A wider road, more traffic. Horses, carriages, the smell of horse droppings, the rattle of steel-shod wheels and hooves. Not a car in sight. The man’s hand was tight on my upper arm as I swayed too close to the curb. Then we were across and into a cobbled yard. It was brighter and the stink of manure and drains and coal smoke diminished a little. He slid an arm around me supportively, then his hand encountered my left breast and he went very still.
‘You are a woman?’ His hand dropped away.
The last time I looked… For the first time in my life I fainted, although not, unfortunately, before I encountered yet another patch of unyielding cobbles.
Chapter Three
I came round on a firm, comfortable surface. Home, I thought, eyes closed, assessing the aches and pains from where I had hit the kitchen floor. What the hell had that been about?
And then it struck me – since when had home smelled of wood smoke and leather? A male voice said, ‘There is no blood, my lord, and the lady’s limbs appear unbroken. I hardly like to disturb her clothing, whatever it is she is wearing.’ Another strange accent. More normal, but still not right, somehow.
‘She said cashmere and it appears to be an oriental garment. Indian pyjamas, perhaps? She was very confused and seems to think that she should be in the twenty first century.’ That drawl was the swordsman, who was, presumably, my lord. Right, I thought, this is where I officially start panicking. If this isn’t a dream… But if it isn’t...
‘Was the lady hurt in the fight and did not realise it? A blow to the head perhaps? It sounds very like an ambush, my lord. They seem to have been far more violent than mere robbery would necessitate.’
‘I agree, this was targeted and they were skilful and determined. I was a few minutes behind Henshaw and he was weaving up that alleyway, alone, completely bosky and about as capable of defending himself as a new-born kitten. They let him go past and went for me.’
‘Could it be connected with the Cottingham business?’
‘Perhaps. Someone doesn’t like me interfering, it seems, although I am damned if I have discovered one useful thing so far.’
I had fainted, but how do you faint in a dream? Or had I dreamt fainting? I opened my eyes and stared in front of me. A panelled wall, a fire blazing in the grate, leather armchairs before the hearth and well-filled bookshelves in alcoves on either side. Elegant, masculine, comfortable. A stocky, middle aged man in breeches, shirt sleeves and waistcoat regarded me dubiously, grizzled head on one side, and behind him stood the man in the alleyway. The man in the portrait. What is this?
‘You are awake,’ the portrait-man observed. ‘To whom may I send to apprise them of your whereabouts, ma’am?’
‘I am hallucinating,’ I said firmly. My voice cracked, they both frowned. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘You are not real. You can’t be.’
‘I can assure you that we are entirely real, ma’am. If you will excuse the informality, I am Lucian Franklin. This is Garrick, my valet.’
‘He called you my lord.’ I sat up and my head swam for a moment. This was unlike any dream I had ever had. The situation was impossible, but everything had its own internal logic and order. Actions had consequences, time seemed to proceed forward in the normal manner, nothing bizarre had happened – if you discount the fact that I was lying on a sofa in Albany after an encounter with footpads and two strangers who insisted that this was 1807 were studying me as though I was something inexplicably exotic.
‘The Earl of Radcliffe, at your service, ma’am. Might I enquire your name and direction?’
‘Cassandra Lawrence. Miss,’ I added, suddenly aware that Ms was unlikely to be a recognised form of address in polite Georgian society. I am taking this seriously. It must be concussion. Which was worrying, because if I was out cold on my kitchen floor with a possible bleed on the brain, my chances of being found for at least twelve hours were not good. ‘Of Welhamstead in Hertfordshire.’
‘I will have a letter sent to your family immediately.’ The Earl moved from his position in front of the fireplace to a desk. ‘Which leaves us the problem of a chaperone until someone arrives.’
‘I do not need a chaperone,’ I said, with enough force to bring his head round. It was a very
admirably shaped head and the portrait had not flattered him. He was, if anything, more striking than that image showed. I had to give my imagination full marks for conjuring him up.
‘Of course you do, Miss Lawrence. You cannot stay here with two men who are unrelated to you, or go to an hotel unescorted.’
‘You are a figment of my imagination,’ I retorted. ‘I am in no danger from a figment.’ His eyebrows rose. This figment was not used to being contradicted. Don’t panic. Someone will come to the flat. Someone will find me…. But who? It’s the weekend, I was going to stay in, working.
‘I can assure you that I am very real, as is Garrick. I had not liked to open your reticule, Miss Lawrence, but as you appear to be exceedingly confused, I think I had better do so.’
My cross-body bag had survived all that falling and rolling about and was on the desk, I realised. Someone must have wiped it clean. Lord Radcliffe frowned over the clasp then opened it and took out my phone, holding it cautiously between long fingers. ‘What is this object? A card case? The material it is made from is unfamiliar.’
‘A mobile phone.’ A very smart, very new one. ‘A communications device. Let me show you.’ I reached for it and he got up and put it in my hand, his fingers just brushing my palm. Can you hallucinate with smell and colour and touch? ‘It works like this. Oh.’ No, it didn’t. But I had charged it only that morning. No, dead as a doornail, the screen unresponsive and black.
‘Perhaps being two hundred years adrift has damaged the mechanism,’ he drawled. There was just a touch of sarcasm. Then my bag slid off the desk. He caught it, but the contents cascaded across the rug in front of the fire, my wallet spilling coins and banknotes and credit cards amongst the crumpled tissues, the odds and ends of makeup, the comb, the tampons, card of aspirin, condoms, business cards…
The valet fell to his knees, gathering it up. He stared down at the handful of coins, then picked up a ten pound note with the other hand. ‘My lord. Look at these.’
‘What is this? Who is this?’
I blinked at the handfuls of cash. ‘Money. That is the Queen, Elizabeth II. And that’s Elizabeth Fry the prison reformer on the back of the five pound note. That’s a fiver as well, the new one with Winston Churchill.’