“Bottle in the door,” she told him without looking up from the mushrooms she sliced.
Fruit in a bottle? He found one made of a clear, not-quite-glass material that contained orange liquid, opened it and sniffed the contents. At least it smelled like oranges. He read the label and found it did not come from concentrate, whatever that meant. With a mental shrug, he poured juice for both of them then retired to the comfortable nook with his.
He watched as she stirred the mushrooms into the eggs then dropped thin slices of bread into a metal box. Next she brought a small yellow block from the fridge, and with a sense of surprise he realized it was butter. Then the metal box made an odd clicking sound and the bread popped up. She pulled it out, and he saw it had become brown and toasted. He accepted the slices and watched, fascinated, as she put in two more. At last she scooped the cooked eggs onto a plate and carried it to the table.
“Mr. Fipps radioed this morning. The searchers didn’t find your friends.” She brought over tankards of coffee and sat down.
He nodded. “I didn’t think they would. I’m sure they’re safe—back there.”
She put down her fork and glared at him. “Look, did you let me call out a rescue helicopter for nothing? Were there others? Or is this all part of your warped game?”
He shook his head. “There is nothing I can say to convince you of what has happened, is there? I could give you my word as a gentleman, but I know how insane this whole idea must seem to you. It seems insane to me, and I have the evidence of my senses—I see things all around me that I know are impossible. I would assume I am now residing in Bedlam, except that in every other way my mind appears to be functioning in perfect order.”
“Damn it, you make it all sound so…so possible!” She pushed her plate away and stood. “I’m going to check on Guin.”
He watched her stalk out of the kitchen into the hall, where she paused to pull on that odd coat made of slippery material. Without looking back at him, she left the cottage, ducking her head against the rain and wind that greeted her.
With a sigh, Belmont turned back to his breakfast. He liked this place, he decided. It made him feel comfortable. And he liked Miss van Hamel, despite her antagonism. But right now, he had some thinking to do. If he actually had gone forward through time, if those battle scenes in David Warwick’s gaming room were real, then the details he could learn, the information he could provide the army, would be tremendous. But Warwick already did that. David obviously knew French strategy perfectly—he had studied it minutely, it seemed. That meant the advice he gave the War Department was sound and could only help them.
Or could it? A chill ran through him. In his war-gaming, David Warwick played for the French to win. What if he did the same, now—or rather, in the past? He could well make it very difficult for the British, or even arrange for Napoleon to conquer Europe!
Belmont pushed back his chair and strode to the gaming room. With new insight he studied the battle scenes, paying particular attention to those that had taken place since he had accepted the assistance of David Warwick. Was it his imagination, or were the “As it should have been” renditions disturbingly similar in many critical aspects to the “As it occurred”? The British came off the victors, but not by much. The British strategy was faulty. He closed his eyes, racking his memory. Had any of that been at the recommendation of Warwick?
He returned to Fuentes de Onoro. His brother Aubrey had had a near brush with death there. If Warwick—his own assistant!—had anything to do with that…
Struck by the prickly sensation of being watched, he broke off the thought. Looking up, he saw Miss van Hamel standing in the doorway. He straightened.
“Did your falcon enjoy her breakfast?”
She wrinkled that delightful nose, causing the freckles to bunch up. “Not yet. I left Guin bathing as best she could and occasionally poking at the wood pigeon I gave her. I do not enjoy cleaning up her leavings.”
That brought a smile to his lips. “You need a rookery attendant. Someone to cater to the birds for you.”
“I manage very well, thank you.” She drew a deep breath and let it out audibly. “The storm’s still too bad for you to try to leave. You’re welcome to stay—if you quit playing games.”
“I’ll not disturb you, that I promise. Do you mind if I remain in here?”
“Be my guest.” She sounded stiff.
“Thank you. May I borrow paper and pen?”
She gestured to a small table at the back of the room, where several books with intriguing titles including the words “war-gaming”, “miniature”, “Napoleonic uniforms” and “weaponry” stood on a shelf. Beneath, in a small drawer, he found a tablet and several white sticks of an unidentifiable material. With a little experimentation, he discovered they contained ink and he could write with ease without needing to dip them into an ink bottle, which was fortunate as there was none. He returned to the domes and began making notes.
The storm continued throughout the morning but he paid it little heed. Details of French battle strategy filled his mind to the exclusion of all else. Finally the rumblings of his stomach succeeded where that of thunder had failed, and he laid aside the pen. A tantalizing aroma reached his nostrils, and he followed it as if it were a will-o’-the-wisp.
He found his hostess once more in her kitchen, stirring the contents of a large kettle. The smells were more pungent in here, even harder to resist. He peered over her shoulder into the simmering concoction that Miss van Hamel identified as chowder, which contained a multitude of different ingredients. Lord, what he would have given for this young lady in the Peninsula, where their meals were frequently of such a hodgepodge nature, yet rarely appetizing. When she placed a bowl before him, he ate with undisguised pleasure.
Across from him, she sat without speaking. It bothered him that he distressed her, yet what could he do? He could think of no topic of conversation that would be safe, for his mind teemed with questions that would only serve to anger her, make her think he deliberately feigned ignorance.
He took another sip of the thick, creamy soup and savored the flavor. She knew how to cook, all right. He could just envision his youngest sister Felicity if confronted by a pile of mushrooms or an onion. Or better, his other sister Clarissa. A chuckle escaped him at the thought of the horror with which Clarissa would regard a kitchen.
Miss van Hamel looked up, eyeing him uncertainly. “Is everything all right?”
“I was just thinking of either of my sisters trying to live without a household staff.”
“Mine also. Though I had hopes—” She broke off and stood abruptly. “Excuse me. I have work to do.” She set her bowl on the countertop beside the sink and left.
He finished his chowder, then returned to the gaming room. Those books he had glimpsed might prove useful. If nothing else, he would like to discover what “gaming” was, and why Miss van Hamel obviously regarded it askance.
He opened the first, entitled merely Miniature Campaigns, and was soon bewildered by talk of scale, handicapping and morale factors. He leafed farther into the heavy volume, only to stop as he found himself staring at a map labeled “Salamanca”. The positions of the generals and field marshals were clearly pointed out, along with their lines of charge and retreat. He continued until he reached a section labeled “Biographies” and found himself staring at details of Napoleon’s death.
The blurring of the page and the strain on his eyes warned him of the hours he had spent perusing the volume. Outside the sky grew dark with the coming of night. His first thought was to summon reading candles, but an easier solution lay readily to hand. He strode to the wall, found the switch and watched the ceiling fixture as it sprang to life with blazing light. Feeling immensely smug over his mastery of this device, he returned to his studies.
The next chapter, “Communications and Supplies”, caught his interest, and he began reading in rapt fascination how many loaves of bread, and at what cost, must be purchased to maintai
n an army. The problem of spoiled foodstuffs and the percentage of men he could expect to desert if he provided them with bad food appalled him.
He flipped the page, but before he could discover why the author had labeled the next section “Medical Atrocities”, the light above him flickered, then went out. He sat in complete darkness, for the heavy clouds and barrage of rain effectively blocked the rising moon. A jagged streak of lightning momentarily illuminated the scene, then faded away to the accompaniment of a thunder that rivaled his unnerved memories of cannonading.
A spot of light appeared in the hall, growing brighter as it approached. Candles, he thought in relief, and began feeling his way among the tables. A brilliant circle of yellow appeared in the doorway, showing his path.
“Miss van Hamel?” Taking advantage of the illumination, he hurried forward. He could barely make out her petite shape, for whatever she held cast only the dimmest reflection upon her. It must be a shuttered lantern, he surmised, with its opening directed at him.
“Belmont?” She sounded tentative. “The generator has gone out. Are you any good with engines?”
“Is that not your Mr. Fipps’ specialty?” He reached her side and took the peculiarly narrow, cylindrical lantern from her to examine it.
A shaky sigh escaped her. “He can’t get out here after dark. Do you think you could at least look at it?”
She sounded nervous, which surprised him. But as the lightning flashed again at that moment, she took an instinctive step nearer as if seeking his protection. The amazingly capable Miss van Hamel possessed a very distressing bugbear.
He resisted the urge to slip a comforting arm about her. For all her nonchalance of the night before, she might also be frightened of permitting a strange man into her home. It was amazing what light—or the lack of it—did to normally rational people.
“It’s in the aviary, is it not? Come, then. Do you have an umbrella?”
She produced a very serviceable one from a stand in the hall and, after a few moments of testing the mechanism, he opened it and held it for her as they raced across the courtyard. Inside the long building, silence greeted them. Miss van Hamel directed her lantern toward the large, peculiar contraption. Belmont suppressed the eerie sensation that it smiled at them in defiance.
“Lord Belmont, meet Mortimer.” Miss van Hamel kneeled down and dragged open the curved door. “Maybe it’s just out of fuel. Damn, I can’t read the dial.” She peered closer, then shook her head. “About three-quarters of a tank still. I was afraid of that.” She shook her head again, setting the smooth, silky mass of her hair glinting.
Belmont resisted the urge to touch it. “What does your Mr. Fipps do?”
“A wire’s probably come loose. The thing shakes so much that a connection is always breaking.” She regarded it uncertainly. “Sometimes he just kicks it and it starts up again.”
“That much I can probably manage, if you think it will help.”
She turned to look up at him, much as if she expected him to work some miracle. It irritated him that she so obviously thought he should know all about the damnable thing—and even more so that he could not rise to the occasion and fulfill her expectations.
He cast the umbrella aside, took the light from her and examined the contraption. Never in his entire life had he beheld anything quite like it. But he was prime for any adventure. If only he could understand how it worked, he might be able to do the trick.
“What is the principle behind it?” He asked the question while he studied the mystifying switches.
Silence answered him. He looked over his shoulder and encountered her sheepish expression. Her complexion had undoubtedly taken on a delicate flush, could he but see it. He regretted the lack of sufficient light.
“Yes?” he prompted, beginning to enjoy himself.
“I’ve never been very good at machinery,” she admitted.
He shook his head, and in spite of his nobler instincts his voice took on a lofty tone. “If I could understand it I could probably fix it.”
“Of course, I was forgetting.” She recovered admirably. “They hadn’t invented gasoline engines yet in eighteen-whatever, had they?”
He inclined his head. “Unlike you, I never had the opportunity to learn.”
“That’s right, rub it in. That’s going to do us one hell of a lot of good, isn’t it?” She turned her back on him, found her umbrella and stalked out the door.
He followed, still smiling at her outrageous language. He found it distinctly refreshing. It allowed him, if he so chose, to express himself with similar freedom. He couldn’t help but wonder if all females of this time were as outspoken—and enjoyable—as this one.
They dined before the fireplace on salad, leftover bread and wine. Somewhat to his disappointment, all the conveniences he enjoyed so much appeared not to be working. This thing called a generator—or a Mortimer—must be a very powerful contraption indeed.
On the whole, he decided, he didn’t really mind that much that Mortimer had stopped working. Those sconces or whatever they were in the ceiling were too bright. Firelight definitely suited Miss van Hamel. She sat across from him, silent, sipping her wine and gazing into the shielded hearth. She was beautiful. And the gleaming play of reflected flames along her auburn hair did interesting things to his senses.
Riki glanced up and caught his eyes resting on her. Heat flooded her cheeks and she looked quickly away. Damn the man for being so attractive. The very least he could do would be to appear outwardly as peculiar as he behaved. But no, his features had to be strong and piercing.
She gazed down at the burgundy in her glass. It didn’t hold a candle to the sparkling luminescence of his eyes. Irritated with her fancies, she stood up and needlessly brushed off the seat of her jeans.
“Did you enjoy yourself today?” she asked abruptly.
“Very much. I found your cousin’s gaming room fascinating.”
“I’ll bet.” She breathed the words. “I suppose you particularly liked the battles in which you claim to have taken part.”
“No, actually I spent my time studying the ones that have not yet taken place.”
“What would you gain, even if you really were from the past? Napoleon lost anyway. It’s not as if you’d change history.”
He set down his glass. “I wasn’t thinking of anything that drastic. But consider the lives that could be saved if our generals knew the enemy’s plans in advance. This would be better than any intelligence information we’ve been able to obtain. Come, let me show you.” He sprang to his feet, grabbed her flashlight, flipped it on and led the way to the gaming room.
Why did I have to sound curious? She had made the mistake of encouraging his pretending. Now he probably wouldn’t give her any peace until he showed her whatever he had in mind.
She followed as he led the way among the tables until he came to one labeled “Ciudad Rodrigo”.
“There,” he said. “This would be the next battle. Look carefully at the ‘As it occurred’ rendition. Do you see where the French have concentrated their defenses? If the British troops moved from over here—” He broke off, staring.
Riki stared too. It was crazy, but she’d swear the British assault wasn’t the way she remembered it. It must be the meager light from the flashlight that seemed to alter the positions of the tiny figures. She’d gazed at these silly domes countless times, but everything was bound to look different in these shadows.
“Look at the other dome.” Belmont’s voice sounded strange.
The “As it should have been” scene appeared just as she remembered it, in spite of the eerie illumination. She looked back at the other dome and a sudden, unpleasant idea struck her.
“You changed it! They’re almost alike now, with the French having a powerful advantage.” She glared at him, furious. “How could you?”
“How indeed.” His words sounded clipped. “If you will try to move the dome top, you will find it is impossible.”
She
tried and it didn’t budge. “All right, you glued it back down. How dare you move his figures?”
“I didn’t.” He gestured at the card bearing the battle’s name and date. “Read that.”
“January nineteenth, 1812. January—” She broke off. “No, I know what you’re getting at, and this isn’t funny! So what if its anniversary was today! There was an eleven-day siege! It says so right there!”
“And the battle scene altered, of its own accord, because now that your cousin is in the past, he changed the course of the battle to favor the French!”
“No!” Riki screamed the word at him. She spun away but he grabbed her wrists, preventing her from escaping.
“Listen! You’re damn right, this isn’t funny. Check the way the dome’s been sealed. It hasn’t been touched.”
She stopped struggling. She honestly couldn’t think of any way he might have lifted that Plexiglas top, but somehow he must have.
“Can’t you see what is happening?” Belmont turned the full force of those dark, piercing eyes on her. “Your cousin has gone back through time and is changing history in Napoleon’s favor!”
Chapter Four
Belmont’s eyes blazed with intensity. “Warwick is sabotaging the British effort. Give me the benefit of the doubt for one minute. If what I suggest is true, could your cousin tilt the scales so Napoleon could come off the victor in the Peninsular Campaign?”
Riki stared at him, then looked down at the domes. “Yes. But the British win!”
Belmont’s jaw tightened. “But was that without your cousin’s influence?”
“That’s ridiculous. It happened two hundred years ago!”
“I arrived here, in your time, on the same day of the year that I was swept out of my own time. What if there is some correlation between our two times? What if something that happened because of his interference on today’s date in 1812 only has an effect starting from today, in this year?”
Riki leaned back against the table behind her for support. “You’re mad!”
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