Kohl, Candice - A Twist in Time.txt Read online

door and gesturing Carla and Judy inside. Then, without

  advising her employer of their presence, she left.

  Judy blinked, feeling disconcerted. Outdoors, they’d

  seen a picturesque little cottage surrounded by bracken

  and climbing vines. Inside, they slammed headlong into

  twenty-first century technology supported by sleek,

  satiny black furniture, pearl gray carpet, and track

  lighting. Hard drives, monitors, printers, shredders and

  scanners hummed, beeped and buzzed. Keyboards and

  speakers, their cords dangling disconnected, were

  strewn helter-skelter, while CDs and floppies dotted

  nearly every flat surface, much like the leaves in the

  yard.

  “Be with you in a moment,” a masculine voice

  promised, drawing both Judy’s and Carla’s eyes to a

  figure hunched over a work station in the center of the

  room. Laycock promptly spun around in his ergonomic

  chair, and Judy felt a shock—not of recognition, but

  rather like deja vu.

  “Ms. Whittaker, I presume?” he inquired, coming to

  his feet and veering straight toward Carla. As he

  approached, Judy realized she couldn’t see the man’s

  eyes through his amber-tinted glasses. Yet the funky

  glasses seemed to go with the rest of his casual

  ensemble, consisting of a Cleveland Indians baseball

  cap, pulled low on his forehead, a Cambridge University

  sweatshirt, jeans, and Nike athletic shoes. Judy felt a

  bit alarmed when she found herself thinking that

  everything he wore fit rather nicely on a body that looked

  extremely well-muscled for a man who spent most of

  his time in front of a computer.

  Laycock did not suit her image of a viscount. Judy

  imagined viscounts to be skinny old men wearing tails

  and striped ascots.

  “I’m Carla Whittaker.” Carla shook Laycock’s hand.

  “I really appreciate this.”

  Turning to Judy, he asked, “You are the agent Mrs.

  Haversham mentioned?”

  He’s kind of short, but his presence looms large... “Yes,”

  she replied, stupefied by that wayward thought. “I’m with

  the Edwin Grant Agency, out of New York.” Reaching

  into her pocket, she retrieved a business card. “Judy

  Lambini. Ms. Judy Lambini.”

  Laycock took the card but not her hand. Instead, he

  walked past her, reaching for a pile of spreadsheets

  stacked in a nearby chair. Picking them up and

  dumping them on the floor, he indicated Carla should

  sit.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Judy. “I don’t seem to have

  any other chairs available.”

  She scowled. Perhaps nobility never had to consider

  the needs and comfort of others, so he didn’t realize he

  was being offensive. More likely, though, guessing his

  age by the hint of gray in Laycock’s dark sideburns, he

  had been locked away writing computer language for so

  darned long, he’d lost most of the social skills he’d

  learned in kindergarten.

  “No problem,” she insisted graciously. “I’ve been

  sitting in a cramped little car all day. It feels good to

  stand.”

  “As I was saying,” Carla continued, gingerly perching

  herself in the chair, “I’m really grateful to be here. But

  I don’t want to impose, so if I could, I’d love to see those

  documents, the ones from the Barons’ War, right away.”

  Laycock nodded. “The drafts of the concessions the

  barons eventually won from King John,” he said. “I

  brought them out in anticipation of your visit. They’re

  over there.” Without turning his head, he gestured to a

  long, shallow table under a high window.

  Glancing where he pointed, Judy saw what seemed

  to be a few framed pictures on top of it.

  “They’re encased in glass,” he explained, as if he’d

  read her thoughts. And when Judy looked back at him,

  she found he’d been studying her profile. That realization

  gave her a tingle—pleasant or unpleasant, she wasn’t

  quite sure.

  Carla shot to her feet and hurried over to the table.

  “My God! They’re so well-preserved!”

  “They’ve been very well cared for. And though I don’t

  mind you reading them, Ms. Whittaker, I must insist

  you do it here. I wouldn’t feel right letting them out of

  my sight.”

  “Oh, I understand,” Carla assured him breathlessly.

  Judy thought her friend sounded like a woman who’d

  just run into her first love and learned he’d never

  married. No wonder Carla had gone into writing

  biographies of dead people. She got off on reading nearly

  illegible old papers!

  The viscount wheeled the solitary spare chair over

  to Carla, who sat down again without looking, as though

  Laycock were a waiter seating her at a dining table.

  “Could you use some help?” Judy offered.

  “Oh, no.” Carla waved her hand and shook her head,

  still not looking up from the papers. “And don’t be mad,

  Judy, but I probably won’t be able to meet you for dinner.”

  “I’m not mad.” She wasn’t. But she did feel

  superfluous, and she didn’t much like the feeling.

  Lord Laycock gestured to the door. “Your room should

  be ready for you now, Ms. Lambini. Why don’t you make

  yourself comfortable there? I suspect you have work of

  your own to do. I understand literary agents work seven

  days a week.”

  “Who told you that?”

  He shrugged. “Just something I heard, I suppose.”

  It was true enough in Judy’s case, but she didn’t

  admit it. “Actually,” she said, “I’m here on vacation.”

  “Then a walk up to the ruins might be in order.”

  The last thing Judy wanted to do was walk around

  any old ruins. But she decided to take off while her

  dignity remained intact. “I’ll think about it,” she told

  his lordship. “‘Bye, Carla,” she added.

  Judy headed for the door and reached for the knob,

  but the viscount, who had kept pace with her, grabbed

  it at the same moment. Their hands touched, and Judy

  felt a searing jolt run up her fingers and tickle the length

  of her arm. She drew her hand away as though she’d

  been zapped with an electric current.

  “Excuse me,” he apologized, opening the door and

  glancing back toward his work station as though he

  regretted the minutes he’d spent away from it. Judy

  stepped outside, and he pushed the door closed after

  her without another word.

  “Well, that was rude,” she muttered aloud at the door.

  She didn’t know what bothered her more—Carla not

  needing her, the viscount’s shabby manners, or the fact

  that she felt an immediate attraction to him, despite

  his shabby manners.

  With a sigh, she trudged back across the barren

  garden, feeling an alien in an unfamiliar world.

  Two

  “Thank you for bringing all our bags up,” Judy said,

  wishing Ian MacCoombs hadn’t insisted.
<
br />   “It was my pleasure,” he returned, crossing the

  threshold to put both hers and Carla’s luggage down

  inside Judy’s room. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider

  joining me for a look at the Samhain bonfires tonight?”

  “No. I’m not much into Halloween.”

  “This has nothing to do with Halloween, but with all

  sorts of pagan beliefs, those both curious and mystical.

  One is that the curtain which separates our world from

  others, past and present, living and dead, lifts to let

  mortal and other beings pass through.” Ian grinned,

  apparently pleased when Judy shivered exaggeratedly.

  “I think not.” She grabbed the edge of her door, forcing

  Ian to back step into the hallway. “Thanks again,” she

  repeated before locking him out.

  Alone, she surveyed the room, which seemed to

  contain all the comforts of home except for a private

  bathroom or a telephone. Sighing at the inconvenience,

  she strolled to her bureau and gazed into the mirror.

  Pulling off her hat and ruffling her hair, Judy again

  confronted her muddy roots. “Okay, I’ll find a drugstore

  and buy some hair dye.” Her stylist could have a hissy

  fit, charge her a fortune, and repair the damage later.

  Quickly, she changed her clothes, replacing her

  smart, velvet and wool ensemble for black leggings and

  a powder blue tunic sweater. She also exchanged her

  pumps for ankle-high, flat-heeled boots. Then, grabbing

  her tote bag, Judy left the room and skipped down the

  steps. The dining area had filled up with guests hungry

  for an early evening meal, but the manager remained

  at her post.

  “Mrs. Haversham, is there a drugstore in town?”

  “A what?” The woman looked up from the plate of

  chicken and potatoes she was attempting to nibble

  discreetly. “Oh, you mean a chemist. Yes, dearie, there

  is. But the shop’s closed by this hour, and it’s closed

  Sundays as well. You’ll have to wait ’til Monday if you

  need to make a purchase there.”

  Judy hoped to be gone from Wixcomb by Monday.

  “There’s a table available if you’d like to have supper

  now.”

  She glanced at the dining area and spotted Ian

  MacCoombs seated alone. “No, thanks.” She shook her

  head. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You must be,” Mrs. Haversham insisted, holding

  up her plate. “Try a bite. It will whet your appetite.”

  The chicken did smell good. Judy hesitated only a

  few seconds before grabbing a drumstick off the plate.

  She took a dainty taste, swallowed, and admitted, “That

  is good. Barbecued?”

  “You Americans might say that. It’s roasted over an

  open hearth fire with a special combination of herbs.

  The recipe’s been in the viscount’s family forever, so

  he says.”

  Judy glanced again at Ian, who had his nose in a

  newspaper. “I may come down for a whole meal before

  the kitchen’s closed,” Judy announced. “Thanks for the

  taste,” she added before turning to head back upstairs.

  But a door opening onto a library caught her eye, so

  instead of veering left to the staircase, she veered right

  into the book-lined room.

  The collection couldn’t be the viscount’s, she

  decided, after glimpsing several of the titles. The subject

  matter stored without system on the sagging shelves

  appeared too eclectic. A book on America’s space

  program stood beside a volume of Burns’ poetry. An

  English language grammar text sat squeezed between

  a Stephen King novel and a history of the automobile.

  Surely the Englishman’s reading preferences leaned

  toward the technical. He had most likely inherited all

  these volumes, collected by his forebears according to

  their own whims and interests.

  Judy ditched her chicken bone in a wastepaper

  basket and finally headed upstairs, licking her fingers.

  When she entered her room again, tossing her tote on

  the bed, she wondered if she shouldn’t have borrowed a

  book from the library. She certainly had nothing much

  to do here without Carla to keep her company. Her eyes

  swept the room again—not even a “telly” so that she

  could catch a round of snooker on the BBC.

  I wonder if the viscount is keeping Carla company?

  Drawn to the window, Judy pulled back the curtains and

  gazed at the quaint cottage beyond the dormant garden.

  Dusk had settled, night was fast approaching, but the

  cottage windows glowed, beckoning little rectangles of

  warmth and light boldly piercing the gathering gloom.

  He’s not keeping her company, she decided. Carla was

  surely poring over the delicate old pages King John once

  held in his hands, and the viscount—Does he have a

  first name?— was certainly writing binary code, his

  guest—guests—completely forgotten.

  “Why is that rude, so-called nobleman on my mind?”

  Judy asked herself aloud. Then she remembered

  Laycock’s assumption that she had work to do, so she

  pulled her cell phone from her tote, called the office,

  and listened to her voice mail. It almost gave her a sense

  of satisfaction, knowing that bit of “work” would cost a

  fortune, but that she could expense it.

  When she returned her cell phone to her tote, it slid

  across her laptop case, which she also stored in the

  bag. Glimpsing her computer, it occurred to her she’d

  have more e-mail than she did voice mail. It would have

  been nice to plug in, log on, and download, but her boss

  would kill her if she used the cell phone for that purpose.

  Usually, hotels provided an extra jack for guests’

  computers. But here at Laycock Inn, she didn’t even

  have the convenience of a phone extension in her room.

  The pay phone on the staircase landing would not allow

  her to plug in her modem, and she would be damned

  before she’d intrude into Laycock’s lair again, even if

  he had a hundred phone jacks in his office!

  Disgruntled and bored, she pulled a sheaf of proposals

  from her suitcase. Turning on a pole lamp, she curled

  up in her overstuffed chair and skimmed the outlines

  and sample chapters submitted by writers hoping for

  representation. They all seemed bad until she realized

  she wasn’t even reading, but merely staring at the typed

  pages. Climbing out of her chair, she grabbed her daily

  planner from her tote and checked the hour on the

  digital time piece glued to the leatherette cover. It was

  nearly ten, London time.

  “Enough!” she announced, tossing the stack of

  unread pages onto her bureau before heading down to

  the lobby yet again.

  Because her stomach had begun voicing its

  displeasure at being neglected for so long, Judy hoped

  to find that the kitchen remained open. Obviously,

  though, it had closed. All the tables in the dining area

  were set with fresh linens, glasses and silverware. N
ot

  a single hotel guest—not even Ian—lingered at one,

  nursing a coffee or a glass of wine.

  It felt spooky, all this vacancy, especially considering

  how populated the inn had been earlier in the day. Carla

  remained conspicuously absent, and even Mrs.

  Haversham had deserted her post. Judy wondered if the

  town itself had rolled up its streets until the dawning of

  another day.

  “The bonfires!” she said aloud, recalling suddenly

  what Ian had told her. Everyone had no doubt gone to

  the bonfires, with the exception of Carla and Viscount

  Laycock, who could not be torn from their work.

  I may as well go, too. It will slay Carla that I saw the

  Samhain fires, and she totally missed them. It will also

  make her crazy having to draw every detail out of me so

  that she can have a clear picture of what she missed. Judy

  smiled at the thought as she let herself out the front

  door.

  Immediately, she spied the hillside fires. A trio of

  them burned on the gently rolling northern slopes, which

  meant she had a bit of a hike before her. Not just the

  hills themselves, but the trek across town first.

  Fortunately, Judy found herself with unexpected

  companionship, the viscount’s dogs, Duke and Duchess.

  “You want to escort me?” she inquired, finding them

  panting at her feet. They seemed willing, because even

  before she located a flashlight at the bottom of her tote,

  the hounds were dancing ahead, only pausing to turn

  back and gaze at her impatiently.

  It took Judy a good twenty minutes to make the

  journey to the nearest of the conflagrations. It surprised

  her a little that none of the Halloween celebrants

  appeared to be children. In the States, she believed,

  little kids would have made up most of the spectators.

  But here, they’d been left behind at home. Only adults

  and teenagers had gathered to sing and dance to the

  hauntingly eerie music some played on fiddles and

  flutes.

  Ian MacCoombs. Judy saw him among the crowd and

  quickly circumvented the first bonfire to head toward

  another farther along. This excursion was getting to be

  a bit more than she’d ever intended. But if she was going

  to be on her own tonight, she preferred truly being alone.

  Or at least, only in the company of a couple of spaniels,

  with whom she needn’t make polite chitchat.