But to think that the only reason he had done so was so he could take advantage of her …
She eyed the only exit, which now lay beyond two exquisitely garbed, noble-by-birth women. Andrea was looking at her with miserable pity. Irene only looked at her coolly, as if she had actually enjoyed the pain she’d inflicted.
Peaches pushed past them, between them, without comment. Irene’s laughter followed her from the bathroom and hung in the air until the closing of the door cut the thread.
She saw David standing at the end of the hallway and turned without thinking and walked the other way. Before she realized it, she was running, not walking. She had no idea where she was going, but away was good enough for the moment.
The only thing that struck her as odd as she fled out the door and down steps into the dark was how damned comfortable the shoes were she was wearing. Whatever else could be said about David Preston, it had to be said that the man knew how to pick out a pair of pumps.
Then again, perhaps he had done that sort of thing more than once.
She realized she had walked out onto the far end of the same porch she had been standing on earlier with David. She wasn’t sure if she were more embarrassed that she’d been taken for a ride by David Preston or that she’d been seen making a fool out of herself by Stephen de Piaget. She who never cared what people thought of her, who had spent the past five years of her life telling people not to take themselves too seriously and get their lives in order and center themselves so the storms that would inevitably blow around them wouldn’t touch them.
She started to cry, which was truly the final straw to an evening that had turned out to be less a fairy tale than a nightmare.
Damn it, she was going to ruin her makeup.
She heard a door open and saw more light spill out onto the porch, which propelled her forward.
The clock began to strike midnight.
She ran down the steps, grateful some enterprising soul had sanded them, and out into the garden that was remarkably free of snow and slush. She ran into what she quickly realized was a hedge maze. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, actually, because the shadows that the hedges made peeking in and out of the fog that seemed to have suddenly sprung up were very unsettling.
And it had gone from being very cold to bone-chillingly bitter.
She wasn’t sure when that had happened. Probably sometime about the same point where her desire to run away from everything that humiliated her had ebbed.
She came to a skidding halt, not for any more pressing reason than she had lost her shoe. She paused, then frowned. She hadn’t been counting, of course, but it was odd how quickly that clock had gone through its twelve strokes.
Wasn’t it?
And then Peaches realized something. She realized that particular something because she had a finely attuned woo-woo meter and the needle wasn’t pegged, it had spun so hard into the red that it had left the meter entirely. She would have bent to look for it—figuratively of course—but she didn’t dare.
Because she was standing on a time gate.
There was no point in examining why she knew that; she just did. It was rather surprising, however, to find such a thing loitering in the middle of David Preston’s hedgerow maze. She wondered if he lost many visitors to it, or if most people just walked right over it without noticing it. Maybe it only opened its wretched portals to those who knew what to look for.
Maybe she was losing it and needed a brisk slap.
Well, she would deliver that to herself just as soon as she saw to business first, which was to hop off that particular spot of ground without delay.
Unfortunately, she had the distinct feeling her hopping had gone awry.
“Oooh, ’tis a faery!”
“Nay, a witch!”
“The queen o’ the damned—”
Peaches turned around with a witty retort on her lips. After all, there was no sense in letting Kenneworth House’s servants think they could get mouthy with one of the guests. She was just sure Irene wouldn’t approve, and then the trio of servants who had commented on her sorry self would find themselves out … of … jobs … She looked up, then felt her mouth fall open.
The house was gone. All right, she would call it what it was. The bloody palace was gone. In its place was a hut. Well, it wasn’t exactly a hut. If she’d been out in the Middle Ages looking for a quaint little place to crash in for the night, she would have found it perfectly acceptable. But when compared to the splendor that had been Kenneworth House, this was something else entirely.
It was a hovel.
And the unkempt, barely intelligible men standing in a little semicircle facing her were not wearing the standard uniform of David’s footmen.
She made a very quick list of her options. She could scream, which was tempting; she could faint, which was even more tempting; or she could run. She considered the last, only she wasn’t quite sure where she would run to. She backed up onto the gate and hopped up and down a time or two.
Nothing.
She swore, because it seemed like the right thing to do. She was left with her third resort, which was to run. Surely she would find another gate somewhere in the area. After all, England and Scotland were hotbeds of paranormal activity, especially of the specterish kind. And who could blame a shade? The climate was unreasonably lovely, what with all that rain and cloudiness and lovely winds caressing the trees.
Or perhaps they stayed for the history. There were castle stairs to come thumping down, old enemies to continue to vanquish, king and country to defend—as well as any number of lesser territories and families to uphold the honor of.
Then again, it might have been, she had to concede, continued irritation about the food. She was all for a lovely bed-and-breakfast or well-appointed hotel, but she had had the worst meals of her life in London.
She realized that the moon, which she hadn’t noticed before, had come out in time to reveal her companions carrying a pointy thing each. She revisited the idea of running, but she only had one shoe left. Maybe the gate had rested long enough and would now carry her back to where she was supposed to be. She put aside her antipathy for everyone and everything at the future Kenneworth House and jumped forward onto the time gate.
She looked up, but no joy.
She decided that perhaps she just hadn’t been firm enough, so she jumped a few more times. Her trio of companions seemed to find the sight rather alarming because they backed away, crossing themselves, spitting over their shoulders, and making all kinds of other hand motions she didn’t recognize but imagined she wouldn’t care to know the meaning of.
It took a while, but she eventually got tired of jumping. It wasn’t that she wasn’t in decent shape, it was just that she was in one high heel and a fancy ball gown, and she was slightly stressed.
She finally stopped and leaned over with her hands on her knees to try to catch her breath.
And that was the last thing she knew before blackness descended.
Chapter 12
Stephen stood in the middle of the ballroom and fidgeted. It wasn’t that he was anxious to find someone to dance with, or that he was eager to go upstairs and take off his shoes that were pinching him with unusual vigor, or that he had watched Irene Preston and her cousin Andrea come back inside the ballroom in a suspicious manner.
He simply had the feeling something was wrong.
He walked out of the middle of the midnight revelers and positioned himself on the edge of the crowd so he could see who was there and what they were doing. He hadn’t taken perfect note of who was in the party, but it hadn’t been overly large, so he thought he could make a fair guess as to who was there and who was missing. Peaches Alexander was nowhere to be seen.
And for some reason, that made him very uneasy.
If David Preston had had his way, Peaches would have been right there with him, being pursued by him until she had given up and given in.
But she wasn’t with him.
&nbs
p; He knew David hadn’t done anything to offend her only because he’d been watching the man for the past twenty minutes, since that moment when he had fortuitously stumbled out onto the porch and interrupted what he was certain would have been one of the worst attempts at romance perpetrated in at least a century.
But there were several women Stephen could bring to mind who would have been about mischief without thinking.
He watched as Irene Preston crossed the room and stopped in front of him. She seemed to expect deference, so he was happy to give it. Anything to find out what he wanted to know.
He inclined his head. “A lovely evening, isn’t it, my lady?”
“Very, my lord.”
“We seem to be missing one of the guests,” Stephen said politely. “Miss Alexander.”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“Haven’t you?”
Irene seemed to be calculating something, but honesty apparently wasn’t part of the equation. “Earlier, of course, but not recently.”
Stephen looked at Andrea, who was standing five feet away, squirming. Well, those were obviously richer pastures, so he focused his attentions on her without hesitation.
“And you, Lady Andrea? Have you seen Miss Alexander?”
“How interested you are in a guest you didn’t invite, Haulton,” Irene said with a brittle laugh. “I imagine David can take care of her without any help from you.”
“She was in the loo,” Andrea said, then shut her mouth at the murderous look Irene threw her.
Stephen sent Andrea a look of thanks, then turned back to Irene. He inclined his head slightly. “I imagine David can take care of her perfectly well. I was only expressing a mild curiosity, nothing more. Perhaps you would care for something to drink, Lady Irene? Punch?”
Irene dragged her fingers down her throat in a gesture that was profoundly unsettling. “I do find that I’m parched. Andrea, go fetch us something.”
“Allow me,” Stephen said, then he turned to walk away before she could say anything else.
“Hurry,” Irene called after him imperiously. “I am not finished with dancing for the evening.”
Stephen couldn’t have cared less what she was and was not finished with for the evening. He walked along the edge of the company, making his way toward the refreshments. He found a liveried servant there and sent the man on a mission of mercy to keep Irene from dying of thirst. Duty done.
He managed to escape being caught by his trio of dukes’ daughters only because some enterprising soul had announced the opening of very expensive champagne. He wasn’t entirely sure that hadn’t been the lady Raphaela’s doing, and he was grateful for it.
He left the ballroom and looked for the nearest loo. Once that was identified, he looked at the various possible escape routes. If Peaches had been caught by Irene and her hapless disciple Andrea, then managed to escape the loo, where would she have gone? He considered for a moment or two, then followed his gut and chose the one that most expediently led away from the ballroom. He couldn’t say he was much for hunches unless they led him to obscure historical details or alerted him to Patrick MacLeod standing behind him ready to clout him over the head with the hilt of a sword, but he had a feeling about the direction he was taking.
He walked out onto the patio, then stopped. He supposed Peaches could have taken any direction from there, either back into the house or toward the garages and stables, or even farther out into the garden. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared up at the sky, wondering just what had happened since he’d seen her last.
He’d watched her leave the ballroom and assumed she was going to freshen up. He had also watched Irene and Andrea leave after her, though he hadn’t imagined they’d been following her.
Now, he wasn’t so sure.
It was possible, he supposed, that Irene had said something unpleasant to her. Andrea’s guilty shifting was proof enough of that. But what would Peaches have done then? If she’d had any sense, she would have run back to her room, but perhaps she’d decided that taking a bit of air made more sense.
He looked down and wished absently for servants who were less diligent in keeping the walks free of snow and ice so he might have seen some footsteps.
He made a decision, then strode out into the garden, wishing the moon hadn’t been obscured by clouds or that he’d had the good sense to bring a torch with him. There was a mini light on his keychain, but his keys were back in his bedroom being guarded ferociously by a romance-reading Humphreys. He would simply have to make do with less-than-adequate conditions.
He walked into the hedgerow maze, following it aimlessly until his eyes were adjusted to the darkness. He looked down, but there was nothing in the snow that spoke particularly to Peaches having traveled there recently. The entire bloody path was full of footsteps.
He continued to walk, shivering in spite of himself, until he had reached the center and could walk no farther. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he realized what lay one stride in front of him.
A time gate.
And next to it a single, elegant pump adorned with enough crystals to make it seem as if it were fashioned from glass.
He rubbed his face with two hands and indulged in an obscenity or two. Where had his calm, peaceful, unremarkable existence gone? Where were the days when the only specter he encountered was the odd ghost blowing down the back of his neck near the card catalog in the library? Why was it his generation that had been doomed to find itself facing all kinds of paranormal activity that his ancestors had managed to avoid?
He reached over and picked up the shoe—
“Trouble, Stephen?”
Stephen spun around, startled in spite of himself. Fortunately he had the good sense to keep the shoe fully hidden behind his back. “Lost my keys,” he said blandly.
“Why would your keys find themselves out here?” David asked. “Seems an unlikely place for them.”
“You know,” Stephen said, stepping away from the time gate and leaving it safely behind him, “a garden is an unlikely place for many things, especially in the winter. I wonder that you brought Miss Alexander out in it given the chill.”
“It was only to the porch and it wasn’t for long,” David drawled. “It would have been longer, of course, if we hadn’t been so unpleasantly interrupted.”
“Bad luck, old man,” Stephen said with a shrug. “I’m sure you’ll be more successful the next time.”
“Exactly my plan,” David said, looking at him with glittering eyes, “which is why I’m here. Did you bring Peachy out here?”
“No, I merely came myself for a bit of air.”
“I thought you were looking for your keys.”
“That, too,” Stephen agreed. He smiled pleasantly. “Is there more supper inside, or is the party over?”
“I’m sure there’s something left,” David said shortly, “though perhaps less than if you hadn’t been at table.”
“I had many women to satisfy,” Stephen said, shrugging. “Have to keep up the strength, of course.”
David shot him a look of disgust, turned, and strode back to the house. Stephen followed him, slipping the shoe into the inside pocket of his jacket only because he didn’t want David having any clue what he’d discovered. Of all things to find in Kenneworth’s garden—a time gate?
He wondered if Peaches had known what she was stepping on, or if she had stepped on it, been carried off to points unknown, then realized her dilemma. She had as much experience with actually battling the insides of one as he did—which was exactly none.
He walked calmly after the Duke of Kenneworth, though he was having to fight the urge to run. He had absolutely no idea what to do short of simply jumping on the same spot Peaches had and hoping it would take him to the same place.
If it didn’t, however, they were both lost.
“Coming back to the trough,” Kenneworth asked, pausing just outside the doors to the ballroom, “or are you going straight to the kit
chen to help yourself to the cooking sherry?”
“The latter, assuredly,” Stephen said. He made Kenneworth a bow, then straightened. “If His Grace will excuse me?”
He waited until David had glared at him and stalked off inside before he turned and walked quickly to the door he’d come out of. He was going to go after Peaches, obviously, but there were things he had to put into place before he could. Such as, for instance, figuring out how the hell he was going to find her, then trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he was dealing with something as far-fetched as time traveling.
Perhaps he would do well to thumb through Lady Elizabeth MacLeod’s latest offering to see how things truly worked.
He shook his head as he walked quickly down the hallway. The things he had seen in the past several years … they would have turned his father gray overnight. Actually, those things had given his father gray hairs, especially those five lads and wee girl belonging to the Earl of Seakirk, who could have almost passed for Gideon’s twin. And while Kendrick of Seakirk could have told him quite a few interesting tales, those weren’t the details he needed. There was only one man belonging to his immediate—er, well, rather less than immediate, but certainly extended—family who could help him.
He ran up the steps to the upper floor and straight into a gaggle of noblewomen.
“Stephen!” was the word he was greeted with, spoken with various tones of reproach and disappointment.
He smiled pleasantly. “Zoe, Brittani, and Victoria, how lovely. Must dash, girls. Perhaps breakfast?”
Spluttering ensued. He made his escape rather daringly by hurrying straight through them and continuing on to his room before they could do anything more than express their disappointment in measured, ladylike tones.
He shut the door, locked it, then faced the first hurdle: Humphreys, who was apparently keeping himself awake by indulging in a good book.
Stephen quickly considered his present state of affairs. He had been taken over by Winston Humphreys upon his entrance to Eton in his thirteenth year. Stephen had looked on him as a second father of sorts, learned all manner of lessons from him ranging from how to properly tie a tie to how to pick a winner at any number of tracks running any number of horses. Along the way, Stephen had also found himself adopting Humphreys’s strict moral code, his love of promptness and good manners, and his uncanny ability to smell a rat.