A Murder in Time(135)
“But you are a woman!”
She glared at him. “So? You think nothing is going to change in two hundred years for women? Let me tell you something, buddy . . . Oh, God, what am I doing?” She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose, tried to focus. “I’m getting off track. Let me just say that women will accomplish great things.
“And I am good at my job. Or I used to think I was.” She was silent as a wave of remorse hit her. “I never even considered that Rose would be in danger. I didn’t anticipate that.” She rubbed a hand across her face, feeling suddenly weary. “I screwed up. What good am I here if I screw up? What’s the point?”
She put her head in her hands. Alec watched her, saying nothing. Eventually, he prompted, “FBI?”
“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” she mumbled, then jerked her head up to look at him. “Do you believe me?”
“I shall need time to consider it,” was all he said. He stood up, grabbing her hands and hauling her to her feet.
The world swirled, and Kendra found herself clutching at his arm. “I think I may have drank too much.”
“I know that you have drunk too much.”
She peered up at him. “That doesn’t mean I’m lying. Or inebriated. I’m not seeing pink elephants.”
“You say the damnedest things.” He hauled her to his side, practically carrying her down the remaining steps.
“Are you going to tell the Duke about what I’ve told you?”
“Do you want me to tell him?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
“If anyone would be open-minded about such a fantastical subject, it would be the Duke.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Alec took her by surprise when he skimmed a finger across the blunt bangs. “Your hairstyle . . . is this typical of women in the future?”
Kendra had to think about that for a moment. “It’s not atypical. We have trends, but there’s a lot more variety in hairstyles and fashions during my time.”
Alec shook his head. “I cannot believe I am having this conversation. ’Tis outrageous.”
“Welcome to my world, Lord Sutcliffe.”
Alec was silent again. Then he laughed softly. “Actually, Miss Donovan, if what you are saying is true, it is I who should be welcoming you to mine.”
An hour later, Alec dismissed his valet and sat before the fire in his bedchambers, contemplating the glass of brandy in his hand. He wondered yet again in less than a fortnight if Kendra Donovan was mad, or if he was mad to listen to her. Her story of vortexes and wormholes—devil take it, of being from the future—it was ridiculous. Utterly preposterous.
And yet his mind continued to flash back to the first night, after she’d stumbled through the passage. He remembered how she’d stared at the candles like she’d never seen such a thing before. And the Ming vases.
Two hundred years old—more like over five hundred years old!
He thought of how she’d subdued the hermit with those odd moves. She was a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation; she hunted serial killers. Dear Christ, what kind of woman did that? Although, if she could be believed, women’s role in society would shift significantly. Becca, at least, would be ecstatic to hear that.
He shook his head, unable to figure out his own emotions. Did he believe her? Who could invent such a tale if it weren’t true?
She’d spoken so blithely about Jane Austen, the authoress of Pride and Prejudice. He’d thought she must have some connection to the writer, and had immediately posted a note to the publisher. He had yet to receive a reply, and now wondered how he’d feel if the answer seemed to confirm Kendra’s wild tale.
He couldn’t bring himself to believe that these were the ravings of a lunatic. But she’d been foxed. Could he convince himself that it was a story spun by someone who’d imbibed too much strong drink? Perhaps.
Alec was torn between disbelief, denial, and a strange sort of wonder. Slowly, he finished the brandy and set the glass aside. He moved to the bed, shrugging out of his banyan. He blew out the candle and, in the darkness, he slid beneath the crisp sheets and bedding. Stacking his hands beneath his head, he contemplated the light and shadows that danced across the painted ceiling from the glow of the fireplace.
The Duke would be interested in hearing Kendra Donovan’s story, as peculiar as it was. But he’d promised to keep quiet, and he intended to keep that promise. A time traveler deserved a little consideration, he supposed.
56
She’d told Alec that she was from the future.
The memory came flooding back in horrifying clarity as soon as Kendra opened her eyes the next morning. She’d drank a lot—could still feel the aftereffects of the brandy, the way her head swam just a bit woozily as she pushed herself to a sitting position—but she knew she hadn’t imagined her conversation with Alec.
What would he do? She suppressed a panicky shiver, and considered all the angles. If he told Aldridge, the Duke would . . . what? He’d always been surprisingly accepting of what he undoubtedly regarded as her eccentricities, but there was a big difference between thinking someone odd, and thinking them certifiable. Really, Aldridge had known her less than two weeks. If the positions were reversed, she knew she’d be calling for a psych evaluation. Could she blame him if he called in a shrink—a mad-doctor? Even the name made her shudder. Like the insane asylums of this period, it conjured up primitive, torturous conditions and ignorance. She’d never survive it.