Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Read online

  Should she wear the dancing slippers and the velvet cloak too? She hadn't considered that. Probably best to take no unnecessary chances.

  She found the slippers easily enough – they were in the bottom of the clothes press – but the cloak was missing. Something else that Bailey was working on?

  Emma was going to have to summon Bailey again, even though it was the middle of the night, and demand that the cloak be produced. Bailey was bound to think that her mistress was losing her marbles. What's more, as a trusted retainer, the abigail would demand to know why Lady Emma wanted her evening cloak at one o'clock in the morning when she was not planning to go out.

  Emma began to rack her brains for a convincing excuse. She didn't find one. Then she realised that Bailey mustn't find her wearing the lace gown, either. Ladies didn't dress without the help of a maid unless something clandestine was going on. And they certainly wouldn't choose a ballgown for a legitimate midnight outing.

  Perhaps the silk bed robe would hide it? Emma picked up her discarded robe from the floor, noting guiltily that she had acquired slovenly aristocratic habits without even thinking about it. Was she still the woman who had been expected to pick up her husband's discarded clothing and who'd come to hate him for turning her into a menial? But that was in another life, another time. She refused to think about it.

  She slid her arms into the long sleek sleeves and tied the belt, before checking her reflection to make sure none of the gold lace was visible. It was OK.

  No, it wasn't. All the lace was covered, but the silk of the bed robe was so thin that the texture of the lace showed through. Nothing else for it. Both the bed robe and the lace gown would have to come off until the velvet cloak had been retrieved. What a pain.

  The bed robe was the easy bit. The tapes at the back of the lace gown were much more difficult. When Emma had tied them, she hadn't been thinking about untying them again. In fact, she'd been sure she wouldn't have to.

  Practice with modern bras, my foot. Bra hooks never tied themselves in impossible knots.

  The Gordian knot was untied with a sword, Emma remembered. But she couldn't possibly manipulate scissors to cut a knot in the middle of her back. She'd just have to persevere until the blasted knots came undone.

  It took her more than ten minutes but she managed it, eventually. At last she could slide out of the lace gown and return it to its home in the clothes press, just in case Bailey should look in there and notice it had been moved.

  Careful now. Make sure you don't damage the gown as you take it off. Bailey would be sure to notice.

  Had the gown been folded in the clothes press? Emma concentrated, trying hard to remember, as she began to ease her arm out of the puff sleeve. No doubt the abigail had her own precise ways of folding garments to prevent them from getting creased, but Emma hadn't been paying enough attention. She'd have to do her best to—

  The clock was striking again.

  But it wasn't her bedroom clock. It was St Mary's. And the church clock showed seven.

  She was back.

  Chapter Ten

  She was back in the research room and the clock of St Mary's church was still striking seven. In the modern world, no time at all had passed.

  It was just as before.

  But in the Regency?

  Questions tumbled into Emma's brain. If she was back in the modern world, where was Lady Emma now? It was clear that at least a few days had passed between Emma's first two visits. Perhaps longer, judging by Will's angry outburst at the soirée. So either there was no Regency Lady Emma during that period or there was someone else who took her place. Did a doppelgänger materialise like some kind of ectoplasm? If so, where did she go when Emma put on the golden gown and was transported back in time? The doppelgänger couldn't be taking Emma's place here in the modern world because no time was passing. So was her double translated to some kind of between-world? Or vaporised?

  It was all more than Emma's poor frazzled brain could handle. She sank into her chair and dropped her head into her hands. She was back where she belonged, in a world she could cope with. She couldn't cope with the Regency world. Too many ridiculous rules about what a woman could do and who she could be seen with. Too many gimlet-eyed harridans searching for an excuse to ruin a besotted woman's reputation and consign her to outer darkness. The pampered, moneyed ladies of the ton trashed reputations for sport.

  Emma gazed at the remnants of the lace gown, spread across the research room table. Yes, the gown was magic, but it was much too dangerous for her to dare to make the transition again. She would not do it.

  But you know how to go both ways. There's no risk of getting stranded any more.

  That mischievous voice inside her head would not be silenced. Because the blasted thing was right. Purely by chance, Emma had now discovered how to get back. If it hadn't been for that missing cloak, she'd have gone down to the hallway at half-past three to begin her striptease. Instead, she'd done it at a different time and in a different place, but the magic had still worked.

  So it wasn't a matter of matching the time or the place. There had never been any need for her to creep down into the hallway and make sure she didn't wake Filch. It was much, much simpler than that. She just had to be alone, wearing the gown, and to start to remove it.

  A minute was all she would ever need to start undoing the fastenings of the gown. All she would ever need to get back. She had the knowledge, now, to avoid been marooned in an alien time. She could go back to the Regency whenever she wanted. She would be in control. Safe.

  She could go back and meet Will again.

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time Emma had put the lace gown back in the storeroom and locked up securely, she had a thumping headache for real.

  Serves me right, she told herself as she stowed the bunch of keys in the key safe and spun the combination lock. She'd spent ages going back and forward through the arguments. Should she go back? No, she'd be mad to. But she longed to be with Will.

  In the end, her sensible self asserted itself. It was Friday, so there was nothing she could do until she came back to work on Monday. She had the weekend to get her head together. If the weather was fine, she would go for long walks which always helped her to relax. For now, she should go home, have some food – when had she last eaten? – and then some sleep. If necessary, she could take some pills for her headache, even though she hated swallowing any kind of medication. She'd had enough of that when Julian was trying to convince the medics that she was mentally ill and should be sectioned. She shuddered at the memory. He had so nearly succeeded.

  She went back to the staff room for her car coat. It was cold today, so she needed a warm outer layer. And her gloves. Had she remembered to bring them? She dug her hands into her coat pockets and—

  Her fingers found a key. Will's dressing room key.

  That key had been trying to tell her something. And she, like a fool, hadn't even attempted to listen. Modern-day Emma Stanley had returned from two hundred years in the past and had brought a key with her. Your actual one-hundred-percent genuine Regency artefact. Intact. Across time.

  It meant something. But what? That she could steal priceless Regency items and bring them back to sell in the modern day? She would never do that. It would be like stealing. The dressing-room key was about more than that.

  She examined it carefully. She'd seen loads of similar keys in stately homes. There were some in the museum, too.

  Would it still fit the door in the Lamb House?

  That thought sent a real shiver down her spine. She'd become so bewildered while brooding over returning to Will that she'd completely forgotten about the Lamb House. It contained the bedroom where she and Will had made love. And the dressing room was there too. She'd seen it with her own eyes. So she could take the key to the Lamb House and try it in the door. What would happen then? Maybe nothing. But then again, maybe something wonderful…

  She was lying in her own bed, her headache blessedly gone
, when the idea popped into her head. It was almost like walking through a dream. Another few moments and she would have been asleep. She'd have missed it.

  It felt momentous. A challenge.

  And this time, she decided, she was going out to meet it.

  ~ ~ ~

  Next morning, Emma woke refreshed. She sensed that she had important decisions to make, even before she went out for her walk. On Monday, she was going to drive out to the Lamb House. She'd tell the museum that she had urgent work there. She no longer had to be at the museum early to open up – Richard was in charge of the staff entrance key now while Emma had the new spare – and she was her own boss, so there was no one to quibble about how she divided her hours between the two locations. But what was she going to take with her?

  She sat down with a pot of tea and thought hard. She needed clever choices, in case her off-the-wall idea worked. If it didn't, there would be no harm done. But if it did? Goodness, she could learn such a lot. For a historian, it was doubly exciting.

  You ARE going back then? The sensible voice in her head was beginning to sound a bit like the stern headmistress who had terrified Emma and all her classmates into obedience and submission. For a while. Emma chuckled to herself. Miss Brimstone, as they'd nicknamed the woman, was eminently sensible, yes, but often wrong.

  Emma was going back, she realised. Safe in the knowledge that she could escape back to the modern day at a moment's notice, she was going to satisfy her professional curiosity and make the transition one last time.

  Probably one last time.

  It would all depend on what she found out once she got to the other side.

  And on who was there to meet her.

  ~ ~ ~

  Early on Monday morning, she drove to the local supermarket to buy what she needed. Nowadays, it was possible to buy almost anything at any time of year. And technology was everywhere, nowadays. No problems there.

  She felt herself smiling her cream-pot smile as she packed up her shopping and paid.

  "You're looking very pleased with yourself for this time in the morning, dearie," the grey-haired assistant said, with a conspiratorial look. "Going to meet someone special, are we?"

  "I don't know yet," Emma replied, honestly enough. She felt a childish urge to share her glee with someone. This woman was almost old enough to be her mother. So why not? "But it is just possible that today could be a special day."

  "Good on yer, then. Come back and tell me how it works out. I'm usually here, early mornings."

  Emma's smile broadened. "You know what? I just might. If it works out."

  She was still smiling to herself as she got into her car to drive to the Lamb House. She turned on the car radio and wasn't in the least surprised to find that Beethoven's Eroica was being played. Just right for a quasi-Regency museum curator. Putting Emma in a light-hearted mood for whatever was to come. She put her hand on the shift and glanced in the rear-view mirror, ready to put her car into gear.

  Julian. Sitting in the car immediately behind hers. Staring at her, with the unblinking laser focus that had always scared her to death. This time, there was no chance that Emma was mistaken. There was no shadow, no hoodie to make recognition doubtful. It was definitely him. He was watching her, spying on her, and he didn't care who saw him doing it.

  Emma hit the lock on her car door. Then she pulled out her mobile phone and dialled Flo. The policewoman picked up at once. "Flo, it's Emma. Julian's here, parked right behind me. He's following me again. Help me, please."

  "Calm down, Emma. Are you in your car? Good. Tell me where you are and I'll come to meet you. I'll deal with him."

  Emma took a deep breath and gave her location.

  "Stay there. I'll come to you. What car is he driving? What's the registration?"

  "It's silver. A Ford, I think, but I'm not sure. I can't see the registration. He's parked almost against my back bumper. I'd need to get out to see the number plate and I don't want—"

  "Don't do that. Stay in your car. Keep your door locked. I'll be with you in a few minutes. If he makes a move before I get there, set off your rape alarm."

  Emma dived into her pocket for her alarm but her hand was shaking so much she could barely grasp it. After a couple of tries, she managed to pull it out and held it against her throat, like a talisman. "You bastard," she swore aloud. "I'll get you for this. I will."

  Her heart was thumping fit to burst. Julian just had to stare at her, with those piercing, pitiless eyes, for her to crumple into a helpless heap. She needed to fight back. Fight him. He was only a man. And he didn't even have the law on his side.

  My engine's running. If I drive across the car park, I'll be able to see his number plate. Once Flo has the registration, she'll be able to track him.

  There was a parking space immediately opposite hers, so she slipped her car into first gear and slid forward into it. Then she realised what a mistake she'd made. She couldn't move forward because the space in front of her was occupied, and to get out of her own space, she'd have to reverse. If Julian drove forward, he could pin her in this space with his car, get out and come round to—

  She could risk another look in her rear-view mirror. She would get the car's make and registration, at least. And she did have her rape alarm. He wouldn't dare try anything once she set off that ear-splitting racket.

  The silver car had gone. Julian must have seen her making that phone call and quietly backed out before he was caught. He was a nasty beast, sure enough, but he was definitely a clever one.

  Flo arrived a few minutes later, blue lights flashing. She was alone, so she hadn't thought the situation dangerous enough to need backup. She climbed into the car with Emma and gently teased out all the details, making notes as Emma spoke.

  "He's sharp enough to have guessed you were calling the police. But he's missed a trick, for once. He shouldn't have tried it on in a supermarket car park. There's CCTV here. The camera will have caught his car make and registration as he drove out. It couldn't have been more than 10 minutes ago."

  Flo reached across to pat Emma's hand reassuringly. "Don't worry. With your testimony, plus the CCTV pictures, we'll be able to prove that he's stalking you again. Stay here. Keep your door locked. I'll go and talk to the supermarket manager and get the recordings."

  Emma spent the next half hour telling herself that everything would be fine. But as the minutes passed, she worried more and more. What was taking Flo so long?

  By the time Flo returned, Emma was clutching her rape alarm so hard that her fingers were white. It almost felt as if she had made a dent in the metal casing.

  Flo's face told the story before she said a word. "I'm so sorry, Emma. CCTV malfunction last night. They're waiting for the technician to arrive to repair it. It was only broken at one of the exits, but Julian was lucky. Again. He must have driven out through the one where the camera wasn't working. I checked the footage from the second exit and there was no sign of a silver car driven by a lone male in the last hour."

  "When it comes to evidence, Julian is always lucky," Emma said despondently. "And I suppose my testimony isn't good enough on its own?"

  "Probably not. You know what happened before. We need third party verification. CCTV would have been great. We could explain to the magistrate how Julian could have got away without being seen, but it would be no more than plausible. We need something that would back up your statement. And at the moment, we don't have it."

  "And my phone call to you doesn't count, I suppose?"

  "No. Sorry. It helps to pinpoint the time, but it's not third-party evidence. Do you want to come to the station and—"

  "Come on, Flo. There's no point in making another statement. It wouldn't do any good. Let's just leave it for now, shall we? But thank you for responding so quickly." She sighed deeply. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

  "Only doing my job," Flo said, but she smiled warmly. She knew.

  ~ ~ ~

  Back in her flat, with the door d
ouble-locked and bolted, Emma phoned the Lamb House to tell them her visit had had to be postponed. She didn't say why. Phoning the museum was slightly trickier. She took a deep breath and lied blatantly. She'd had a sudden attack of migraine, she said, trying to sound stricken, and so she was unable to drive. She hadn't had an attack like that for years, she added, but she was sure she'd be fine after a day in bed. She'd be back at the museum tomorrow, as planned.

  Her hand was shaking as she replaced the receiver. She didn't have a migraine but her heart was racing and her skin was clammy. In spite of Flo's reassurances, Emma was afraid.

  Her supermarket shopping bag sat at a drunken angle on the kitchen table. Staring at her. Accusingly.

  "So much for my grand scheme," she spat at it. She upended the bag and her purchases tumbled out. She put the bread in the bread bin and the tins in the cupboard. She stuffed the cardboard box and its garish contents into the kitchen drawer. Then she pushed her last purchase to the back of the fridge. Let it rot there. She couldn't possibly face it now. She wouldn't be going back to talk to that chatty checkout lady either. There was no good news to report. Absolutely none at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Emma didn't make it to the museum the following day, as she had promised. She slept badly, tossing and turning for hours, and when she did eventually fall into a troubled sleep, it was only to wake up with a real, honest-to-goodness migraine. It was so long since she'd had one of those that she didn't even possess any migraine pills any more. So she fell back on her old remedies. She drank some ginger ale and ate half a slice of dry toast in an attempt to settle her queasy stomach. Then she downed a couple of headache pills and went back to bed with the curtains firmly closed to keep out as much light as possible.

  It was only when she woke up again, around eleven in the morning, that she realised she hadn't told the museum that she wouldn't be in today, either. They'd be sympathetic, she was sure, but they'd think she wasn't very professional after all.

  She sat down with a mug of tea at the kitchen table and tried to work out what to do now. The nausea had gone but the migraine continued to hover, a little threateningly, behind her eyes. She would be unwise to drive anywhere today, even the short distance to the museum. She certainly couldn't go to the Lamb House. So she would stay at home, nurse her delicate head, and try to plan what to do next.