blood for a sequencing class, just intending to use her genome for practice, isolating her genetic haplogroups. Neither of them had expected to find anything interesting.
But he had hit pay dirt. Despite her apparently varied, typically-American background, Jasmine’s DNA had pulled up some unusual results. She had unique genetic markers tied to the Breton people of northwest France. In fact, the entirety of her genome had baffled Mike and his adviser, getting everyone on-board to study her family for his dissertation.
Though they were still researching her mother’s ancestry, it seemed like she did have some Breton heritage. But what were the chances her bloodline had been passed down that cleanly?
Mike was still talking. “You belong to a Breton haplogroup that is rarely seen outside of Bretagne. Less than fifteen percent of modern Bretons carry this gene, and it’s the only place it’s found in the entire world. For my research, I want to understand how these specific genes have remained so pure within your family tree. We have taken blood samples from twelve of your other relatives, mostly aunts and uncles. My goal has been to use all of your genetics together to get a clearer snapshot of your history.”
They had been through all of this months ago. Jasmine had watched Mike personally swab the cheeks of her family members over Thanksgiving. Things had been rough with her family in recent years, and Jasmine felt the distance keenly. Like they didn’t have time for her or each other. But everyone had been really enthusiastic about the testing. Super supportive, actually. It had been nice to see her uncles joking about the cheek swabs. Hopefully, this whole testing thing would bring everyone back together.
She had been waiting to hear the results.
Mike had gone silent. Had she missed something?
“Jasmine, did you hear me? I said, we’ve hit a snag.”
“A snag?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure how to explain this, but I’ve run all of the tests twice just to verify everything. The results have been the same each time.”
Jasmine’s heart started to pound.
“Your results consistently give the same unique Breton markers. But your family shows the expected mixture of haplogroups common among northern European immigrant families without any trace of Breton heritage.”
“Excuse me?” she choked.
“Look, Jasmine, I’m really sorry. But there’s no easy way to say this.”
Mike paused. And then let the bomb drop—
“You’re not related to your family.”
Chapter 2
Lord Linwood’s study
Linwood House
London, England
March 8, 1815
Pardon me?” Timothy, Viscount Linwood, turned his head away from the rain drip, drip, dripping down the window to stare at the man standing behind him. “I could not possibly have heard you correctly just now.”
Daniel Ashton, his new Man of Affairs, cleared his throat and repeated himself. “You are on the verge of bankruptcy, my lord.”
Timothy blinked. Opened his mouth and then shut it again. Frowned.
Impossible.
It was simply . . . unfathomable.
Timothy took three measured steps over to the bookcase to his right, using the movement to force his racing heart to slow. Reaching out, he adjusted a book, ensuring it was perfectly aligned with its brethren. His hand shook.
That was . . . not good.
He tried to swallow, but his neckcloth was suddenly too tight. Nigh upon strangling, really.
Where had all the air in the room gone?
He turned back to Daniel. The young man stood motionless on the other side of Timothy’s enormous oak desk, two ledgers and a stack of papers in his arms.
The tall case clock in the corner ticked emphatically. Rain drummed against the window. The sound of London traffic drifted into the room, muted but ever present.
Timothy finally managed to swallow, the sound painfully audible.
“How?” His voice more of a growl.
Daniel instantly took a step back, eyes flaring.
Timothy caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the fireplace mantle: dark hair, gray eyes, stern face . . . all normal.
But the emotion . . . eyebrows drawn down, lips curled in a snarl, forehead wrinkled.
Rule #37: A gentleman is always in control of himself and his situation.
Even if the world came tumbling down around his ears.
Case in point.
Emotions were pointless, useless things. They merely clouded judgment.
Timothy lowered his head and took in a slow, measured breath . . . ran a hand over his coat pockets, feeling the familiar shape of his talisman gear tucked inside. Tugged down the sleeves of his coat. Patted his waistcoat. Ensuring all was neat and precise.
Rule #23: A gentleman suppresses undue emotion, whether of disappointment, of mortification, of laughter, of anger, etc.
He was a fortress. Impenetrable.
Rule #6: A gentleman will always act with honor and courage, even when faced with a daunting situation.
Contained. Feeling nothing.
Rule #4: A gentleman’s primary duty is to see to the health and care of his family.
A machine. A cog in the enormous ship of history, as the subtle weight of the gear in his pocket ever reminded him. He would overcome this setback. History demanded no less.
Rule #21: A gentleman of solid worth is reticent.
His heart stopped its frantic beating. His throat relaxed.
Done. Mask back in place.
He raised his head. Daniel was only the messenger. The man was not the problem. Anger and frustration would not provide a solution. They would only make the situation messy and uncomfortable.
“Please be seated, Mr. Ashton.” Timothy gestur
ed toward the chair in front of his desk, hand steady now. “I would hear how you arrived at this conclusion.”
Timothy took a seat behind the desk, as Daniel spread out some papers and then retreated to a chair, sitting down. Timothy dragged the papers to him, aligning them together. The familiar columns and rows of figures neatly summed calmed him. Numbers, calculations . . . mathematics.
Coolly rational and objective at all times.
Just like himself.
“The pages on your left are Mr. Brown’s numbers, organized by year, starting in 1801.” Daniel gestured, indicating his predecessor’s work. “The pages on the right are my own calculations of those same years.”
Timothy looked over the numbers, quickly adding the long columns in his head. The discrepancy was immediately obvious.
Someone had been methodically skimming profits from the estate. Mr. Brown’s numbers showed a healthy estate. Daniel’s numbers told a different story. He was, indeed, on the brink of bankruptcy.
Timothy lifted his head, a question mark clearly showing on his face.
“Mr. Brown skillfully embezzled from the Linwood estate over a period of fifteen years, starting with your late father.”
Timothy nodded carefully. A rogue blast of anger punched through his defenses.
Rule #19: A gentleman never loses his temper.
He straightened the papers again. Lifted a minuscule bit of fluff off the desktop.
Rule #104: Cleanliness is next to Godliness.
It was not quite enough.
Timothy raised his head and studied the room, pondering the soothing symmetry of the study in his London townhouse. An homage to Classical aesthetics with its marble, pedimented door frames, coffered ceiling and herringbone wood floor. Everything washed in colors of white and soft green, excepting the dark bookcases lining the walls.
A space that exemplified his refined world.
The room hung with blue gloom, rain still pattering against the matching floor-to-ceiling windows with their wide panes of glass.
One more breath. Another comforting touch of the gear in his pocket.
Everything shut back away.
“My father trusted Mr. Brown implicitly.” His voice calm. Steady. Even if it did sound like it was coming from far away. “He appeared to be the very epitome of a respected, upright steward and handled the reins of the viscountcy with aplomb and dignity for well over two decades. There was never a need to check his numbers. Besides which, the vast holdings of my estates would have made such an endeavor impractical given the time I dedicate to my position in the House of Lords—”
