Unfortunately, the lady’s timing had been poor—less than an hour before Saturday evening’s opening act, and the troupe was scurrying to and fro across the stage in their final preparations. Tempers were short and anxiety high. Normally, Mr. Myott treated Quality with a toad-eating deference, but stress had made him snap at the gentry mort, ordering her to leave.
Edwina had waited until Mr. Myott ran off to scream at the jugglers for wearing incorrect costumes for the opening act, then approached the woman. Ignoring the lady’s start of surprise and the way her eyes darted across Edwina’s scarred face, Edwina had offered to share what she knew if the lady returned to the theater at ten o’clock on the morrow. She only asked for a few coins in return.
“Stop! No! . . . PLEASE!”
Edwina came back to the present in a rush.Thatwasn’t a figment of her imagination. Pulse accelerating, she gathered her skirts to hurry down the long, shadowy corridor connecting the theater’s backstage to the auditorium.
The scent of linseed oil, greasepaint, sawdust, and melted tallow assailed her nostrils. The morning’s cold, gray light streamed through skylights and windows, an architectural necessity to save on candles during rehearsals and when sceneries were being built. The playhouse was small by Covent Garden standards, seating a mere three hundred. Four balcony tiers with private boxes flanked the stage. Iron spikes bordered the audience pit. Auditorium seats fanned out in three sections from the pit and stage.
Edwina stepped into the auditorium and froze when a scream shattered the silence. Movement caught her eye and she looked upward, to the top balcony on the right side of the stage. Her good eye widened in horror as a winged creature rose up and soared over the railing. Instead of flapping its wings to take flight, the creature let out an unearthly shriek as it plummeted down . . . down . . .down. The shriek was abruptly cut off as it hit the back of the seats with a startling crack.
Edwina’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle her own scream. The silence that followed was so dark and vast that she had the dizzying sensation that she’d dropped into a bottomless well. Her gaze locked on the figure bent at an awkward angle over two seats. Not a supernatural bird of prey, but the lady she was supposed to meet. The black velvet cape she wore spread around her like broken raven wings.
Slowly, Edwina raised her gaze from the unnaturally still form to the top balcony and the man leaning over the balustrade. His face was partially hidden by his wide-brimmed hat and the collar of his greatcoat, but she knew who he was. For a brief moment, she met his eyes. They seemed to scorch her like the fire she’d survived.
Then he was gone.
Edwina didn’t know how long she stood there transfixed until her inner voice screeched:Don’t stand there, you stupid cow—run!
Drawing in a shuddering breath, she yanked her skirts past her knees and pelted down the hallway. In the distance, she heard the pounding of boots as he raced down the stairs. Terror speared her as she launched herself against the backstage door—and nearly screamed when it didn’t budge.Trapped, she thought wildly. It took her a second to realize she hadn’t unlatched it.Stupid, stupid girl!
The running footsteps behind her sounded like thunder. Slick with sweat, her hand fumbled with the latch. She threw open the door. Stumbled. Righted herself, then bolted down the alley. Heart hammering, she ran like the devil was chasing her.
Because he is. And if he catches me, I’m as good as dead.
Chapter 2
Tuesday, September 10, 1816
Kendra could honestly say that in her twenty-seven years, she’d never once imagined her wedding day. She had never been one of those girls who giggled over boys and dreamed about walking down the aisle to some shadowy figure waiting for her at the altar. And even if she had, never in a million years could she have imaginedthiswedding day. How could she? It wasn’t so much a matter of where she was currently sitting—Aldridge Castle’s formal dining room—butwhen. She’d been born in the late twentieth century—more than two hundred years in the future.
Time traveler.
Freak.
Her fingers tightened on the delicate crystal flute she held. It had been more than a year since she’d found herself unexpectedly transported through a vortex or wormhole, but there were still moments when her head swam and she wondered if she’d wake up one morning to discover that it all had been a dream.
A chill raced down her arms. A year ago, she would’ve given anything for that to happen, to wake up in her own bed in her apartment in Maryland. To push a button to light up the room, and jump in a shower with hot, pulsating water. To drive herself to her job as a special agent in the FBI’s the Behavioral Science Division. But now . . .
Nowthe idea of returning to her own timeline made her stomach churn with anxiety.
Slowly she sipped the champagne, easing her dry throat. She let her gaze roam over the guests seated at the long, linen-covered table. There were more chairs than people this morning, but that was fine with Kendra. She’d feared that the wedding, which had taken place forty-five minutes ago in the small village church, would be an elaborate affair, with the attendees sporting more titles than the Library of Congress. Such things were expected when you married the Marquis of Sutcliffe, the nephew—and heir—to the powerful Duke of Aldridge. She’d been pleasantly surprised to discover that weddings in this era—unless you were royalty—tended to be small, private affairs, limited to family and close friends.
She had no family. Her parents, Dr. Carl Donovan and Dr. Eleanor Jahnke, hadn’t been born yet.
The crowd had mostly been made up of villagers, who’d gathered outside the ancient stone church, lining the cobblestone streets of Aldridge Village while Kendra and Alec exchanged vows inside. Then they’d cheered the small wedding party as they made their way back to the castle for breakfast.
The guests themselves were an odd consortium. Even Kendra recognized their peculiarity. Occupying one side of the table was the Duke of Aldridge’s sister, Lady Carolyn Atwood, and her daughter, Lady Mary Ballinger. Lady Mary had traveled from her home in Cumbria at her mother’s behest. Kendra suspected she had been invited solely to hold the smelling salts in case the countess fainted from the sheer horror of having to accept Kendra—an American with no pedigree or social graces—into their prestigious family. God knew, Lady Carolyn had warned her nephew enough to reconsider his proposal.
Next to them was Lady Rebecca and her parents, Lord and Lady Blackburn. Most people noticed Rebecca’s beautiful auburn hair, but they quickly became distracted by the pockmarks that marred her face, the result of a childhood bout of smallpox. Certainly, they never saw the cleverness in the cornflower blue eyes or the spirit that lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. An ardent supporter of the early feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, Rebecca had been quick to accept Kendra’s unorthodox behavior. Although Kendra hadn’t told Rebecca her most carefully guarded secret—the fact that she was a time traveler—she considered the other woman a friend. Really one of her only friends, regardless of century.
On the other side of the table were Kendra’s guests: Dr. Ethan Munroe, Sam Kelly, and Phineas “Finn” Muldoon. Only Dr. Munroe blended in with the aristocrats’ silks and superfines. He was a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties, with a silvery mane that he tied into an old-fashioned queue and contrasting black eyebrows. His eyes were gray and intelligent behind round gold spectacles that he pinched on his hawklike nose. It wasn’t his person, but his profession—a former doctor who now operated an anatomy school in London—that had made him an outcast in society.
Sam and Muldoon, on the other hand, were wearing their Sunday best, but there was no mistaking their working-class roots in the rougher wools and tweeds. Both men sat a little closer to one another, as though they’d each subconsciously sought comfort in the other’s presence.
Kendra had to suppress a smile. Their camaraderie was ironic, given Sam was a Bow Street Runner (this era’s version of a police detective) and Muldoon was a reporter for theMorning Chronicle. Like the relationship between the police and the press in her own timeline, their relationship was, more often than not, contentious.
“My lady? Ah . . . my lady?”
