A Murder in Time(25)

1815


“Good God! Is she dead?”

Kendra felt hands on her shoulders, lifting, shifting. Pain rolled through her, followed by greasy nausea. Christ, her head hurt. She had a momentary, dizzying sensation of déjà vu as her eyes fluttered open. Above her, a man’s face scowled down at her. Forest green eyes, fierce between spiky black lashes, beneath slashing black brows. She got the impression of sculpted cheekbones, a straight nose, a sensual twist of mouth, and square jaw that had a shallow dent in the chin before he moved away.

“She’s alive,” she heard the man murmur wryly.

“Thank God.” That was said with a sigh of relief. Another face popped into her line of vision, far different from the other one. This man was older, late fifties, give or take, with a longish face, a rather bold nose, graying blond hair, and concerned pale blue eyes. “How is she, Alec?”

“I’m not an apothecary. Why don’t you ask her? She appears to be awake.”

The older man frowned. “Who is she? What was she doing in the passageway? What’s your name, miss?”

Kendra blinked, lifting a hand to her aching head. What the hell had happened?

“Kendra,” she whispered. “Kendra Donovan.”

“What did she say?” That was from the good-looking, younger man.

“She said her name is Kendra Donovan.” Kendra found her hand captured, gently stroked. “What happened, my dear? Alec, bring her something to drink.”

There was a pause. Then a sigh, more irritable than angry. “Bloody hell.”

Again, Kendra felt hands sliding awkwardly around her shoulders, lifting her into more of a sitting position. She stifled a groan as the movement sent more rockets exploding inside her head. Her body shuddered violently. Had she been shot again . . . ?

“Here, my dear. Drink this.”

It was an effort, but she reached for the glass. Her fingers actually brushed the heavy lead crystal before she focused on the ruby liquid. Memory rushed back and her whole body jerked in horror. Her hand hit the glass in a reflexive action that sent it teetering out of the older man’s hands. Its contents splashed, blood red against his white cravat and shirt, before tumbling with a spray of droplets to the floor.

“Son of a bitch!” Kendra jackknifed into a sitting position, staring at the stain in shock. Her heart leapt into her throat, pounding.

“Good God, what’s wrong with the girl?” the older man asked, bewildered.

“Mayhap a strong aversion to drink?”

“Do not be amusing, Alec. She’s trembling. She’s obviously been ill. Look at her hair.”

God, were they Stark Productions people? Kendra wondered frantically. She scrambled to her feet, her gaze swinging wildly around the room. A part of her accepted and understood that the footman with the silencer had disappeared. If she’d fulfilled her mission and given Sir Jeremy the ricin-laced claret, she would’ve disappeared, too. But what of Greene? He was dead. She was sure of it.

So where was the body?

Even as her eyes locked on the spot where the body had fallen, it began to dawn on her that there was something different about the room. The furniture seemed different, not only in appearance, but placement. Hadn’t the sofa been positioned opposite the fireplace? Her confusion deepened when she realized that someone had lit a cozy fire in the fireplace, orange-yellow flames licking with a greedy pop and crackle against thick logs. Jesus Christ, how long have I been unconscious?

Her chest tightened as a fresh wave of panic crashed through her. She didn’t really remember losing consciousness at all. She remembered the excruciating pain that seemed to peel the skin away from her bones. She remembered the crazy darkness. The dizziness. But she hadn’t actually passed out, had she?

“My dear . . . ?”

She swung around to face the older man. He was dressed in a style similar to Sir Jeremy, except his jacket was a dark brown velvet. His shirt and neck cloth now carried the stain of wine. Her eyes darkened as she stared at it, remembering how the blood had bloomed on Greene’s shirt in much the same way. Where was he? A dead man couldn’t just vanish!

“Alec, she looks like she’s going to faint again!”

“What do you want me to do about it? I don’t have any vinaigrette on hand.” Like the older man, this one had an upper-class British accent, although Kendra thought he looked, with his olive complexion and dark hair, more Italian or Spanish than English. Unlike the other man, he sounded dismissive.

He’d taken up a position by the fireplace, leaning languidly against the mantel. Yet Kendra got the impression that his pose was deceptive. His eyes remained sharp as he watched her, and there was a certain tension in the lean six-foot frame that made her return his regard with an equal dose of wariness.

Kendra dragged her eyes away from the intensity of his. “I’m not going to faint.” A moment later, however, she wondered if that was true when her gaze fell on the candles flickering on the wall sconces, and she suffered another serious case of vertigo.

“My dear, perhaps you should sit . . .” The older man was speaking again, but she barely heard him through the dull roar in her ears. Candles . . .

Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the myriad candles flickering throughout the room. “How . . . ?” she wondered, and stepped toward the candelabra adorning the desk, the long tapers lit with more than a dozen dancing flames. “Candles,” she whispered, reaching out even as her mind rebelled at what she was seeing. Impossible . . .