Chapter 9
She awoke to knocking. The room was bright, sunlight seeping in from between the curtains. Helen looked around the room as if clothing might have magically appeared in the night.
“Who is it?”
There was a pause, followed by a rustling sound. “I am from Madam Dumas, to take your measurements, madam.”
“Are you alone?” She could just imagine the heart attack she’d give some guy if she opened the door only in a towel. Or a boner.
Another pause. “Yes, madam.”
Helen wrapped herself in the still damp towel and opened the door; a thin young woman with mousy brown hair and large eyes looked back at her. “Come in, please.”
The seamstress entered the room with a large black bag.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what they told you. But I don’t have anything to wear. My clothes—” Were stolen? All of them? Helen wasn’t sure what to say.
The woman nodded sharply as if she dressed clothes-less women all the time, and opened her bag, pulling out a thin, white linen shift. “Put this on. Then I will measure you.” While the woman set her bag down on the bed and began to pull out her measuring tape and other things that she would need, Helen dropped the towel and put the shift on. Her stomach growled.
The woman came at her with professional determination, measuring her and marking it all down on paper. After several long minutes, she stepped back and looked at Helen’s face critically. “We have some dresses that are already made and would fit you nicely. Your complexion is unfashionably dark, but your skin is excellent. I’m thinking bold colors would suit you. And your eyes are very green, which we can bring out with the right colors.”
A ticket-porter, a man who ran messages and packages around London, was sent to the dress shop with instructions on what clothes should be sent over. Lunch was sent to her room while they waited. She pulled off the covers with a sense of fear. Half expecting something revolting like jellied eels, or haggis. But all she found was a nice soup and cold-cuts with cheese and bread as well as some fruit. She hoped that the food would help her regain her strength. Adding it up, Helen thought she’d slept for almost a full 24 hours. And she was still tired.
The clothes arrived within the hour; swaths of color and beautiful fabrics piled high on Helen’s bed. The following two hours could only be described as a bizarre exercise in torture. She had expected the corset to be unbelievably uncomfortable. But she hadn’t realized how hard it would be to sit down, then get back up.
The modiste pulled at her, ordered her arms up, legs up, turned her all around and in the end, Helen stood looking at herself in the mirror, shocked by her transformation. She was clad in an emerald-green walking dress that was the most beautiful gown Helen had ever worn. Screw that, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. And she was wearing it. Her waist was unbelievably small and her bosom shockingly large.
It was totally irrelevant to her purpose, but damn she looked good. All women should get to dress like this, she thought. Minus the corset. The rest of Helen’s clothing would be delivered over the next few days once alterations were made. Helen paid the modiste in cash, giving her a healthy tip which made the woman’s eyes water in gratitude. Helen checked the numbers. A pound. She’d only given her a pound, but from the way she reacted one would think it was a hundred-dollar bill.
And then it was time to go to the auction house.
As Helen made her way there, she ran through the details in her mind. The auction would take place in three days, and the plans would be sold for 200 pounds. Although she feared the bidding might go higher now that she was involved.
Whitby and Sons Auction House was an uninspiring building near Russell Square. The front room looked like a hotel lobby and the man who came to greet her eyed her speculatively. She could see him trying to make a calculation of her wealth as she came in. His eyes narrowed. “Can I help you, madam?” His English accent had a weird French twist to it. As if he were either French and pretending to be English or English and pretending to be French.
“I’m interested in an auction you’ll be having in a few days. Blueprints, for Roland Black’s gun modifications.” I’m actually here, doing this. I’m changing the future at this very moment.
He looked down his nose at her. “I’ll check. When is the auction scheduled?”
“This Thursday.”
He scowled down at his paperwork.
“I show that item as having been removed.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there will not be an auction.”
Wait. That wasn’t right. Helen was speechless for a second, her mouth open. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” She’d heard him wrong, that was all.
“I said Mr. Black has nothing to be auctioned. He withdrew the plans.”
She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “That’s impossible. He can’t take them back. That’s not how it happens.” He shrugged and looked at the door longingly as if he wished she would leave.
Helen took a step closer, her skirts pressing up against the counter. “Did he say why?”
“No, madam.”
“Is he going to have someone else sell them?”
He sniffed. “We are the premier auction house in London. I assure you, he would give the plans to no one else if he were seeking to sell them.”
Helen doubted that they were the best auction house around, but that was the least of her problems.
“But I have to buy them,” she said stupidly. “I came all this way. A really long way.”
He turned his back on her, walking back to his desk. A million thoughts raced through Helen’s mind, sweat breaking out on her forehead as she tried to make sense of what he was telling her.
“Are you lying to me?” she asked, hearing a tiny amount of panic in her voice.
He scowled at her darkly.
“I’m not trying to offend you. But I had really expected him to sell the plans. I don’t understand why he’d change his mind.” What did this mean? Had history changed already? Helen took a deep breath. She hadn’t failed yet. As long as she got the plans and destroyed them, the mission would be a success.
Helen smiled disarmingly. “I would really like to contact Mr. Black, see if the plans are available for purchase.”
“I’m unable to disclose that information.”
Inspiration came to her and she opened her reticule, pulling out a pound. “For your help,” she said, holding it out to him as though she were waiting for him to kiss her hand.
He took the money and looked around shiftily. “Mr. Black withdrew the plans but made no reason for the disclosure. Mr. Whitby himself spoke to Mr. Black. I do not know his address, but Mr. Whitby said he suspected Mr. Black had found a private buyer,” he said the last part as if Mr. Black had contracted a deadly disease.
“Why would he do that? Wouldn’t he get more money by an auction house? Bids and competition would drive the price up.” Helen licked her lips and pulled out another coin. “Was there anyone else who was interested in the plans?”
“Baron Colchester was quite intrigued. It is my personal belief that he sold the plans to the Baron.”
“Colchester,” she repeated slowly. Helen had no idea who that was.
The man nodded. “The Baron is hosting a party for Mr. Black this evening. It is quite a coup for the American. To be introduced to society by the Baron is a great honor.”
Helen pursed her lips, thinking rapidly. “So Mr. Black may have sold the plans to Baron Colchester in order to get an introduction to high society?”
He snorted. “Not good ton. But people with money and titles.”
Helen wasn’t sure what the difference was between good ton and other ton. Bad ton? The ton were the fashionable people, royalty and the rich people of London society.
Helen left in a daze, walking blindly as she tried to decide what the hell she was supposed to do next. Her mission was to get the p
lans so that they did not fall into German hands. Now they were gone. But why? She’d been told exactly when they sold and how much for. This changes the timeline. No doubt about it. Things were different. Helen’s breath came faster as she aimlessly walked down the street. What did that mean that he had changed the timeline? Helen decided to go back again tomorrow, and the next day, every day until the plans were supposed to be sold, just in case he came back and they were sold after all.
But what if he didn’t? She had to find Roland Black. Find him and get the plans before he sold them to someone else. She had to go to that party tonight. Her stomach flip-flopped. There was only one person who could get her into that party. And he was going to be pissed.
His anger, weighed against millions of people’s lives, really isn’t very important.
Helen snapped out of her daze the moment the decision was made. Everything was still on the verge of disaster, but at least she had a plan for what to do next. She looked around her at the tiny cobblestoned streets and people selling things. Where the hell was she? She’d been so distracted when she left the auction house she hadn’t been paying any attention. Her gaze caught on a cartoon drawing of a woman carrying a parasol with several lords following along behind her.
Lots of shops had tabloid cartoons detailing what the rich got up to, making fun of them for one thing or another. Most people couldn’t read, so the only way to convey gossip or current events was in a drawing. But this one made Helen pause. The woman in the drawing wore an absurdly large wig, her bosom large and prominent enough to knock a man out. The look on her face was…knowing. Like the Victorian equivalent to slutty. But the strangest part of the picture, and what caught Helen’s attention was her gown.
All along the hem were symbols, the Wolfsangel, over and over again making a border. It looked like a Z put on its side, and Helen had seen it before; a symbol that the Third Reich had adopted for their own. Not as popular as the swastika, but prominent, as she’d seen it on uniforms and propaganda. Helen went into the apothecary, looking around and trying to act as if she were interested in herbs and medicines undoubtedly laced with arsenic and other toxic substances. The smell was overpowering, the dueling scents of spices and flowers making her want to sneeze. There was one man at the counter, and he was having an intense conversation in Italian with an old man. The proprietor turned around, giving her his back as he scanned his rows of bottles looking for something and Helen reached out, taking the cartoon down from the window and heading back out the door, walking quickly in case he noticed and came after her.
Great. She’d lost the plans, gained a weird cartoon, and her next stop was the devilishly handsome and undoubtedly very grumpy Duke. Or at least he would be grumpy once he saw her.