August. I remember the name. I’d never met him, of course, but he’d been a good friend of William’s, whose family’s estate was nearby.
August continues, “You don’t even allow your housekeeper to live in.”
“No, I permit Mrs. Shaw to live out where she can enjoy her grandchildren. In future, August, please announce your intentions to visit and do not sneak in with my solicitor like a stray cat slipping through an open door. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have had Mrs. Shaw prepare a room.”
“No, you’d have told me to stay in London.”
“Only because, lately, your visits transform you into a fishwife, haranguing me to return to a society that no longer cares to have me. And before you accuse me of sulking, let me clarify that I am perfectly happy for the excuse. Being a social pariah only gives me justification to live as I wish.”
“You are not a social pariah. Yes, there are the blasted rumors, but no one of good breeding believes those.”
Silence.
August comes back, his voice strained. “All right, yes, not as many invitations may land on your doorstep as once did, but it’s been years. Whatever tar they brushed on your reputation, it’s faded to an intriguing lacquer of mystery and scandal. The well-born ladies will fight like gaming dogs to get you to their balls.”
“Yes, that’s what I long to be: a scandalous addition to their party list. My word, Lady Grayson, did you say Lord Thorne is coming Tuesday night? Lord William Thorne? How delightfully wicked of you to invite him.”
August sighs. “Forget balls and dinners. Come to town for some fun. How long has it been since you visited a gaming hall? A brothel?”
“When did I ever visit a brothel?”
August chuckles. “True, you never needed to. The ladies do love a mysterious lord, particularly one with a past as dark and danger—” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, William. That went too far. You know I pay no heed to those ridiculous rumors. No one who knows you does.” A sound, as if August is shifting in his seat. “No brothels, then. Why don’t we get you a wife. You’re well overdue for that.”
“Too overdue, sadly. I’m past my prime, and so with deep regret, I have removed myself from the pool of eligible bachelors.”
August snorts. “Nice try, old boy. You are prime marriage material. Wealthy as an earl. In as fine a physical condition as you were at twenty, the one advantage to locking yourself up here with the fresh country air. And you’re not unattractive.”
“Thank you,” William says dryly.
“There’s a little too much of the dark and brooding about you, but the young ladies today have all read Wuthering Heights. They’ll positively devour a mysterious lord who lives in the moors, pining for—”
“Dear God, yes, that is exactly what I want. A silly chit who mistakes me for a sadistic, obsessive fictional lout. Please, send a dozen on the next train.”
I choke on a laugh. It echoes through the stairwell, and I slap a hand over my mouth as the parlor goes silent below.
“Don’t tell me you still have that bloody feline,” August says. “Blasted thing nearly ripped my arm off last time I visited.”
“Pandora is an excellent watch cat. Perhaps I can send you home with a kitten or four?” William pauses. “No, it’d be three, I’m afraid. She seems to have mislaid one.”
August makes some retort, but I don’t hear it.
She seems to have mislaid one.
I look behind me. The meow I’d heard came from there. I tiptoe and peer along the hall. There’s only one open door. The master bedroom.
I creep to it. The door’s only open a crack. I push as gently as I can, braced for the screech of hinges. The door swings open soundlessly, and a calico cat pops her head up from her box. Green eyes fix on mine, and she rises, fur bristling.
A peep. Then a tiny meow. Three sleepy kittens’ heads rise to see what’s the fuss.
Three kittens, two black and one orange, all of them the same size as Enigma.
She seems to have mislaid one.
Pandora stands with her back arched, tail bristled.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m not going to—”
She zooms from the box, a blur of orange fur, yowling as if her tail’s on fire.
In the distance, I hear August say, “Your cat doesn’t appreciate you offering up her babes, William.”
I frantically wave the cat to silence. She yowls and hisses louder.
“Excuse me,” William says. “I believe Pandora has found her missing kitten, trapped in a hole or some such predicament. The bloody thing is always getting into trouble, wandering off and needing rescue.”
Footsteps sound below.
August calls, “I think it’s perfectly charming that you’re so devoted to your kitties, William, but might I suggest young ladies may not feel the same? Get yourself a big hound dog or something far more befitting your status as a mysterious man of the moors.”
William calls back, “Draw me up a list of everything you’re certain eligible society ladies would not find suitably attractive in a man’s home, and I shall fill mine with them forthwith.”
I smile at that. Then I realize William is coming up the stairs, and I’m standing in the hall. The nearest door is shut. It’s the bath. I ease it open as quickly as I can, but when I push, it squeals, and I barely get through before William’s footsteps crest the stairs.
I’m inside the bathroom, but the door’s open, exposing me, and I don’t dare shut it. I press myself against the wall, and he walks past, his gaze on the hissing cat.
“Please tell me you found that damnable kitten of yours, Pan. Your little doppelgänger, that one, no end of trouble.”
Pandora keeps hissing, her gaze firmly fixed on me. I wave, as if I can distract her.
“What’s—?” William says as he turns. Then he sees me.
“I—I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to disturb her. I think one of her kittens came through . . .” I trail off.
He’s staring at me. Not staring in shock. Certainly not in delight. After a moment of surprise, his jaw sets, face darkening, blue eyes icing over. Then he turns on his heel, abruptly putting his back to me.
“William. Please.” I grasp his upper arm as he walks away. “I just want to—”
He wheels sharply, jerking his arm away. The moment we break contact, the hall stutters, and I stumble back, landing on the floor, looking up at . . .
Nothing.
William is gone, and I’m sitting on the floor of my own bathroom.
5
I pick myself up off the bathroom floor as Enigma yowls from my bedroom, furious that I tricked her into thinking I was napping alongside her, and then, boom, I snuck out and closed the door, trapping her in there like a toddler at nap time.
As for how I got on this side of the closed door, the obvious answer is sleepwalking. I’m not known for doing that, but it’s certainly more plausible than “I stepped through a time portal into Victorian Thorne Manor.” And if part of me longs to jump to that implausible conclusion, well, I can’t allow it. This one makes perfect sense. I lay down for a nap, dreamed of William and walked from my room, waking when I stumbled and fell.