A Rip Through Time(92)

I include the note with her breakfast tray, which she prefers to be left outside her door after a knock. I don’t make it down the stairs before I hear, “Catriona?”

I hurry back up to find her in the hall. She waves me into her room.

Isla’s room is the size of Gray’s. Both are large enough, but neither is the sprawling bedchamber I expected from the size of this house. All the town house rooms are very much divided by purpose. You cook in the kitchen, eat in the dining room, sit and meet guests in the drawing room, study and read in the library, sleep in the bedroom. Both Gray and Isla have carved out a corner for more in their bedchambers—he has a desk for working and she has a chaise longue for reading. Gray’s desk seems shoehorned in, the space not quite big enough to hold it, as if he stubbornly insists on adding this extra purpose to what should be a mere bedchamber. Isla’s chaise longue fits much better. One thing they have in common? Their bedrooms both look as if a small tornado touched down.

I start to pick up a discarded dressing gown, but she shoos me away from it and into a chair. Then she proceeds to undress. I struggle not to laugh at that. Victorians have a reputation for prudery, and in some things, it’s well earned, but they have no problem with showing off far more cleavage than I would in the modern day, and they apparently have no problem disrobing, in front of a member of their own sex.

With the complicated clothing—and lack of zippers—this is still a time when people of Gray and Isla’s stature could expect a valet or lady’s maid to help them bathe and dress. Isla doesn’t seem to want that, but she strips down and reclothes herself as one accustomed to doing so in front of other women.

I notice her undergarments differ from mine. Instead of the layers of petticoats that Catriona wears, Isla has a lightweight cage-like contraption to achieve that same belled skirt. Probably lighter, but I think I’ll stick with the warmer petticoats myself.

I also notice something else. Her discarded drawers might also be crotchless, but they button between the legs. I stare in wonder at this marvel and decide that pockets are all well and fine, but I have a new Victorian fashion goal. Crotch buttons.

She glances over her shoulder. “I don’t suppose you know how to tighten a corset? I presume—dare I say hope—they’re gone by your time?”

I get to my feet. “Yep. Except for fun.”

“Fun?”

“Costume play and, er, intimate play.”

“Why would anyone want…?” She shakes her head. “Do not answer that.”

“Hey, they’re sexy,” I say. “And not actually as uncomfortable as I expected. From some of the books I read, they sounded like torture devices.”

“That’s because you aren’t lacing yours nearly as tight as Catriona did. I used to wonder how she moved in it, though I suspect it was less about decreasing her waist than increasing…”

“Her boob shelf?” I say, and that makes Isla laugh.

“Yes,” she says, “though I never got the impression she used that to woo the lads.”

“Nah,” I say. “For Catriona, it would have been pure distraction. You can get away with a lot when the guys are staring at your chest. I never realized how much until I suddenly had this.” I motion at my cleavage. “It is both a gift and a curse. I will endeavor to use my new power wisely.”

I tighten her corset snugly. “Good?”

“Good enough for me, as I am not in the market for a mate, nor do I have the need—or the assets—for distraction.” She picks up her corset cover and tugs it over her head. “Now explain this lead you are pursuing.”

She sounds so much like her brother that I have to smile. I stop smiling as I remember his reaction to my lead.

“Catriona?” she says when I don’t reply. Then she pauses. “Or ought I to call you Mallory? In private at least?”

“I remember hearing a quote about no sound being sweeter than that of our own name, and damn, it feels weirdly good to hear it. But for safety’s sake, we should probably stick to Catriona.”

“I am quite capable of not slipping up. Mallory is it, then. This lead. You hesitate to share it. Why?”

“Because your brother dismissed the idea.”

“My brother does not realize you are a criminal officer.”

True, but she doesn’t know the whole story either.

I consider telling her that I brought the killer with me, but if I tell her, is she obligated to tell her brother? Would I damage their relationship by sharing investigation details she can’t pass on? Is that a good enough reason to keep it from her? I’m not sure yet. I only know that I’d rather wait until not sharing it endangers the investigation.

Of course, there’s another solution to this problem. One I like a whole lot more than keeping secrets from Isla.

“Maybe we should tell Dr. Gray about me,” I say. “Then he’d take my theories more seriously.”

“We cannot,” she says. “Not yet. Please. I need to figure out a way to convince him of the veracity of your story. I came to understand that absolute proof is impossible. He will struggle with that. Moreover, it will be a distraction he can ill afford. He has this case, which is incredibly important for Hugh, along with a paper that is incredibly important for Duncan himself.”