A Rip Through Time(90)

I’m writing feverishly when I catch the distinct sound of footsteps.

I grab the poker, stride to the door, and peer into darkness. It’s quiet again.

Goddamn it. Are my nerves working overtime or is someone actually out there? I walk into the hall.

“Hello?” I say, because by this point, if it’s just Alice sneaking around to see what I’m doing, I’d rather deal with that than keep being interrupted.

I walk along the hall and through the drawing room and dining room, seeing no one.

“If anyone’s there, I’m reading in the library,” I helpfully announce to my would-be killer.

I sigh, adjust my grip on the poker, and return to the library. Back at the desk, I pause and peer around. Nothing. I set the poker on the desktop, within reach, and then I’m pulling out the chair when a floorboard creaks behind me.





THIRTY-ONE


I spin just as a dark-cloaked figure lunges out from behind the drapes. He claps a hand over my mouth. I elbow him in the ribs and then wheel and slam my fist into his stomach.

Before he doubles over, I catch a glimpse of an average-sized man with a black mask. Then I realize the “mask” is dark hair falling over his face as he doubles over in pain. I grab his hair and wrench his head up.

“Simon?”

“Surrender,” he croaks, raising his arms. “I acknowledge defeat, fair maiden.”

“What the hell?” I say as he rises, still holding his stomach.

“Nicely done, Cat,” he grunts as he catches his breath. “I suppose I deserved that, trying to spook you.”

“By leaping from behind the curtains? Two days after I was attacked and nearly killed in the streets?”

He hesitates. “Two days? It has been a week.”

“I was attacked again two days ago and spent the damned night in jail for fighting off my attacker.” I back up to the desk and fold the papers.

“I-I heard nothing of that,” he says. “I do apologize then, Cat. And I cannot help but be grateful I escaped with my life.” He rubs his stomach and makes a face. “Who ever taught you to fight like that?”

“The experience of nearly being killed twice in a less than a week.”

“No doubt, and again, I do apologize.” He glances behind me. “What are you writing?”

“Nothing.”

He tries to snatch the pages, and we do a couple rounds of that before he sees I’m serious and stops. He perches on the edge of the desk as I secret the pages away in my bodice.

“What are you doing in here?” I say.

“Uh, it is the house where I am employed?”

“I mean you’re inside. At night. How’d you get in?”

“With my key. Because it is … the house where I am employed? I came in search of food. I was up late and grew hungry.”

“The kitchen is two floors down.”

“Yes, but I heard someone moving about as I was in the stairwell. I came to see who it was and warn that I was in the house so that I did not startle them.”

“Instead, you intentionally startled me?”

“Because you are special.” He grins. “You ought to have seen your face. Now, if you are quite finished with the interrogation, I have a proposition.”

“Uh-huh.”

He leans over and whispers, “I have a penny stick in my rooms.”

Is that the Victorian equivalent of inviting me to his room to see his etchings?

“I don’t think I need to see your stick,” I say. “Not tonight.”

“See my stick?” he sputters. “How hard was that knock on your head? I mean I have a penny stick of opium.”

I blink before I manage to say, “No, thank you. I’m having quite enough trouble keeping my mind clear these days. That hit on the head is affecting me more than I expected.”

I look over at him. “I know you said you had no idea who might have attacked me, but would you mind if I asked you a few questions? About myself? Filling in the holes?”

“Would I mind? You sound as if you are asking a favor of a stranger, Cat. We are friends, are we not?”

“We are, but it is awkward admitting to memory lapses. It makes me feel quite freakish.”

He sobers, his voice lowering. “We ought never to feel that way between ourselves. The world gives us enough of that. You may ask what you will, and I will answer as much as I am able and not judge you for your questions.” He meets my gaze. “No judgment. Not between us. Yes?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

We head down to the kitchen, where we find day-old bread and butter, and Simon makes a pot of tea. Then I question him. I start by asking him about my past. He can’t help there—Catriona didn’t share any of that. Nor does he know anything about her criminal confederates. In that case, he didn’t want to know details. I’ll need to speak to Davina.

If Catriona knew her attacker, that puts one degree of separation between her and Evans. Possibly no degrees if all three shared a connection.

Evans’s roommates suggested he sold information on their group. To whom? A link shimmers there, between Evans selling his group’s secrets and Catriona selling Findlay’s police information. Could they have been selling to the same person? Or connected in the same underground web? Evans is friends with someone in that world, whom he uses to sell his information, and Catriona has pissed off—or betrayed—that same person, who tried to kill her for it.