Gina Lamm Read online

  “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are what they were last April, please tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged.” Mr. Darcy’s eyes melted Leah from the TV screen, that beautiful deep voice rumbling through her bruised heart. “But one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”

  Leah mouthed the reply with Elizabeth Bennet. “I am ashamed to remember what I said then. My feelings are so different. In fact, they are quite the opposite.”

  Baron whined again and pawed at Leah’s hand, shaking the tortilla chip free. He snatched up the forbidden snack and trotted happily to his bed beside a large mirrored bureau. Crumpling the chip bag closed, Leah tossed it on the side table atop her MacBook and lost herself in her favorite movie for a few more minutes.

  She sniffed and wiped away her tears at the sight of Mr. Darcy kissing his new bride as they rode away in the carriage. Why wasn’t life really like that? Modern guys—well, the ones she’d dated anyway—wouldn’t know chivalry if it bit them on the ass.

  The power button clicked beneath her finger and the TV went silent. Baron yawned and stretched, then trotted toward the kitchen, leaving Leah alone with nothing but her contemplation and half a bag of chips. A warm tugging began in her chest, a feeling she couldn’t place at all. She glanced over at the bureau.

  Jamie had traveled through that mirror. It was some kind of time portal, Leah knew. It stood silently—tall, gleaming, with an almost otherworldly allure. Her Converses hit the floor with a soft thump, and before she knew what was happening, she stepped toward the antique bureau.

  The mirror’s gilt edge gleamed at her, beckoning her onward. She couldn’t keep herself from reaching toward the glass, and she couldn’t stop her fingers from dipping into the mirror as if it were the cool waters of a pond.

  Her mouth fell open in wonder. She pushed farther, relishing the tingling feeling that ran through her fingers and palm. This was insane. She should be scared. Lord knew what time period this mirror might dump her in. She should be screaming for help. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t. She smiled and pushed her arm through up to the elbow.

  Excitement thrummed through her. Jamie had met her true love—an earl!—after a trip through the mirror. Leah bit her lip as the pulling grew stronger. Her shoulder was nearly through now.

  A soft whine interrupted her, and reality cracked her on the skull. What the hell was she doing?

  “Oh shit,” Leah said, yanking backward. “Baron, wait! I can’t…I’m stuck, I’m—”

  Something pushed her from the other side of the glass, and Leah popped free. She staggered backward, landing on the couch with a thump.

  “Oh good heavens, Baron, do get out of the way, or I shall tread on you.”

  Leah bolted upright with a screech. Scrambling over the edge of the couch, she darted for the baseball bat she knew Jamie kept in the coat closet. Her heart thumped wildly as she brandished the Louisville Slugger at the intruder.

  “Who are you? How’d you get in here?”

  The bat clattered to the floor when Leah’s brain finally clicked with what she was seeing. A short, rotund woman was climbing out of the bureau mirror—out of the mirror Leah had just tried to dive through. Whoops.

  “What the hell?” Leah’s knees gave way with shock. She clutched the edge of the sofa for stability as the woman’s feet hit the floor and she straightened her skirts. What was going on here?

  “Language, dear,” the little woman admonished her with a motherly smile. She was dressed in a dark gown made of rough wool. Her grayish hair was done in a severe pulled-back style, not a wisp out of place. Her round face held laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, giving her a pleasant expression. Her simple dress and hairstyle were appropriate for a high-ranking servant of the nineteenth century. Only one person Leah had ever heard of fit the description.

  “Are you—” Leah stopped, swallowing the knot of confusion that swelled in her throat.

  “Pardon. I am Mrs. Knightsbridge.” The woman bobbed a curtsy. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  Leah’s heart pounded so hard she was sure it would leap straight out of her chest. “Leah. Leah Ramsey. I’m Jamie’s friend.”

  “Oh, my dear Miss Ramsey. Miss Jamie told me so much about you.” The little lady patted Baron on the head as he lapped her hand. “What a pleasure this is at last. I would dearly love to see Miss Jamie, and his lordship, of course. Are they at home?”

  “I’m sorry,” Leah said, shuffling from foot to foot. For all her theatre history and costume knowledge, she was a little light on time-traveling-visitor etiquette. “They got married two days ago. They’re on their honeymoon.”

  Mrs. Knightsbridge clucked her tongue and sighed. “Oh goodness, what a bother. I have arrived too late for the nuptials. These time shifts are becoming so unreliable.” She shook her head. “There is no hope for it. I shall have to go back and attempt to time my arrival more appropriately.” The little woman stepped toward the bureau again.

  “No, Mrs. Knightsbridge, wait!” Leah jumped forward and grabbed the woman by the elbow. “Please, just a minute.”

  “Yes?”

  Leah swallowed hard. The words came of their own volition, and she couldn’t stop their complete rush. “I need to ask you something.”

  Mrs. Knightsbridge arched a brow in a knowing manner but waited for Leah to continue.

  “It’s my grandfather. I’m worried about him. He started talking yesterday about dying.” Leah ran her nails along her jeans, the rough edge of her thumbnail picking at the cotton. “I know you’ve got powers. Jamie told me. Is something going to happen to him? Is he sick and not telling me?”

  “Why ask me, dear?” Mrs. Knightsbridge laid a hand atop Leah’s.

  “Because I know you see things. The scrying. That’s how you found Jamie, right? Can’t you tell if something’s wrong with Pawpaw?”

  Mrs. Knightsbridge shook her head, and Leah’s hopes slipped through the floor.

  “I do not have what I require for that, my dear. But”—she smiled conspiratorially—“I can assist you in the same manner I assisted Miss Jamie.”

  Her hopes leaped through the floorboards and lodged straight in her chest, making her heartbeat a ragged thump. “Really? You can send me to another time and place?”

  “Of course,” the housekeeper said.

  Leah jammed her hands in her pockets to keep them steady. She was almost vibrating, she was so excited. Go back in time? To when the gentlemen knew how to treat a lady, to when class was something everyone aspired to? She could find someone there, someone who appreciated her. Someone her grandfather would approve of. Someone who wouldn’t dick her over like Kevin had. And with time travel, she could be back before anyone knew she’d gone.

  She grinned. “Let’s do it.”

  Besides, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to visit Regency England? Not this girl.

  Three

  The scuff simply refused to budge from the duke’s favorite Hessians. Avery Russell sighed and resumed polishing the expensive leather boots. His Grace would be quite put out if these weren’t presentable in time for the next morning’s calls.

  “Russell, are you about? I must speak with you.”

  Avery didn’t look up from his work at the butler’s supercilious tone. “I am here, Mr. Smythe.”

  The butler stepped into the dressing room and shut the door behind him. “Mrs. Harper has dismissed Fannie, the underhousemaid. Until a suitable replacement can be found, you shall attend to the sweeping up and tidying of His Grace’s chambers.”

  Avery refused to raise his gaze from the boot. He bit his bottom lip to keep in the retort that first sprang to mind. Smythe could take that sweeping and shove it up his— “Are there not more than enough maids to attend to that? I have many other duties.” In any other household, a valet would never be found doing the maid’s work. But ever since Avery had come into the duke’s household, Smythe had tried him to no end. />
  “The maids cannot be spared from their responsibilities,” Smythe replied. “Mrs. Harper has divided the rest of Fannie’s work amongst them. You shall attend to this, or I shall see to it that you are dismissed from His Grace’s service.”

  The threat in Smythe’s tone was clear. Avery set his jaw and swallowed his response. He had to mind his place. This position was much less hazardous to his well-being than his previous employment had been. The Duke of Granville had pressed the bounds of propriety in even hiring Avery for such a high position, and the rest of the servants knew it. Smythe was the biggest voice of dissent. Avery adjusted the boot before finally glancing up. “So be it.”

  Smythe nodded, looking down his nose at Avery, his forehead wrinkled—whether in frustration or in sheer dislike, Avery couldn’t say. He’d simply have to continue doing his best to please the duke and hope that the servants fell into line. But after nearly a year as the duke’s valet without change, his hopes were fading.

  “I shall leave you to it then. Have a care with the grates, Russell. Though you have but come to service lately, your actions reflect upon this whole house. I will not allow our reputation to be blemished.”

  Without another word, Smythe turned and left the room. Avery resisted the impulse to curse beneath his breath. It would serve no purpose, none at all.

  The door opened again. “Russell, His Grace’s new bureau has arrived. Though I should like to direct the placement of it myself, a matter has arisen in the kitchens that must be dealt with. You shall have to do.” Smythe disappeared again and was quickly replaced by the grunts and groans of the men as they strained under the furniture’s weight.

  Frustration tightening his jaw, Avery left the boots and entered the bedchamber with quick strides. If the workmen left a smudge on any of His Grace’s things, Smythe would be sure to blame Avery. Damn and blast. Perhaps he should have remained in the boxing mills after all.

  “Mind the doorway, lads,” Avery said as he lifted the corner of the bureau that was drifting dangerously close to the polished floors. “Steady. Place it just here.”

  All four men blew heavy breaths of relief as their burden descended to the corner of the Aubusson carpet in the duke’s massive bedchamber. Avery straightened his simple black waistcoat as he stood.

  “Well done. Please, make your way down to the kitchens. I am sure that Cook can spare you a cup of tea.”

  With muttering thanks and doffing caps, the workmen departed, closing the chamber door behind them.

  Avery eyed the bureau. A fine Chippendale piece, it had previously belonged to the Earl of Dunnington. After apparently boarding a ship for the colonies, his lordship would have no further need for his fine furnishings. Avery ran a hand along the polished wood, yearning filling his chest. If he had the coin that had purchased this fine bureau, he could support her for a year or more. His hand fell away, then curled into a fist. Useless. He turned away with a sigh to resume his duties in the dressing chamber.

  Settling back on the stool with the scuffed Hessian, Avery tried to focus on the boot instead of his lot. Many others had lives much worse than his. He’d do well to mind his business and not waste time dreaming.

  A solid thump from the bedchamber interrupted his musings. What the devil? Setting the Hessian aside, Avery turned, warning prickling through him. Was someone in the room? Had the duke come back early? Usually His Grace wasn’t due back from his club until well past the evening hours.

  “Your Grace?” Avery called, his deep voice echoing back to him in the dressing chamber. He stood and entered the adjoining bedroom. “May I be of service?”

  The sight that greeted his eyes was nothing less than extraordinary. Skirts, voluminous black skirts, hung from the mirror, and delicate booted feet kicked wildly beneath the fabric. The rest of the form, if indeed there was one, was completely obscured by Avery’s reflection in the bureau’s mirror.

  “Bloody hell,” Avery breathed, unable to credit what he saw.

  She continued to wriggle free, sliding farther and farther down the bureau’s slanted front. A trim waist exited the mirror, followed quickly by a lean back, flailing arms, and a tumble of yellow curls. She would have fallen to the floor had Avery not stepped forward and caught her just in time.

  “What the devil is this?” Avery set her on her feet and quickly stepped away. “Explain yourself, madam.”

  “Oh my gosh, you’re perfect.” She laughed, her face as shiningly pleasant as her tousled hair. Her accent was flat, smooth, and slow, like honey dripping onto a scone. “Sorry, I know this is sudden. Hello, I’m Leah Ramsey.”

  Avery shook off the whisper of interest that flicked in his brain. Remember your place, my lad, and do not be taken in by a pretty face. “The name means nothing to me, miss. What are you doing in these bedchambers?” He kept his countenance grim. It was no wonder the men had struggled so with the bureau. She must have been hidden away inside it.

  Her conspiratorial smile struck him dumb. “It’s going to sound weird, but I’ll tell you.” She gripped his arm and leaned against him to whisper in his ear, “I traveled through time to find my true love, and I’m pretty sure, Your Grace, that it’s got to be you.”

  The ease with which the overly familiar gesture came was no less startling than the intimate press of her body on his. He stepped backward as if burned, staring at her in shock.

  A devil with an angel’s face is sent to torment me.

  ***

  Leah’s heart fluttered with excitement. He was absolutely perfect—everything a duke should be. Well, except for the silvery scars on his knuckles and slight crookedness of his nose. And maybe the height. Shouldn’t dukes clear six feet? He couldn’t be more than an extremely well-muscled five foot ten. And his outfit was plainer than she’d imagined for such a high-ranking aristocrat. But his broad shoulders and slim hips more than made up for any height deficiency. At five foot seven herself, anything taller than her was tall enough.

  She’d made a big faux pas right off the bat, though. Drawing in a shaky breath, Leah smiled apologetically. She hoped that slack-jawed look on his face was more intrigued interest than shocked disgust. Tough call. “Sorry, I was just excited. I mean, look at this place. Look at you. I can’t believe I’m actually here!”

  His silence didn’t inspire much confidence. He stood there, scowling at her like Mr. Darcy in a room full of commoners. She had to play it cool. Drying her suddenly damp palms on her skirt, she breathed deeply. “Let me explain. Mrs. Knightsbridge—she’s Micah, er, the Earl of Dunnington’s housekeeper—well, she’s got some pretty incredible talents. I asked her for help with my grandfather, but she sent me here instead. She said my true love was in this house, and she sent me here to meet you. Oh.” Cheeks burning, she suddenly remembered the rank of the man standing there. You couldn’t just run up to a freaking duke and make best friends. She sank into a low curtsy and whispered, “Your Grace.”

  A firm grip surrounded her arm, flooding her with warmth. Gosh, he was strong. He pulled her upright, but the seriousness in his eyes stopped her smile in its tracks. “Miss, you are mistaken. I am not your true love.” His deep, raspy voice sent a tingle down her spine as he let go of her arm.

  Her brain paused in mid-whirl. This was a stranger. A complete and utter stranger, and she’d just popped through the mirror and into his arms like she belonged there. No wonder he was treating her like she was crazy. If she was when she thought she was, this was a huge breach of etiquette. But she couldn’t quite dismiss the idea that she had the right guy. She shivered. Lord, if he was this gorgeous while he was pissed, how incredible would he look when he was happy and laughing?

  “Listen, Your Grace, I’m really sorry. I know this is strange and sudden and completely crazy. Just give me a chance, okay?” And then she winked at him in a bold attempt to lighten the mood.

  Instead of the delighted laugh she’d been hoping for, she got a cold stare in return. “Miss, I am not in a position to give you anything
. I am Avery Russell, the Duke of Granville’s valet. And you are trespassing.”

  The same strong hands that had caught her before she could fall to the ground pointed her toward the door.

  “Wait,” she cried, grabbing at his arm. “I’m telling the truth!”

  “A liar and a Bedlamite,” he growled as he pried her fingers from his. “You hid inside that bureau and crept out like a thief. I’ll listen to no more of this.”

  “Please,” she begged, searching his still-grim features for some sign of compassion. “You’ve got to believe me.”

  “Why?” He scowled down at her like he was a priest and she’d just spat in the communion wine.

  Why? She stopped struggling. In an instant, the fight leaked out of her, leaving her muscles weak and useless. This had been the worst idea she’d ever had, and for Leah, that was saying something. She’d thought that the musical version of Attack of the Killer Tomatoes she’d staged would hold that trophy for the rest of her life.

  “I…I don’t know.” Leah looked at the carpet beneath her feet. “You don’t have any reason to believe me.” She swallowed hard, trying her damnedest to get the lump in her throat out of the way so she could breathe.

  He sighed. She didn’t look at him, fear and uncertainty keeping her eyes glued downward. This wasn’t how she’d expected things to go. Truth be told, she’d been picturing a fairy tale. Love at first sight happened, didn’t it?

  But Avery Russell wasn’t the duke. So all she had to do was get to the real Duke of Granville. He’d fall in love with her, and everything would be fine. She took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Russell, I’m sorry. I know I’ve been acting like a lunatic. Can I have a minute to explain? I promise, if you don’t believe me, I’ll get out of here without another word.” How she’d manage that she didn’t have a freaking clue, but she had to get him to listen.