“I know that certain families have always had... interests... that extend beyond the conventional. I know that some knowledge has a way of surfacing when it’s most needed, regardless of whether it appears to belong to its time and place.”
Rachel’s heart started hammering against her ribs like a bird trying to escape a cage. Was she talking about...?
“Books, for instance,” Isolde continued, her gaze never leaving Rachel’s face, watching for every flicker of expression like someone reading a particularly fascinating manuscript.
“Ancient cookbooks containing recipes that seem to draw from culinary traditions spanning centuries. Texts that appear to be simple household guides but contain knowledge that could only come from someone who’d experienced far more than any single lifetime should allow.”
The blood roared in Rachel’s ears like a freight train. She knew. Somehow, impossibly, Lady Isolde Beaumont knew about the cookbook.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rachel said, but her voice came out weak and unconvincing, like someone claiming they’d never seen the murder weapon while still holding it.
“Don’t you?” Isolde stepped closer, close enough that Rachel could see the gold flecks in her dark eyes, could smell the expensive perfume that couldn’t quite mask something earthier beneath—herbs, maybe, or something that reminded her uncomfortably of Mistress Caldwell’s more questionable potions.
“Because I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. I think you’ve encountered something that shouldn’t exist, something that defies easy explanation. And I think that’s how you came to be here, in my brother’s garden, wearing clothes that belong to no fashion I’ve ever seen and speaking with an accent that exists in no land I know of.”
Rachel’s heart was hammering so hard she was sure everyone in the hall could hear it echoing off the stone walls. The taste of copper pennies flooded her mouth. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Isolde’s smile was triumphant now, the expression of someone who’d just won a particularly challenging game of chess while their opponent was still trying to figure out the rules.
“Then you won’t mind if I examine this mysterious cookbook that brought you here? The one I’m quite certain you have hidden away somewhere, wrapped in cloth and secreted like the treasure it is?”
The silence that followed was so complete that Rachel could hear the crackling of torches, the distant sound of horses in the courtyard, the rapid beating of her own traitorous heart. Every eye in the hall was fixed on her, but she was only aware of Isolde’s knowing gaze and Tristan’s sharp intake of breath as the pieces fell into place for him as well.
The scent of woodsmoke and something that might have been fear hung thick in the air.
“How?” she whispered, abandoning all pretense along with any hope of maintaining her cover story. “How could you possibly know?”
“Because, my dear,” Isolde said, her voice warm with satisfaction and something that might have been welcome—or warning, “you’re not the first person to arrive at Greystone carrying impossible knowledge and wearing clothes that don’t belong to this century. You’re simply the first to arrive in my lifetime.”
She turned to address the hall at large, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question or delay.
“Everyone out,” she commanded, and servants began scurrying toward the exits like mice fleeing a burning barn. “What we have to discuss is not for common ears. Hugo, see that we’re not disturbed. Brother dear, I believe it’s time we had a very long overdue conversation about family history.”
Her gaze found Rachel again, sharp as winter frost.
“And perhaps about why certain cookbooks have a tendency to find their way to people who need them most, regardless of what century they happen to be living in.”
As the hall emptied with remarkable speed, Rachel found herself alone with the de Valois siblings and the terrifying realization that her impossible situation had just become infinitely more complicated.
And possibly, if the gleam in Isolde’s eyes was any indication, much more dangerous than she’d ever imagined.
CHAPTER 10
The solar felt smaller than her tiny apartment. Rachel sat in the worn chair across from Tristan’s desk, acutely aware of every creak of settling stone, every flicker of candlelight against the worn tapestries. The scent of old parchment and leather mingled with Isolde’s expensive perfume, creating an atmosphere thick with secrets and unspoken revelations.
Tristan’s sister paced before the hearth like a caged tiger, her midnight blue gown rustling with each step. Even in the confines of the small chamber, she managed to look regal, dangerous, and utterly in control of whatever game they were now playing.
“Well?” His voice cut through the tense silence, jaw tight with barely contained frustration. “You’ve cleared the hall, demanded privacy, and made cryptic pronouncements about family history. Perhaps ’tis time for explanations rather than theatrical flourishes.”
“Theatrical flourishes?” Isolde turned to face him, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in aristocratic disdain. “Brother dear, you haven’t seen theatrical yet. Though I suppose six months of brooding in this crumbling pile has dulled your appreciation for proper drama.”
Rachel cleared her throat, drawing both siblings’ attention. “Look, I appreciate the witty banter—really, it’s very entertaining—but someone just accused me of time travel in front of half your household staff. So maybe we could focus on that rather than your family dynamics?”
“Time travel,” Tristan repeated slowly, his gaze moving between his sister and Rachel with growing wariness as he scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Isolde, surely you cannot mean to suggest?—”
“That our guest arrived here through supernatural means?” Isolde’s smile was sharp as a blade.
“That she carries knowledge from times yet to come? That she speaks words and wears garments unknown to any land in Christendom?”
