A Murder in Time(37)

But there was a big difference between traveling nanoseconds in time and centuries. This shouldn’t be possible. But since she was standing here, maybe she’d encountered one of those alleged gravitational hot spots. Could that explain the unnatural darkness, the vertigo, the pain . . . the way her flesh seemed to bubble, dissolve, disappear . . . ? And if the passageway housed one of those vortexes, this would be her ticket home.

There were a lot of things wrong with that theory, Kendra knew—like, if there was a vortex beyond this door, one would think the Duke would’ve encountered more people appearing suddenly, or inexplicably going missing. She didn’t want to think about it. I just want to go home.

Still, Kendra hesitated before stepping through the door. Greasy knots of anxiety made her stomach clench. Physically, the experience had been agonizing. Excruciating. But that wasn’t what made her vacillate. She’d endure the pain if she knew she’d return home.

That was the problem: would she return home? Or would she be flung deeper into the past, or even further into the future? The future she could handle. But what if she ended up in the seventeenth century? The fifteenth century? This century, at least, was the beginning of the modern era.

Again, Kendra was struck by the sheer absurdity of her thoughts. Yesterday if anyone had told her that she’d worry about being transported somewhere in time, she’d have laughed and wondered about their sanity. Now it was her sanity that was in question.

She raked her fingers through her hair, and then straightened her shoulders. Stop stalling. She inhaled deeply and walked through the door.





10

The stairwell was dark.

But not the absolute, unnatural darkness that she’d encountered last night.

It was also cold.

But not unusually so.

Slowly, she climbed the stairs, willing the darkness to thicken, the temperature to drop, the stairwell to take on that strange supernatural element that she’d sensed, but hadn’t really understood, before.

Feeling a little like Dorothy clicking her ruby red slippers, Kendra closed her eyes and held her breath.

There’s no place like home—yeah, right. She’d given up her home when she’d created new identities and bank accounts for herself, when she’d made it her mission to kill Sir Jeremy Greene. Was this some sort of karmic payback?

She was beginning to feel a little light-headed. Hope surged . . . until she realized the slight buzz in her ears wasn’t caused by some paranormal electromagnetic charge in the air, but because she was still holding her breath. Feeling as stupid as Sarah had accused her of being, she let it out with a whoosh, sagging against the cold stone wall. Anger replaced the dizziness.

“This is insane! Absolutely f*cking insane!” She climbed more stairs, and then slapped a frustrated palm against the stone wall. “Goddamnit!”

She pushed herself upward, paused. Closed her eyes. Nothing.

“Where the hell is that damn vortex? C’mon!” She thought of her mother, Dr. Eleanor Jahnke, currently trying to unveil the secrets of the universe in Switzerland. “Oh boy, oh boy . . . Mother, I’ve got a doozy for you. You’d love this. You’d—”

“Ahoy. Who’s there?”

Kendra froze. The voice echoed from above. Footsteps approached.

She considered the odds of escaping. Not good. A second later, light bounced off the wall, and then the Duke of Aldridge rounded the curve, holding an oil lamp.

“Miss Donovan?” He stopped, raising his brows as he studied the young woman poised on the spiral steps below. Because she looked frightened, he gentled his voice. “This is a surprise.”

“I’m sorry, I . . .” Kendra wondered how she could explain her presence in the passageway. Once was bad enough. But twice? That was bound to raise suspicions.

Aldridge looked at her curiously. “Do not apologize. ’Tis serendipity. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Kendra blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Tea. I rang for some. Come along, my dear.” He didn’t wait, but began ascending the stairs. “Don’t dawdle, Miss Donovan,” he said cheerfully, not looking back.

A little bemused, Kendra followed him through the doorway. The last time she’d been in this room, she remembered, it had been empty, save for the fireplace. Today, the hearth was filled with burning logs, adding a hint of smoke to the air. Above the mantel were two oval paintings, portraits of a woman and child. The same woman and child, Kendra realized, that graced the oil painting in the study.

Except for the mullion-paned windows that allowed in natural light, the other walls were lined with bookshelves. There was a desk, less elegant than the one downstairs, its surface smothered beneath stacks of books and sheaves of papers. A couple of wooden chairs were positioned around it. Yet it wasn’t the desk, but the two long worktables that drew the eye. They carried an odd and untidy assortment of equipment, instruments, and tools. Kendra caught the gleam of brass, the polish of bronze.

With a sinking feeling, she scanned the old-fashioned microscopes; the mortar and pestle bowls; the pottery filled with chunks of rock and bits of what looked like bone; and jars filled with liquid. On the floor was a beautifully designed armillary sphere, representing the celestial bodies. A large telescope, as tall as she was, stood beside it.

“You’re a scientist,” she observed, and couldn’t control a tiny shiver. The irony didn’t escape her. She’d been born—bred, really—as a scientific experiment. For the first fourteen years of her life, she’d been treated with awe by some, suspicion by others, and careful clinical detachment by her parents. Was it some cosmic joke that she’d been transported back in time only to find herself employed by an aristocratic scientist?