Munroe’s mouth curved in a knowing smile. “He is indeed a natural philosopher. I can attest that His Grace’s laboratory at Aldridge Castle is one of the most impressive I’ve ever seen. I agree with you that this is something that would intrigue him.”
“Aye,” Sam said slowly, his mind already churning with the possibilities.
“Mayhap you ought to send a messenger to Aldridge Castle, Mr. Kelly. At least to inquire about his Grace’s interest in this matter.” The doctor’s hand dipped beneath the apron, and he fished out his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket, studying its face. “A fast messenger ought to be there in two hours, maybe sooner. It would depend on the condition of the roads, I suppose. We could receive a response from the Duke by early afternoon. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if His Grace himself ventured to London immediately . . . along with his lovely ward.”
Sam exchanged a glance with Munroe and grinned. “I wouldn’t turn her away.” He hesitated, his gaze becoming thoughtful. “You know, His Grace’s participation would be helpful for another reason. Sir Giles belonged ter his circle.” He didn’t have to remind the doctor that a lowly Bow Street Runner such as himself had limited access to his betters in the Beau Monde, even when investigating a murder.
“Yes,” Munroe agreed. “His Grace would be extremely helpful in this matter. I know a fast rider.”
The Bow Street Runner’s gaze drifted back to the cadaver. Even as he watched, the symbols were beginning to fade. One by one, the marks disappeared as mysteriously as they had appeared across the dead man’s cold flesh. Sam had to fight the shudder that suddenly seized him.
“Aye,” he whispered. “The faster the better, I think.”
3
Kendra Donovan’s gaze followed the Boeing 747 as it angled to the side, white wings against a brilliant blue sky, circling around and around in a graceful glide. Lower. Lower still . . .
Then it flapped its wings.
Kendra blinked as the plane was transformed into a bird—a seagull or an egret, she couldn’t be sure—riding the air current in a descending spiral until it disappeared behind the frost-covered trees.
Kendra slowly released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She wasn’t delusional, but there were moments when her imagination transported her back into the past—her past—which was actually two hundred years into the future. And isn’t that a kick in the ass?
She’d been living in the early 19th century for six months now. She’d watched the leaves of England’s trees change from the late summer greens to the rich rubies and flamboyant oranges of autumn before falling to the earth, where they shriveled into rusty browns. She’d watched the snow drift down to blanket those same leaves, and ice etch itself into the corners of windowpanes. A little over a month ago, with varying degrees of emotion, she’d listened to the clock strike midnight, and mentally flipped the calendar to 1816.
New year. New life.
Outwardly, she was adapting. Her dark hair had grown out from its blunt-cut bob, now long enough for her maid, Molly, to easily style into the trendy hairstyles of the era: simple topknots with wispy tendrils or more elaborate braids and bouffant curls. She could use a tinderbox in less than three minutes—which was still two-and-a-half minutes longer than anyone else here. But for someone who’d spent her life pressing buttons to light up rooms, she considered creating fire by striking a piece of flint against a metal container stuffed with scraggly bits of linen fibers and jute to be a hell of an accomplishment.
She’d learned to play whist. What else was there to do here in the evenings without internet or TV? She was even learning to dance—quadrilles, minuets, and reels—and was shocked to discover that it was more enjoyable than she’d ever imagined.
There hadn’t been dancing in her childhood. It was too frivolous. Her parents, Dr. Eleanor Jahnke, a quantum physicist, and Dr. Carl Donovan, a biogenetic engineer focusing on genome research, were fervent supporters of positive eugenics. Her very existence could be attributed to their almost evangelical desire to demonstrate to the world that society would be vastly improved if genetically gifted individuals would marry and procreate. Not that they’d left their experiment entirely up to the whims of nature. Her childhood had been a ruthless regime of tutoring and testing. While other preschoolers were scribbling outside the lines with a choice of 120 Crayola hues, she’d been given a No. 2 pencil to carefully fill in the circles on the latest aptitude test.
Kendra shivered, though whether from the memory of her bleak childhood or the fact that she was standing outside in a temperature cold enough to frost the trees in early February, she couldn’t be sure. She pulled her fur-lined pelisse closer to her throat, her gaze drifting to Aldridge Castle, spread out below from the sloping hillside upon which she stood. The ancient fortress, with its craggy gray stone, central tower, and castellated chimneys, was her one constant in time, looking exactly the same today as it had when she’d first seen it in the 21st century.
She’d been a special agent for the FBI then. Or, rather, she’d been a special agent who’d gone rogue. At the time, she had known she was making a decision that would change her life. She’d planned on being forever on the run, in hiding. She’d been prepared for that. But not this. How could she ever have envisioned this?
Another shiver raced down her arms. Life could change in an instant, forever dividing it into before and after.
Before she’d gone rogue, she’d been the youngest person accepted into the FBI. The Bureau had put her in cybercrime to take advantage of her computer skills; her own ambition had propelled her into the Behavioral Analysis Unit to work as a profiler. Her career had been on the fast track. Then she’d been loaned out to a terrorist task force.
Before and after.
On that last, disastrous mission, she’d nearly died. And she’d been one of the lucky ones. Beneath her pelisse and dove-gray velvet walking dress, the cotton chemise, petticoat, and stays, her scars seemed to throb at the memory.
If she could go back—forward?—in time, would she do anything different? The question haunted her. God help her, she’d made the decision to flout the FBI’s edict and go after Sir Jeremy Green, the man responsible for getting half her team killed. He’d died, but not at her hand. Instead, she’d fled the assassin who’d killed Sir Jeremy, running into the hidden stairwell in the study of Aldridge Castle.
Christ, if she lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget what happened next: the plunging temperature, the dizziness, the sensation of being shredded, shattered. A vortex or wormhole. That was the only explanation she could come up with for suddenly finding herself in the early 19th century.
A movement in the distance caught her eye, and she shifted her gaze to the three horseback riders coming out of the dark woods, trotting into the snowy parkland. They were too far away to distinguish their features, but Kendra knew their identities: Albert Rutherford, the seventh Duke of Aldridge; his nephew, Alexander Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe; and his goddaughter, Lady Rebecca Blackburn. The trio urged their horses across the parkland at a brisk canter.
In the 21st century, Kendra had always viewed herself as an outsider, a freak. First, her odd childhood. Later, she’d been a fourteen-year-old at Princeton, out of step with the older college students. At the Bureau, she’d had colleagues, and outside work, she’d formed a few romantic relationships, but they’d never survived the demands of her career. She couldn’t say that she’d had any deep friendships. How odd to have that change in this era. There was no denying the deep affection she felt for the Duke of Aldridge or the bond she’d formed with Rebecca. And Alec . . . God, she’d actually fallen in love with him.