Amy and the Earl’s Amazing Adventure

THE MUSEUM WITH THE BRIGHT BLUE DOOR

LONDON, APRIL 2006

“What do you do when you’re just days from leaving a place that calls to your soul?” the girl asked.

The tour guide nodded encouragement and was delighted when she continued.

“I can’t imagine leaving England. The thought of Topeka makes me shudder and not just because spring is slow in coming this year.”

What had prompted Amy Stevens to ask him that question? He was a tour guide, a docent, in a small house, on a quiet street in Mayfair. She could not possibly be confusing him with an Embassy official. God bless her. He knew no more than her name, and that from her passport. And what did it say about modern London that picture identification was necessary for a house tour?

Even without her name he had known that she was a crucial element in the puzzle he had been trying to solve for so long. He had thought he would lose her and wished with desperation that she would ask a question, any question. Praise the Lord, she had asked him the perfect question, had given him the opening he needed.

“Why can’t you stay?”

“I have to go to a wedding in June. I want to be there and I have to be there. Jim says I can come back here but—”

“Who’s Jim?” the docent interrupted. A boyfriend could complicate the whole situation.

“A friend. We’ve both spent the year here in grad school. See, he’s the one getting married back home and his fiancée is one of my best friends. Once I’m home there’s my family and my other pals. They won’t want me to leave. Not one of them would understand. They think Topeka is perfect.”

“For them it may be.” Not for her though. Wasn’t she the first person who had listened to the story of the magic coin? She had even asked him if it was true, had not brushed the magic away as a fanciful tale. With complete confidence he took the dented coin from the display case and handed it to her. “Take this with you as a memento and believe that anything is possible.”

“You can’t give that away,” she said, putting her hands behind her back.

“I can give it to anyone I choose.” The docent shrugged. That was the truth even if the next would be a lie. “I can get another one easily.”

 

In her heart, Amy Stevens wanted that coin, a fairy-tale memento of this fabulous year. So in the end she let the docent talk her into keeping it, knowing she would buy a chain and wear it around her neck forever.

She hurried through Mayfair to Earl’s Place, the pub just off Piccadilly that she and Jim had claimed as their own. Along with a hundred other soccer fans. The pub was crowded and she could not get Jim’s attention. She could wait. He wouldn’t be interested in anything until the match was over anyway.

Amy sank onto a stool at the bar, took out the coin, and stared at it. The docent’s story graced it with magic. In his tale this coin had changed the lives of the three people who had wished on it. All for the better.

What were the chances that it really could grant a wish?

Zero.

Who would it hurt to pretend?

No one.

Placing the coin on the bar in front of her, she tried out a few wishes, then picked up the coin and held it tight. She whispered, “I wish there was a way for me to stay here.”

The coin felt warm and she frowned at it. The whole place was filled with people, the room overheated, the crowd cheering their favorite team.

The bartender worked his way to her spot at the end of the bar. Not the usual guy. An extra hired to help handle the crowd? He wore the Earl’s uniform of jeans and button-down shirt with sleeves turned up. His white shirt was spotless despite his busy routine. What kind of magic was that? she wondered. She followed his progress down the bar, mesmerized by the rhythm with which he took orders, handed out drinks, and made change.

He was nice enough looking and then he smiled. It changed his pleasant face to fabulous. It was a smile that made her want more from him than his practiced chatter.

“What’ll you have?”

His accent was different, not at all suited to a pub. His voice belonged at Eton or Oxford. Or somewhere with Prince William.

She pointed to the wine bottle he held, for some stupid reason not wanting to open her mouth and betray the fact she was an American. She forgot about the magic coin and it fell from her hand, rolled along the bar toward him, and onto the floor.

She gasped and leaned over the bar trying to spot it.

“Under the cooler,” he said. “Is it important to you?”

“Oh, yes. It’s very special.”

“Right then.” He squatted down, reaching under the cooler. He looked up at her with a grimace. “Time to do some cleaning down here.” He stretched a little farther and with a triumphant, “Have it,” stood up, glanced at the coin. He seemed taken aback by it, but handed it back to her with a smile.

“Thanks,” she said, “thanks a lot.”

He nodded, held up the wine bottle and when she said, “Please,” poured her a glass.

She dug in to her jeans pocket for some money, but he waved off payment.

“Give me a good look at the coin, would you? That’s all the pay I want.”

She was about to hand it back to him when the room erupted into shouts and cheers. The match was over and any number of thirsty sports fiends surged toward the bar.

“If you like, I can wait until the crowd’s gone.”

He leaned across the bar, resting on his arms, his smile as warm as an embrace. “Great, that’s exactly what I wished you’d say. There’s a table in the back corner. It’s a little quieter there.”

Amy nodded. She’d hoped for more from him than chatter. And it looked like she was going to get it. She wound her way through the crowd and sat down at the table the bartender had pointed out.

Jim came over to her a minute later. “Did you see that last goal, Amy? World Cup here we come!”

“Jim, you’ve been saying that for years,” she answered, trying to match his enthusiasm.

“Yeah, but the matches begin in June. Admit it,” he challenged in that patronizing way he had, “you don’t even know what two teams were playing.”

“Nope. No idea. You can call it football, or soccer the way we do at home, and it still has no appeal to me. I’d rather play tennis or volleyball than watch someone else work out.”

Jim nodded. Yeah, Amy thought, he’d heard that a hundred times before. Fair trade. She had to listen to soccer stats ad nauseum.

“I’m off with the rest of the guys to the pub with the free food. Are you with us?”

“No, thanks. I’m waiting to talk to someone.”

“Oh?” Jim looked over his shoulder. “I saw you chatting up the bartender.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Remember, we’re leaving soon and somehow I don’t think Topeka would appeal to him.”

“I want to hear what he has to say about a coin I found, that’s all.”

“Sure,” Jim said, smiling as though he were part of a romantic scheme. “It’s your choice. I’m outta here. I’ve got my phone. Text me if you need help escaping.” He headed for the door along with most everyone else in the place. The noise level dropped considerably.

She raised a hand in farewell, then gave all her attention to the coin warming her hand. Well, not all of it. Half her mind was on the bartender. Could he be the owner? Was he Earl? Hopefully not. Or, she thought with a spurt of excitement, was he the Earl of Someplace? And the chances of that were a million to one.

So why did he want to see the coin? It was old, maybe even valuable. Or maybe not. It looked like it was minted from some worthless metal. Did that make a difference?

“What I want to know is where you bought that coin.”

The bartender stood beside her, a mug of something hot in his hand, watching the disappearing Jim as he spoke. The noise might have left with him, the testosterone had not. The bartender’s once-friendly expression was now more suspicious than curious. Not any less handsome, though, even if his looks—the full Kiefer Sutherland lips and the blond hair that fell onto his forehead—were less appealing than they had been an hour ago when he had been smiling.

“Someone gave it to me.” When he looked less than convinced, she nodded. “I know, I thought it was weird, too. But he insisted. Do you know that nineteenth-century house museum on Norfolk Street? I’m a sucker for anything about the Regency.”

He shook his head as though the words had no meaning. She tried again.

“Near Hyde Park. It has a bright blue door. I spent a few hours there today. The docent on duty gave me the coin.”

“Gave it to you?” He put his mug on the table and leaned toward her, which raised the intimidation factor considerably. “He just handed you a coin like that?”

Amy pushed her chair back and stood up. “I don’t know if arrogance comes with the Prince William accent or the fact that you own this place.” She picked up the coin and kept her gaze steady.

His amazing dark blue eyes softened as she watched.

“Sorry.” He backed off. “It’s been a long day.”

As apologies went it was bare bones. So if this wasn’t an imaginative pick-up line, then what was it? Was he really that interested in the coin? “I’ve been coming here for the better part of a year,” Amy said. “I don’t ever recall seeing you before.”

“I’m a temp. My regular job is teaching.”

“So you’re not the owner?”

“No, this bit’s my brother’s investment.” He made a gesture that included everything around them: the chairs they were sitting in, the pub, maybe even the building. “Now, sit down and tell me about the coin.” He nodded toward her chair as he sat down opposite it.

She stayed right where she was. So, he was not Prince Charming. And he didn’t give a flying fig what her name was, much less what she was doing for the rest of her life.

He just wanted to know about the coin. Oh well. For all of two seconds she considered telling him the story the tour guide had told her, about its magic, but knew he would scoff at her. Instead she went with ignorance.

“I don’t know much about it. Do you?”

“It has some moghul writing on one side,” he said slowly, as though the words were being tugged out of him. “Underneath that there’s an X and the word ‘cash’ next to the X. The other side has a crest.”

He was a teacher now. Very reserved, a little superior.

“Yes,” she said, finally taking her seat, curious and excited in spite of his detachment. “You saw all that when you picked it up off the floor?”

His gesture could have meant either yes or no.

“So what kind of language is moghul?” she asked, folding her other hand over the fist that held the coin. She would pull the information out of him even if it was one question at a time.

“The moghuls conquered India in the sixteenth century and were the power there until the British took over.”

“You make that sound a lot easier than it was. They hardly went knock, knock on the palace door and announced ‘We’re here now.’ I may not be British but I know better than that.”

“Aha, you’ve read history,” he said. “I’ll quiz you on that later. It’s the coin I’m interested in right now.” He was relaxing a little. The tension was still there, though, in the way he held his body, the way he watched her so intently. Too bad that look wasn’t for her. He reached across the table and tapped one finger gently on the back of her hand.

“Please? May I see the coin?” He looked down at her hand even as he asked.

She heard what he said, but what her mind (and body) focused on was the point of contact, finger to wrist, and the flood of awareness that slammed through her, a purely physical flash from his fingertip to every pulse point. In an instant she was restless and wanting. Wow, she thought, straightening in her chair. And I don’t even like him. Does he feel this?

Apparently not, as his gaze was still fixed on her hand. It’s about the coin, stupid. She put it down and pushed it in front of her, far enough so that he had a clear view of it. He shook his head. His smile was the kind you would see on a boy with his newest, finest toy.

“I know a lot about this coin,” he said, not looking up. “It was minted in 1808.”

“You’re right!” she said after she had turned the coin over so she could check the date.

“It was commissioned by the East India Company.” He leaned closer to it. “That’s their crest above the date. All the coins were packed in wax and then in barrels and put on a ship bound for India. It sank in a squall that pushed the ship onto the Goodwin Sands beyond the Straits of Dover. The whole lot of them were lost until 1985, when the ship was found and some of the coins were recovered. This is one of them. And this particular one has a dent in it.”

“Does the dent diminish its value?” She reached over and fit her nail into the little indentation.

“No, it’s what makes it important. To me at least.”

“It’s important?” Amy picked up the coin, examining it with new respect. “How do you know this? I never heard of it before.”

“I’ve been studying it for a long time,” he said, “and trying to find one for almost as long.”

“Wow. And I walk in with one. Isn’t that odd?” Magic? She pushed that thought aside. “If it’s so rare and valuable, why would the docent give it to me?”

“It does seem odd,” he said after a long minute.

“Yes, it does.” She was speaking aloud, mostly to herself. Then that mistrust in his voice registered. She realized, with some surprise, what he was implying. “Do you think I stole it?”

The bartender held up his hands as if that would protect him from her verbal assault.

“You don’t even know my name or anything else about me and you believe I’m a thief?” She sat back in her chair. “That’s insulting. My name is Amy Stevens. I’m from Topeka, Kansas. I’ve been studying here for a year and I’m scheduled to head home next week. Until about a minute ago I was really, really sorry to be leaving. As a matter of fact, until a minute ago I didn’t have a bad thing to say about my experience here.” Folding her arms, she gave him as haughty a look as she could muster. “And you are?”

“Simon West,” he said, lowering his hands. He started tapping a rhythm on the table’s edge.

“I told you that the docent gave me the coin,” she repeated. “I did not steal it.”

“All right, but this has to be more than a coincidence.” He stopped tapping.

“What is?”

“That you’re here with a coin I’ve wanted for years.”

“Do you think I came here to sell it to you? You really are too much.” Amy reached out to pick up her coin and leave.

He leaned over and took her hand. “I do not think you took it or came here to sell it to me. That would be much too simple.”

“Now you’re talking in riddles.” Her words came out in a whisper, her response to his touch once again overriding her annoyance with him.

Oh hell’s bells, how could this be one-sided?

 

You are a fool, Simon West. Yes, she was adorable with her wayward auburn hair and lively eyes. Were they green or brown? No matter. She was up to something. “Sorry, Amy. I am talking in riddles.”

The coin, here and now, was too big a coincidence to be anything but a con. Or magic—which was absurd. He’d play along with her game because he wanted that coin, not because he was taken in by her. She’d probably spent the year studying acting.

“So you believe me? That I didn’t steal the coin?”

Her accent was delightful. The Queen’s English as a second language. He loved the way Yanks tried to speak the mother tongue. It charmed him the way a French accent charmed others. Pop a top on it, you idiot. Think with your head.

“I want you to tell me that you believe me,” she insisted.

“She is telling the truth, sir. She did not steal it nor come here to sell it to you. I can promise you that.”

With a start Simon turned to find a man dressed in an old-fashioned naval uniform standing beside the table.

“May I ask who you are?” Simon asked, then, seeing Amy’s pleased surprise, he raised his hand for silence. “You’re the docent from the museum.”

“Yes.” Amy and the newcomer spoke in unison.

Of course he is. Simon waited, wondering what was next.

“You doubt me, sir?” The older man drew himself up to his full height. “Indeed I am a docent. Wentworth Arbuckle is my name. I work at the house with the blue door three blocks north.”

“Right, maybe you are.” Simon tried to figure out this new spin. No one knew of his studies. There was no money in the coin or his research. He’d kept it a tight secret largely because he disliked being called a fool. “Tell me why you would give away a coin like that. I’m sure your employer would not approve.”

“What do you know of that coin?” the docent asked, apparently unconcerned about the suggestion of theft.

Simon looked from the docent to Amy, who was watching for his answer with an expression that all but shouted, “Don’t make us wait!” What the hell. They must know the answer already. Why else would they be here?

“I’ve seen the coin in a portrait,” he said, addressing the docent directly.

That one sentence brought a complete shift of energy.

“A portrait? Where is this painting?” Arbuckle asked, his bearing changing from calm to excited in an instant.

“In my office.” Simon spoke slowly, feeling the plot deepen.

“And you have the actual coin, miss!” the docent exclaimed, slapping his hands together as though they were on the verge of discovering something incredible. “Please, I beg of you, sir. May I see the painting?”

Simon took a minute to think it through. “Why not?” It would be easy enough to pretend to be won over by the man’s enthusiasm. “I’ll trade one look at the painting for another look at that coin.”

“Sure,” Amy said without a moment’s hesitation, as though she was as innocent as she was pretty.

He looked away from the vivid face. “Let me tell the staff.” Without waiting for an answer he went over to the man at the door.

 

Amy would have called the guy Simon was talking to a bouncer, even though she had never seen him do anything but call a cab for someone too drunk to make it home on his own. West talked to him for all of a minute. Whatever he said had the man looking at them with suspicion and nodding his understanding.

He’s backup, Amy decided as she pocketed the coin. In case we’re bad guys. She looked at the tour guide to see if he was offended. Not at all. He was smiling, ready to burst with anticipation.

Simon West then had a quick word with the other bartender and gestured to them. He then opened the door to the back office and led the way.

She was not impressed with the space, a cramped office filled with business junk. And no sign of a portrait. Confused, Amy decided she would let Mr. Arbuckle go ahead of her.

West turned as he put his hand on a doorknob at the other end of the room. “It’s not here. The portrait with the coin in it is in my study upstairs.”

“Is there anyone else home? Your wife, maybe?” Amy asked. Being from Topeka did not mean she was naïve—a little slow at self-protection maybe, but not naïve.

“No wife,” West said. “Just a sec. I’ll see if any of the staff is about.” He disappeared through the door and she heard him shout, “Tandy? Roger? Is anyone home?”

“I’m polishing the brass in the front hall,” a female voice bellowed back. “Roger’s in the upstairs loo fixing the leak. You need something you come up here.”

With a nod, Simon held the door again for Amy and the docent. He directed them down a wide hall that ended in what reminded Amy of servants’ stairs, the kind that typically ended with a green baize door. The door opened onto a stunning foyer.

Amy took in the black-and-white tiled floor, the great clock, and a woman—Tandy she assumed—cleaning a doorknob. The air was filled with the odd, combined scent of polish and the sweetness of Asiatic lilies, coming from the flowers near the door. Wow, Amy thought, it was so elegant. Not your usual bachelor flat.

“I’m taking Miss Stevens and this gentleman to see the portrait.”

“All right,” Tandy said. “Call me if you want some tea.”

With a nod to Tandy, Simon led them up the stairs.

Amy waved at the maid, who nodded back with a friendly smile, even as she followed Simon and the docent up the rise of gleaming wood steps. The staircase formed a U at end of the hall opposite the front door. A long landing connected the two stairways and Amy walked very slowly, examining the paintings that lined the wall.

She stopped in front of one. “Is this a Rembrandt?” she asked, raising her head to find Simon watching her.

“A Rembrandt? We dearly wish, but no, my fine art observer, it’s a fake. Of Rembrandt’s school, of his time and not by him.”

“I’m no expert, but surely it’s a very good fake,” Amy said, standing back and considering it carefully.

“Yes, it fooled a lot of people until the thirties, when Berenson and his cronies doubted its attribution. Now there are dozens of almost Old Masters around.”

Even a fake Rembrandt from the 1600s must be worth money, she thought, or at least more than she would ever spend on a painting. Too bad it wasn’t the real thing.

With a nod of sympathy she followed Simon the rest of the way up the stairs, wondering who he was. “So this place is half magnificent townhouse and half football pub?”

“Yes.” Simon’s single word was abrupt. “My brother was sure it was the solution to all financial ills.”

By his tone Amy assumed it was not. She could hear her mother’s voice in that part of her memory reserved for life lessons—“It’s impolite to ask about money”—and quelled the overwhelming urge to quiz him for details.

The U-shape of the staircase had her all turned around and when they reached the final landing she looked out the huge arched window to get her bearings. The building was placed crosswise at the end of a cul-de-sac. The twilight edging to dark made it impossible to see more than that it was a quiet neighborhood, very quiet. How could she have come to Earl’s Place for a year and not known that Earl’s was half of a house with a split personality? Amazing.

No less amazing than the room Simon ushered them into. It had more arched windows on two walls and she could imagine it in the daytime, filled with light.

It was more like a library than a study, lined with shelves that were filled with books. There was a desk and a table, the wood surfaces barely visible under endless stacks of books, papers, and files. A state-of-the-art computer showed the room for the anachronism it was.

Even with all that to look at, it was the painting that dominated the space. “That portrait’s from the Regency,” Amy said with real pleasure.

“Right,” Simon agreed. “George III gone crazy and his son named Regent. That and Napoleon’s ego made the early 1800s pretty interesting.”

Amy moved closer to the portrait. “The Regency is my favorite period in English history. I’ve read Jane Austen, seen exhibits, visited museums, and read at least a hundred historical novels.” She loved it, and not because the men were as compelling as the one in this painting. He resembled Simon West so much that she wondered if he had posed for it and this was his idea of a practical joke.

Not possible. Why would he do that? Besides, he said he had never seen the actual coin before today. This painting had to be the real thing.

The man in the painting posed with casual elegance, seated at the side of a desk, not behind it. On the desktop were a toy train, a miniature of a woman, and the coin. It was the smallest item, but somehow it caught and held one’s attention. Was it because it was so carefully rendered, right down to the dent?

“It has a dent,” Amy said. “Like mine. That is seriously weird.”

“Now you see why I was so amazed when you showed up with it?” Simon turned to find the docent and include him in the conversation. He was standing in the shadows near the fireplace, seeming more ghostlike than real, but he nodded at Simon.

“Who is this, Simon? Some relative, for sure,” Amy asked.

“A many times great-grandfather, the third Earl of Weston.”

She could feel the flush of embarrassment creep up her cheeks. And she had teased him about his “Prince William accent.” “And when did you inherit the title?” She tried to sound casual and not completely out of place.

“My brother’s the earl, not me.”

So much for her fantasy. Bartender or not, Simon West was related to an earl, not to mention his six feet of blond good looks with an accent that was as seductive as a glass of champagne. He was probably dating a supermodel.

“So you’re the second son? Like Prince Harry? You have a title, too, don’t you? Not prince, ummm…” She paused a second, trying to recall. “Lord Simon, isn’t it?”

“No, my brother has the use of that title as well. I’m simply Mr. West.” A little bow accompanied Simon’s exaggerated accent.

 

Simon watched as she made a conscious effort not to be impressed with his rank. Good for her. American through and through. That didn’t mean she wasn’t a grifter of some kind. He still could not see how they were going to make money from him, short of picking up a bit of silver and walking out with it.

Not that there was any silver to pinch.

“The earl in the portrait looks so much like you, Simon. Doesn’t it feel odd to know he’s been dead for two hundred years?”

“My brother and I are twins,” he began. So far they hadn’t asked a single question that wasn’t easily available. Except for the request to see the portrait. He looked around for Wentworth Arbuckle again and did not see him. Damn, was that it? She would chat him up and the old man would see what he could steal. He was just about to be shot of both of them when the docent stood up from the wing chair facing the fireplace and nodded to him.

“You’re a twin?” she asked.

“Right,” he said. “Having someone look like me is the norm. Besides, I bet you’ve seen pictures of your great-grandmother or some distant relative and everyone comments on how much you look like her. Not that much difference.”

“There’s a big difference between a family photo and a huge portrait you see every day.” Amy laughed at the comparison. “So you are the son and brother of an earl, you teach, occasionally tend bar, and spend the rest of your time in here. What are you studying?” She picked up a book and looked at the title. “The East India Company?”

Now she was prying. Using those guileless eyes to find out what he was doing. Why? It meant nothing to anyone but his family.

“Oh, I know,” she said, acting as though she had this moment realized something. “Are you trying to figure out what the connection is between the earl and the coin?”

“Why do you care? What possible interest could this be to you?”

She stepped back as though he had thrown a punch she had to dodge. “I’m sorry. Am I being too personal? It’s just that it hardly seems an accident that I should be here with the coin that is in the painting. Doesn’t it seem odd to you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, see, there is something we agree on. And now here’s something else. If you want me to leave, I will.”

“I want to see the coin,” he said, holding out his hand. “Then you can go.”

“But of course, Mr. West.” She said his name exactly the way Tandy did when she was annoyed with him, the little edge to her voice that made “mister” an insult. She took the coin out of her pocket, handed it to him, and turned her back to him and her coin.

Arbuckle came up to them. Simon hadn’t heard him move from the fireplace to his side, had not heard the floor creak the way it always did.

“I was afraid you’d left,” Amy said, her relief evident. She and the docent studied the painting, ignoring Simon.

The coin felt warm, and glinted the way it did in the painting. Simon turned it over and over with one hand. It seemed an anticlimactic end to a years-long search. He put the coin in the center of the nearest empty table, wondering if she would sell it to him. He was about to ask, when the docent spoke up.

“Here is what I wish to know,” the docent said, talking to Amy, but loud enough for him to hear. “The coins were not recovered until 1985. I ask you”—he turned to Simon, his eyes as intense as his voice—“how was it returned to the Regency? I know much of its history in that period, but have been searching for the answer to that question for longer than you can imagine.”

Amy thought the answer to that question was obvious. She said it anyway. “Isn’t it possible that a few of the coins made their way onto the streets?”

“No.” This time it was Simon and the docent who answered together.

“All the coins were sealed and shipped from the mint,” the docent said, unwittingly corroborating the story that Simon had told her an hour ago.

“Yes.” Simon nodded. “And though graft and corruption are almost as old as man, no one has ever intimated that some were stolen.” He looked at the painting for a long moment and then at the docent. “The more unanswerable question, sir, is how a coin minted in 1808 could be in a portrait painted in 1805?”

Wow, he was right. How had the coin come to be in the painting if it was not created until 1808? That was weird.

Now they all stared at the painting as if Simon’s ancestor would explain. The coin glinted as though trying to communicate its secret. The earl regarded them with an earnestness that made her wonder what he knew that they did not.

“I know how it was done, Mr. West,” the tour guide said. “If I could take you to the place where it happened, would you be willing to go?”

Amy nodded as if Simon needed a prompt.

“Sure,” Simon answered too quickly. “And while we’re at it, can you tell me what the third earl did with the Guardi painting the family used to own?”

“A what painting?” Amy asked.

“The artist’s name is Guardi. He painted in the second half of the eighteenth century. The second earl bought it in Venice when he was on his Grand Tour. It was what one did in those days. Bought a painting by Guardi or Canaletto. They sell for millions of pounds now.”

“And the third earl lost it?” Jeez, that was a true disaster. She thought about it for all of three seconds. “Maybe he sold it,” she said, turning to him. “Even without today’s death taxes I bet the estate was expensive to maintain. It was the same then, wasn’t it? The estate eats up every pound and is still starving to death.”

“That’s the easy explanation, but there’s no record of it. The only notation is in the house steward’s book. April 10, 1805. Family lore has it that the third earl gave the Guardi to his mistress as a farewell gift.”

“What, she already had enough jewelry?”

“No, the earl had recently bought a spectacular racehorse and hired a Spanish trainer, so he was a little low on funds. That we have a record of. The only thing we know is that it was discovered missing on April 10, 1805.” He shook his head and stopped talking. “Sorry. The missing Guardi fascinates me almost as much as the coin.”

Did he think he had said too much? Exactly what could she do with that information? Or was he still convinced that they were trying to get something from him?

“Mr. West, if you would like to wish on the coin perhaps you can find out what happened to the work by Guardi.” The docent spoke for the first time in a while.

“Wish on the coin? Is that before or after you answer my first question?” Simon West sounded as though he was reaching his limit.

“I can answer your questions about the coin,” the docent said, nodding. “If the answer to your question about the painting is to be known then the coin will respond.”

Simon made a sound of annoyance.

“That surprises you?” the docent asked.

“Surprise is not the word I would use. Coins do not talk.”

“No, but they can respond. Feel warm, turn brighter. Just the way the one in the painting looks brighter than the rest of the items around it.”

They all turned back to the portrait and Simon nodded. “I’ve noticed that before. It’s a trick of the light or the way the artist painted it.” He raised his hands as if he wanted to ward off its influence. “This is nonsense. I have to close up the pub.”

“Please, sir,” the docent urged. “Why not sit on the sofa and try. I promise you will lose no time at all.”

The docent looked desperate. He might not be playing with a full deck, Amy thought, but this was important to him.

“Oh, come on,” Amy said. “Loosen up and give it a try. Wish for us to be gone.” She winked at the docent who gave her a faint smile in return. He really didn’t look well. “Simon.” She waited until she had his complete attention. “Please. Who can it hurt?” She moved close enough to whisper. “It will cost you no more than a few moments and it will please a very tired old man.”

 

How could anyone resist those earnest eyes? She made him feel like an uncaring fool, instead of the practical realist he was. Right. He would wish. He would wish for them to be gone. With a nod, he sat on the sofa.

“Very good and thank you, Mr. West.”

Arbuckle’s words were conventional but his profound relief was evident. Why was this so important to him?

“If you will pick up the coin it will be my pleasure to aid you in the process. Miss, you may wish as well.”

“I wished already.” Amy shrugged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt. I can’t say that I believed it would mean anything.”

“Then you had best wish again. Believing in the magic is what makes it happen. You can wish as many times as you want. The coin decides which wish is the truest.”

“Oh, I like that.” Simon’s words meant one thing, his tone another. “An inanimate object knows what’s best for me.”

“Yes, Mr. West, it does.”

The docent had the critical air of a father disappointed in his son. Simon felt properly chastened and wondered exactly who was in charge here. Or what. He looked at the coin.

Amy sat on the small settee near the fireplace. Simon sat next to her. Arbuckle pulled a chair from the desk and sat across the small table from them. He picked up the coin, seemed to make a wish of his own, and then handed it to Amy. Simon watched her take it. She wrapped her fingers around it and held it tight. “Can I make a different wish than the one I made before?”

“Yes, my dear. As a matter of fact, I think you should.”

She closed her eyes and held the coin close to her heart. Simon’s own heart skipped a little. He wished he had half her faith and a solid dose of her trust. With a nod she opened her eyes and then closed them again and added a soft, “Please.” He smiled, wondering if the coin had any maternal instincts.

Her worried expression was eclipsed by surprise and she opened her palm. The coin glowed gold and she laughed. “Does that mean I made the right wish?”

Simon wasn’t taken in. A sleight of hand would explain it.

The docent could not resist her enthusiasm. He took the coin from her. It immediately dulled. He offered it to Simon, who let him place it in his palm. He left his hand open so they could watch it as he made his “wish.”

“You do know this is pointless, don’t you?”

“Simon, Simon, take a chance,” Amy said. “What will it hurt to try, to believe, just for one minute, that your dreams can come true?”

If that dream included her he might be willing to give it a try. He thought about wishing for that but decided it was too venal. He considered wishing for an end to this absurdity and then remembered the Guardi. He had always wanted to know what happened to it. That would be something worth wishing for. As for believing, if Amy Stevens was not part of this silliness then she had enough faith for both of them. He wished he had half of her conviction. Or was it confidence? He cried out, “Ouch!” and dropped the coin on the carpet.

All three of them watched it glowing white hot, though it did not singe the rug. Arbuckle continued to stare at it even as he spoke. “Impressive wishes, both of them.” As it dulled, he moved to pick up the coin and set it again on the small coffee table nearby.

“So what’s next?” Simon asked. “How long will it take for my wish to come true?” He looked from the girl to the old man. “You don’t know, do you?” He shook his head at the docent’s regretful nod.

“Do you know if they will come true?” Amy asked.

“Oh yes, they certainly will. If you believe in the possibility and are willing to do what wish fulfillment entails.”

“Is it anything illegal?”

Amy asked the question as though an illegal element was a deal breaker. If she was not as honest as the sun, then she should do well on stage.

“Nothing illegal is necessary, miss,” the docent said. “Mr. West, I offered to help you find out how the coin appeared in the painting in 1805.”

“You said you would take me to the place it happened.”

“I can send you there, but not take you.”

“All right, can Amy go, too?” he asked the docent, and watched for her reaction.

They both spoke at the same time. Amy’s “Oh, please” in chorus with the docent’s “Yes.”

“It was part of my wish. That I get to go with Simon.”

“Then it’s not surprising that it is granted. The coin did bring the two of you together.”

“Was that magic?” Amy wondered aloud.

“Fate or chance?” Simon added.

“It is one, both, or all three, Mr. West, Miss Amy. You see, there are certain things that are meant to be. It is the choices made by man that dictate when they will happen.”

“That sounds like predestination to me,” Amy said with a disapproving frown.

“Not at all. There are an infinite number of ways that an end can be reached. What is predetermined about that?” He did not wait for a rebuttal. “You, miss, are not the first person to whom I told the story of the coin and the wishes it granted. You are, however, the first to listen with your heart.

“You, Mr. West, know the story of the coin as well as I do. Your head is so filled with the details that you have yet to make sense of them. From the moment I saw you at that table I knew it was the two of you who were the key to my puzzle. I thought Miss Amy’s role was to bring us together, Mr. West. I am wrong. The coin brought the two of you together to complete the work I have started.”

Arbuckle so firmly believed in the coin that it was contagious, Simon thought. Amy was nodding, absorbing every word, and God help him, it almost made sense to him, too.

Simon offered Amy a hand and began to stand up when the docent spoke. “Oh, please stay seated. You will be more comfortable traveling from there. I am sending you to the year 1805, with the coin.” He picked it up from the table and handed it to Amy. “You will give the coin to the earl and then return to the present.”

Time travel? Had he said time travel? He made it sound as easy as hailing a cab on a sunny day.

“You mean man can control travel through time?” Amy said sounding, for once, as skeptical as he felt.

“If you believe it, you can. Time travel is certainly within the coin’s power, though perhaps not man’s.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. This is ridiculous.”

“Wait a minute and listen, Simon, it might be possible,” Amy said.

“We just have to believe in the magic coin. Right. Back to the Future is one of my favorite movies.” Simon aimed his exasperation at the docent. “Did you have anything to do with that?” He stood up and walked away from them just in case this insanity was contagious.

“Listen to me, Simon.” Amy came between the two. “According to Einstein’s general theory of relativity, there is nothing in the laws of physics to prevent time travel.”

“Is that what you’ve been studying here? Physics?”

“Good grief, no. I barely made it through required science in college. I’m not sure where I heard that. Maybe I read it.”

“Did your college courses include Einstein’s general theories?” He could tell she was considering a lie by the vaguely guilty look on her face. Then she shrugged and her expression cleared.

“Okay, I hate to admit this, but I just remembered where I heard it. To be completely honest, I was quoting a TV character on the show Stargate Atlantis.” She waited.

He was about to say something scathing when he realized that at least she was being honest. Who but the scrupulously honest would admit that their scientific data came from a TV show?

“I know it stretches credulity, Mr. West.” The docent’s words fell into the silence.

“Yes, it does.” Simon crossed his arms. “Answer this: If time travel is within the coin’s power, then why haven’t you taken it back?”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Arbuckle said. “A hundred times at least and in a dozen different places.”

It was hard not to believe him. He spoke so earnestly.

“But now I see. The presence of the coin in this room and in the portrait is the key. You take the coin back to your ancestral home, Westmoreland in 1805.”

“Westmoreland? I’ve heard of Westmoreland,” Amy said. “That’s where it all started?”

Simon could only shake his head. What an elaborate scheme. To what end? He still had no idea.

“Mr. Arbuckle,” Amy began gently, “how are you so sure that Simon is the one to take the coin and that 1805 is where its magic begins? What happens after that?”

“There is no need to worry about that. His only responsibility is to make certain the coin is given to the earl.”

“If we leave the coin there, then how do we return?”

Her question was so right on that Simon thought she was as much a dupe of this crazed man as he was. “We can come back because the coin guarantees a round trip once our chore is done,” he said. “I’m making that up, but I bet I’m right, aren’t I?”

The docent shook his head. “I am not at all sure, Mr. West. Our goal is to be sure the coin is in the time it was meant to be. Man, fate, and fortune will enable the rest.”

“That’s leaving way too much to chance,” Amy said. “Your faith in the coin must be very strong.”

It was leaving so much to chance that Simon decided to call his bluff. “Let’s sit down and do it, shall we, Arbuckle? Do we close our eyes?”

When the docent nodded, Amy reached over and swiped the coin off the table and pushed it into the pocket of her jeans. She sat down and reached for Simon’s hand. If it was meant as a distraction, it had worked. Her palm was soft, her fingers long and fine. That sweet hand in his aroused more than protective feelings.

“Very well, Mr. West. Thank you both. You are right. It is best to go in the dead of night when there are fewer people to see your arrival.” He waited a beat and Simon nodded. “I am sorry, Miss,” the docent said to Amy. “You cannot hold hands or sit too close. You will be in the same place and time although not together.”

Simon moved a few inches to the left.

“All you must do is close your eyes and visualize where you would like to go.”

“Westmoreland, the year the portrait was painted. With Amy nearby,” Simon said. Fatigue overcame him before he could question how he had been drugged. He let his head fall back on the sofa. In a second he was sound asleep.

“No, my lady, your new companion has not arrived yet.”

The voice woke Amy from a deep sleep, one filled with dreams, not all of them sweet. Echoes of delight, regret, pleasure, and loss faded, leaving her exhausted and anxious. She forced her eyes open. Surely the real world would be easier to deal with.

She shut her eyes as quickly. The sofa, Simon, the docent, and the office were gone. Good God, where was she? Where was Simon?

“I am sorry, Lady Anne.” The same woman spoke again. “I know Mrs. Braintree is sending someone as quickly as possible. It has rained so much the last few days. No doubt, carriages are later than usual.”

Carriages? Amy’s anxiety blossomed into excitement. She ignored the fear.

“You are making excuses, Martha,” a young female voice answered. “This is not the last century. It is 1805 and the roads are in much better repair.”

1805? Either she had time traveled or she was in a very elaborate reality stunt. The docent hadn’t seemed like the reality show type, and wouldn’t she have had to sign some kind of consent form? Besides, the Regency House Party reality show had been a bomb. It wasn’t likely anyone would try that again.

Amy opened one eye and then the other. She was in some sort of small room, on a narrow bed tucked under a window. The sky was the bright gray of dawn or bad weather. The room was filled with three large chests and a trunk that was open. There were hooks on the wall, but they were all empty. Is that how Regency people stored their clothes? She knew they did not have hangers then. And she thought she knew so much. If the first thing she saw confused her, this time-travel visit would be full of pitfalls.

“The earl came home last night, my lady.”

“Weston is here? Not in London?”

“He is to sit to have the last bits done on his portrait.”

Weston? Portrait? Wow.

Her doubts vanished.

Amy Stevens—from Topeka, Kansas—was in a nineteenth-century room, in a nineteenth-century house with two nineteenth-century people talking in the other room. Where was Simon? Had he come home with the earl?

Amy’s first impulse was to leap from the bed, make her presence known, then find Simon as quickly as she could. And be sent to the nearest insane asylum.

Keep still, look around, figure it out. It took four repetitions before she was able to do more than lie still. How long before someone found her here? Wherever here was. She forced her eyes open. Keeping them closed was like an ostrich burying its head in the sand.

“Not only do I have to deal with Mrs. Braintree’s idea of a companion, but now Weston will nag me endlessly about sitting for a portrait.”

The well-bred voice sounded acerbic rather than petulant.

“Where is my new companion? The bed in the dressing room was made up for her. Was she not supposed to arrive yesterday?”

“Yes, my lady, but the roads, you know. From the rain, you understand. It could be—”

“Weston is home,” the other woman interrupted. “He found the roads passable.”

Amy sat bolt upright in her bed. She’d bet this was a dressing room. Was she supposed to be the lady’s companion they were talking about?

Amy decided to get up and tiptoe to the door.

As she pushed back the thin blanket, she drew a deep breath and sneezed. Then sneezed again. Her dreams had been as filled with the scent of lilacs as the air was now. Too sweet and too much of it.

A girl popped through the door, vital, animated. Not at all constrained by the sober dress and apron she was wearing.

Hell’s bells, she thought. Nothing like jumping right into the story with no idea of anything other than that she was confused. And scared. Not paralyzed by it. Not yet. But it wasn’t far off.

“Thank heaven, you have arrived, miss. Mrs. Braintree promised you would be here by this morning. When I went to bed and there was no sign of you I had my doubts.”

Amy nodded.

“You must have arrived so very late. The night porter should have told Mr. Stepp instead of sending you off to bed. Sorry, but could you please dress quickly. Lady Anne is working herself into a state. She has been so anxious about your arrival.”

Amy nodded again, trying to take in the names at least. Stepp must be the butler. Lady Anne, the woman she would be working for.

“Come on now. Up, if you please, miss. Let me help you with your stays and dress.”

Amy got up, her chemise a mass of wrinkles. At least it was a chemise and not the jeans and T-shirt she had been wearing in the twenty-first century. “My name is Amy Stevens. I beg your pardon, who are you?” And wasn’t that an odd thing to be asking somebody who was helping you put on the Regency version of underwear?

“Martha. My name is Martha Stepp. How could I not tell you? I do beg pardon, Miss Stevens.”

“You are related to the Mr. Stepp you mentioned?”

“Yes, miss, my father,” the maid said as she laced the stays. It was not as uncomfortable as she had expected. Of course, Martha was not lacing it tightly. Was that because tiny waists did not matter in the empire-style gowns that were so fashionable now? As Martha finished the lacing, it occurred to Amy that the coin had been in the pocket of her jeans. Where was it now?

“My mother is Mrs. Stepp, the housekeeper.”

Pay attention, Amy, she commanded herself. You can worry about the coin if they don’t kick you out. Would her accent give her away completely? She’d done her best to sound English. Even after a year she sounded anything but.

“The Earl and the Countess Weston have had Stepps in their service for more than a hundred years.”

“That’s impressive. It’s not very often you hear of such loyalty. That never happens where I’m from.”

“Well, of course not. Your work lasts only a Season or two. Once the young miss is engaged, you have to move on to the next one who needs what you can give.”

And what exactly was that? Amy wondered. Before she could ask, the maid spoke again.

“I beg your pardon, miss. Do you come from Scotland? Or Wales? Your accent is,” she paused, and Amy waited for her adjective, “a bit different.”

How could she explain it? She closed her eyes and wished for inspiration. “I spent my childhood in the Orkneys and have been working in the Midlands for the last five years.” Wow, her imagination must be working overtime.

“Oh, the Orkneys.”

Martha made it sound like it was the North Pole. Amy was pretty sure the Orkneys were in Scotland.

“You must miss your family terribly.”

“No, I’m an orphan.”

“Oh.” Clearly Martha Stepp could not decide if that was more fortune or misfortune.

“I’m looking forward to meeting Lady Anne,” Amy said. Definitely better to steer the conversation away from her background.

“She’s a lovely young woman,” Martha said, then leaned closer to whisper, “though she has been given to megrims lately, ever since her governess left and her brother took so long contacting Mrs. Braintree for a companion.”

Amy had read that word “megrim” dozens of times and always wondered exactly what it meant. Now she would find out. The recollection of those romances gave her a boost of confidence. Clearly they were expecting someone who would help the young lady of the house prepare for her first Season. From her reading she had a good idea what a companion did. Though she had always associated them with older women. Plucking a storyline from one of the books, she forged ahead. “My most recent client in Leicestershire decided to marry her childhood sweetheart, so she had no need of me for the Season. When Mrs. Braintree called I was only too happy to find another position so quickly even if it meant a move to Sussex.”

“Indeed, Miss Stevens. It worked out like magic.”

Yes, it certainly had. What would she do when the real companion arrived? Like Scarlett O’Hara she decided to worry about that tomorrow.

“If Mrs. Braintree went all the way to York to call on you that certainly is a sign of how highly she regards you.”

As she watched Martha rummage through the small bag at the foot of the bed, Amy made a mental note. No phones in the Regency. “Call” means something entirely different in 1805.

Martha pulled out a lovely lilac dress, sadly wrinkled, and then an even prettier dress, this one a pale green, its wrinkles not quite so noticeable. And no magic coin. Maybe it was in the bottom of the bag.

“You must have been exhausted not to have shaken out your clothes. If you wear the lilac, I will iron the green for you to wear at dinner.”

“Thank you.” She bit her lip to keep from asking a dozen questions.

“No need to thank me, Miss Stevens. I am not the housekeeper yet, though I hope to be someday. Let me introduce you to Lady Anne and then I will see what is keeping the chocolate.” She scooped up the wrinkled dress as she spoke.

“My hair!” Amy exclaimed, raising her hand to what she knew was bed head at its worst.

“The knot at your neck has held quite nicely. I will help you with it later.”

Another bit of magic, Amy thought, mightily relieved. She followed the maid into the bedroom. Where was the coin? Where was Simon? She must have looked as nervous as she felt. The maid patted her arm and added, “Not to worry, miss. Lady Anne is nervous, too. She won’t even notice what sort of accent you have.”

The girl awaiting them was small, not much bigger than a preteen. Fine-boned with wispy blonde hair that was cut short and framed her face. Her dress was white, too white for her very fair skin. It made her look pale and sickly. Her nervousness, or at the very least shyness, was betrayed by her hands. She was twisting them in an anxious rhythm that Lady Macbeth would have admired.

Amy had to push panic to a deep, dark corner as she realized that they did not shake hands in the Regency era. She would have to curtsey. Where was the Regency version of Miss Manners?

She decided against a deep, royal curtsey. One thing she had learned this year is that royal was different from aristocrat. She went with a medium curtsey, like she’d seen on the Austen videos, more than a bob but not much more than that.

The next twenty minutes were no more awkward than they would have been between any two strangers. If one was barely interested and the other was trying to make a good impression. If Lady Anne was being “quite lovely” Amy did not want to see her when she was bitchy.

It took only a few questions from Amy and the rather limiting “yes” and “no” responses from Lady Anne before the girl/woman raised her head with an imperious frown. “Where are you from?”

Martha gave a long explanation of the Orkneys, her lack of family, and ended with a reminder that Mrs. Braintree had considered it a rare stroke of good fortune that Miss Stevens was available.

“Thank you, Martha,” Lady Anne said in freezing tones. “Do your job and go find our chocolate.”

Martha took no offense at her mistress’s rudeness and excused herself. Amy felt abandoned by her only ally.

“Martha is new to her work as a lady’s maid and I have little hope that she is teachable. Too spoiled by her parents.”

Having dealt what sounded like a death blow to Martha’s aspirations, Lady Anne took a step away from Amy. “You have no connections and no money?”

What a snot. Remembering Simon’s arrogance she wondered if maybe all the Wests were like that when you first met them. Swallowing her pride, Amy bobbed a half-curtsey just because it seemed the humble thing to do. “I am sure my background is a disappointment, my lady. May I remind you that no one will ever see me? I am like Madame d’Aulnoy’s fairy godmother who wants only to help.” Amy never knew she was so good at sucking up. What was Simon putting up with?

“A very young fairy godmother. I do hope you have brought a magic wand.” Lady Anne smiled a little.

If I had one I’d turn you into a flower seller. With that thought it struck Amy that Lady Anne was trying to make her feel incompetent. She’d had enough psych classes to know that Lady A’s aloofness was rooted in fears of her own inadequacy. “I have no need of a wand, my lady, as you are far from a hopeless case.”

While her ladyship tried to figure out if that was a compliment or an insult, Amy pushed on. “May I ask what you are most looking forward to this Season?” She mentally ran through a list of possibilities, completely missing the one that made Lady Anne’s eyes shine.

“Oh, the music, of course,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “I assumed Mrs. Braintree had told you of my specific interests and needs.”

“Yes, she did,” Amy said. Had she ever read any novels with heroines who loved music? None came to mind. “It is only that I wanted to know how to make time for the other aspects of the Season. Of those items you will need to have in order to appear to your best advantage.”

“Oh, you mean clothes, stockings, bonnets. All of that.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You can handle that. I am much more concerned about what kind of pianoforte is at the town house and whether Weston has secured a box at the opera and managed to make my wishes known regarding musicales.”

They talked, or rather, she let Lady Anne talk. When it came to music the woman had plenty to say. Amy considered it a crash course and wished she could take notes.

Martha came back with the chocolate and handed a cup to Lady Anne and one to her.

“Miss Stevens,” Lady Anne said, before Amy had a chance to take one sip of her chocolate. “Would you find the earl and ask him if he was able to secure the items from the list I gave him?” She looked at Martha.

“I do believe he is in the conservatory,” the maid said.

“Good. Since you are going there, please find the music sheets I left on the music stand and bring them back here.”

“Yes, my lady.” Amy rose.

“Oh, finish your chocolate first.” An impatient sound allowed Amy to sit down again. “I am not that selfish.”

How interesting, Amy thought. She always thought self-awareness a facet of modern life.

“Tell me why you enjoy the Season so much.”

Amy felt like she had been given the cue for her soliloquy to begin. She crossed her fingers, hoping she would not commit some revealing faux pas. How she wished she could remember more of what she had read. I am so out of my element here.

She took a sip of the chocolate and almost swooned at the fabulous taste. It was so much better than the add-milk variety she drank at home. And the caffeine didn’t hurt either. It was like a boost of confidence. Here goes, she thought.

“The Season is all about new adventures, new acquaintances, new sights, my lady. And new clothes.” She added the last in a conspiratorial whisper.

“I suppose so. Not that there is anything truly new. It has been the same for years. The dress styles have changed and not much else.”

Lady Anne sipped some more of her chocolate, patted her lips daintily with a serviette while Amy wondered if she would be looking for new employment before she even had a chance to look for the coin.

“Tell me why you so enjoy being a ‘fairy godmother,’ as you call it.”

“Because, Lady Anne, the lesson I teach is very simple and does not require a magic wand at all.” Good save, Amy thought.

Lady Anne leaned forward and Amy took another sip of the chocolate. It was as good as the first one. Yum. Now what is the lesson? She hoped the pause seemed dramatic rather than desperate. Fear was too damn distracting so she pushed it aside. The success of this was in her control. No one would ever guess who she really was or where she was from.

And that was her answer. It was all about control.

“The Season and its success are entirely in your control, my lady. If there is one thing that I want to convince you of, it is that.”

“In my control.” Anne sat back with a puff of disappointment. “Nonsense. I live in my brother’s house, meet the people who are our social equals. Men will court me after my brother gives them permission and we will stay as long as Parliament is in session or the weather permits. None of that is in my control.”

Lady Anne’s answer only made Amy more certain she was right. It was exactly like her year abroad. “No matter what the constraints, you can make choices and enjoy the Season on your terms. Yes, there are some invitations that you must accept—I am sure your brother will insist and, for a fact, so will I—but you can balance them with all the music you want. You will find like-minded friends and what now seems so overwhelming a spectacle will be the most fun you have ever had.”

“You make it almost sound bearable.” Her admission was grudging, but her frown lines eased even when she added, “I hate crowds.”

Aha, thought Amy. Those psych courses pay off once again. Here was the heart of it. The woman was an introvert and just thinking about the size and scope of the Season was exhausting.

“It will be more than bearable, I promise you.” Amy hoped that was enough about Lady Anne’s expectations. Translating twenty-first-century self-help talk into Regency English was hard work.

It’s in your control, Amy, she reminded herself. “Lady Anne, you said before that there is still so much to do. Does your brother have a firm date for leaving Westmoreland?”

“Not really. We will go when Parliament demands more of his attention than his horses do. Until then, we are close enough to town that he can go back and forth in a day if he chooses.”

“Very well. For now we will look at the fashion books, decide what must be ordered here and what can wait for town, and practice your music so that you will be ready for all the invitations for you to sing.”

Lady Anne shook her head, still not convinced.

Martha had been bustling about the room, tidying and listening to every word that was said. Her smile and gesture must be the Regency version of two thumbs-up. It looked like she had done something right.

Amy stood up, deciding it was best to leave and call this a victory. Although she had a feeling this was a mere skirmish in her battle to convince Lady A to make the most of the next few months.

“If you will excuse me, Lady Anne, I will refresh myself and then go to find the earl, collect your music. Where shall I meet you?”

“The small music room.”

With a curtsey, Amy went into the dressing room and grabbed the bag that was still on the floor. She emptied it out on the bed, but all she could find were the sorts of things a Regency lady might need when traveling. Not a coin in sight. As a matter of fact, no money at all. That could be inconvenient. Surely Simon had the coin. What was the point of their time travel if the coin had not come with them? It was not lost. That simply was not an option. Mr. Arbuckle had been very specific about giving the coin to the earl.

Amy fussed with her hair and her skirts and made her way through Lady Anne’s bedroom one more time. Her ladyship ignored Amy’s passage as she was once again berating Martha. This time for not cleaning the hair from her brush. Martha appeared to be attending though not particularly upset by the reprimand.

Poor thing, Amy thought. She is going to have her cheerfulness crushed if this keeps up. And then Amy realized that she had no idea where the conservatory was. Or what floor they were on. Or how big the house was.

There was a man standing by the stairs, wearing what looked like a costume in satin. Pants that stopped at the knee and a wig. Surely that was old-fashioned in 1805. Aha, she thought, a footman in livery.

She went up to him, thought about bobbing a curtsey but stopped herself. As her ladyship’s companion, she was senior to him and no such courtesy was necessary. What book had that tidbit come from?

“Would you please direct me to the conservatory?”

He bowed and announced he would take her there. It must have taken them three minutes of walking twisting and turning hallways and at least two flights of stairs, one up and one down. Amy tried to memorize the route and gave up when she realized there were footmen stationed everywhere, surely to serve the same purpose as her current guide.

She was out of breath when she reached the conservatory, not only because of the distance covered. Amy Stevens was about to meet the third Earl of Weston.

The footman knocked on the door and when a voice called “Enter,” he opened it for Amy. She stepped into the room.

The conservatory was lovely. What she would call a greenhouse, but in the giant proportions that matched the scale of Westmoreland. There were several trees, palms and some fruit trees—orange or lemon she thought—and orchids blooming near a small pool. She saw no sign of the music sheets Lady Anne wanted her to collect. Following the sound of the water, she turned a corner and stopped with a gasp. There, seated beside a desk, was a man who could only be the Earl of Weston. Or Simon West.

Though the furniture and pose were familiar to her from the earl’s portrait, they were so totally out of place in this garden of green and light that Amy thought she was hallucinating.

With one more step it made complete sense. An artist was busily at work. The portrait. She was looking at the man who had painted the portrait of the earl. I’m still sane, she thought, with real relief.

She looked back toward the desk. If this was not Simon, how would he explain that he looked so much like the earl himself?

Amy curtseyed again, more deeply this time. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

The earl turned his head when he heard her voice. His eyes betrayed interest though the rest of his expression remained impassive.

“My lord, do not move!” the artist insisted.

“I will take a break now. Come back in an hour.”

“No, remain seated. The light will be gone in an hour.”

The earl stood up. “Then we will resume tomorrow.” He left the conservatory without looking at her. Amy followed him anyway, after grabbing the sheet music she noticed on the stand near the entrance.

“Excuse me,” she said, annoyed that she sounded so intimidated.

“We will not stand here talking in the hall where every footman can hear us. I do not even know your name,” the earl said, giving her no more than a glance.

“I am Miss Stevens, my lord. Lady Anne’s new companion.” She was talking to his back and he stopped to confront her.

“I assumed so. You will not do at all. You are too young, too pretty, and too free with your words. We will talk in the library, Miss Stevens.”

She followed him in silence, around and up and down again, terrified that she had lost her position, so full of worry that she paid no attention to the route they were taking until they reached a door that another footman promptly swung open. It was not the library. It was a bedroom. Obvious, as the bed was the biggest one she had ever seen. It was unmade, adding an intimacy that made her Regency self uncomfortable.

“I beg your pardon, miss.” The earl took a step back with an arrogance that belied the apology. “This is not the library.”

That was stating the obvious. How could he get lost in his own house?

“I have a book I want you to take to Lady Anne,” he said, picking one up from the table near the bed. “The footman will take you to the library and I will join you in a moment.”

“Do you require assistance, my lord?” A man had come through a door at the far end of the room.

“No, Miss Stevens has been asked to retrieve this book.”

What? Lady A had not asked for a book. That had been his idea.

The valet came toward them, took the book from the earl, and handed it to her. “I am Fancett, my lord’s valet.”

Ooooh, power struggle, Amy thought. One of those issues that persisted over time, from the Bible through Jane Austen to Days of Our Lives: Which one of us is more important?

There was no doubt in her mind any more than there was in Fancett’s—the earl’s valet certainly outranked his sister’s companion. In length of service if nothing else.

“Fancett, did you know that Miss Stevens is related by birth to Lord Allbryce Stevens? Surely you remember him.”

How did he know that? He hadn’t even known her name. She bit her lip to keep from asking.

For his part, the valet wilted just a little. Her pedigree outranked his and that outranked length of service. What a silly game.

“Leave us, Fancett.”

A woman in any century would be uncomfortable in a bedroom alone with a man she did not know. She edged toward the door. “Thank you, my lord,” Amy said, curtseying. “I will take this to Lady Anne and come to you in the library.”

“In a moment.” His imperious tone stopped her in her tracks. Amazing how a voice of command could conquer self-interest. Before she could move away, he came to her, leaned down as though he was going to kiss her neck.

How did she recognize him? Without even looking at him she knew it was Simon. The energy he radiated? The smell of him? The feel of his breath on her neck? Relief flooded her, with a sexual charge not far behind.

Even as she recognized him, he whispered, “Amy, it’s me, Simon West. Is everything all right?”

She turned her head. He was so close that half a step would mean she could kiss him. “No, everything is not all right. I don’t have the coin. Do you?”

He shook his head.

She could hear Fancett rummaging about and could only imagine what they looked like. She pushed Simon away with a cautionary “We both have a role to play.”

She clapped her hands together in what she hoped would sound like a slap and spoke loud enough to be heard by listeners. “I do not want my reputation ruined, my lord. You can fire me or we can speak of what you wish in the library as you first suggested.”

Amy flounced out of the room, shooting daggers at the footman, who remained impassive. “Show me the way to Lady Anne’s wing.” It felt good to be the one giving orders. Who did the footman give orders to?

Lady Anne’s room was empty and she walked through to toss the book on her cot. No way was a tome on farming in Sussex truly intended for the earl’s sister. She gave the music to Martha, explaining that she was to meet with the earl in the library.

Martha agreed cheerfully, dropping the music on the table near the fireplace. Her “It’s about time he took an interest in her ladyship’s Season” didn’t indicate that a private appointment with the earl was asking for trouble.

As she followed the footman to the library, some of the hallways looked familiar. The painting and statuary at least. Before he opened the door, the footman turned to her. “I will be out here, Miss.”

“Thank you,” Amy said, touched by his gallantry though not sure exactly how he could help if this situation were real. Fascinating, she thought. Westmoreland was its own small kingdom and the earl its ruler, having won the right by nothing more than the fate of his birth. How times had changed.

The footman opened the door and closed it gently after her. Simon turned from his consideration of a group of paintings. “I’m sorry, Amy.”

“Why in the world did you take me to your bedroom?” She wasn’t quite ready to forgive him though she could feel his genuine regret eroding her anger.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said. “In 2006 that room is the library, or one of them. Then, after I realized my mistake, I thought that if we were pretending to have a liaison it would give us an excuse to be together.”

“Simon, the earl doesn’t need a reason to see a servant. All you have to do is command her presence.”

“Yes, yes. That’s true.” He ran a hand through his hair. “How could this happen? How could we have actually traveled through time?”

“I have no idea. You’re the one who said, ‘Let’s do it,’ before we knew all the details.”

“Right. Admit it: You thought it was all a bit dodgy, too.”

She had to give him that. “If we were skeptical, then how did it happen? Didn’t the docent say we had to believe?”

“He believed enough for both of us.”

Simon said it with such certainty that Amy didn’t argue. “So we’re here, without the coin, and with no idea how to travel back.”

“Thank God we have each other.”

She couldn’t think of any other time in her life that a man had sunk his pride enough to admit that a situation was beyond his control.

Amy practically ran into the arms he held out for her. They stayed in the embrace a long time, as if one or the other of them would disappear. It was such a comfort that she thought she might stay in his arms forever. And then, suddenly, it was more than comfort. She could feel his heart, his breath, her body awakening to the feel of him.

She leaned back and stepped out of his arms. “What happened? What are you doing pretending to be the earl?”

“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.” He let her go. “I woke up in a carriage as the coachman was opening the door. I was alone, dressed in period clothes, and he said, ‘My lord, we are at Westmoreland.’”

“So if they think you’re the earl, what do we do when the real earl arrives?”

Simon shook his head slightly. “The whole thing is a mess. Who do they think you are?”

She explained about being Lady Anne’s companion. He nodded.

“At least you know the era. I started shaving myself this morning. It almost gave Fancett a heart attack and then I let him tie my cravat. Apparently, the earl always ‘works his own linen.’ I told him that I had hurt my fist in a boxing match.” He paused and exercised his hand as though it were hurting him. “They did have boxing then, didn’t they?”

“Yes, and it would be exactly the sort of thing the earl would try. Good guess.”

“What do I do when the real earl arrives?”

“I think he must have been with you last night, Simon. It’s true that Regency folks didn’t travel at night, but the moon was near full and this time of year it’s almost as bright as daylight. With outriders, it would have been safe enough.”

“I tell you, Amy, I was alone in the coach.”

“It’s like you switched places.” As she said it, she saw his expression switch from uncertainty to shock just as the same thought had occurred to her.

“Is it possible,” she said, “that the real earl is waking up in the London town house? Do you think that could be it? That he is there with the real lady’s companion?”

Simon was quiet for longer than she wanted him to be. Think faster. She bit her lip to keep from saying it. Finally, he nodded.

“It could be the explanation. Doesn’t it make sense that matter would have to displace other matter? That only so much can exist in the same time and place?”

“Is that from Star Trek?” Narrowing her eyes, she tried to read his.

“No, I made it up.”

“I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or not.” Amy considered his idea for a second. “But it does make sense.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely, as though he had just won the Nobel Prize for physics.

“What do you think the two of them are doing in the twenty-first century?” It could be disastrous. And she was not going to say that word out loud. No need to send a hint of it into the cosmos.

“Hopefully, Arbuckle will keep them from doing anything disastrous.”

Amy hid her dismay at his choice of words and watched as he raked a hand through his hair again, pushing a blond wave off his face. Why, he’s as confounded as I am. He just hides it better. “At first, I thought maybe this was some kind of reality show.”

“No. We are at Westmoreland in 1805,” he added in case she had any doubts. With an arm around her shoulders he turned so they faced the paintings. “Look at this. The Guardi painting. Right where it’s supposed to be.”

“Wow.” Amy moved closer to the painting and stared at it for a minute. “I totally believe we are here, but my heart is still hammering and my head whirling. How must those poor people feel? The ones who took our place? They had no idea they would be time traveling. At least we were warned.”

“Amy, listen. We have to concentrate on what is happening here. What is happening in my study is beyond our control.”

The idea of “control” brought back her conversation with Lady Anne. What made sense then seemed like drivel now. Her eyes filled. She turned away, pretending to examine the paintings, hoping he would not see her tears. “I am so glad that I’m not facing it alone.”

Simon put his hands on her shoulders and it was like a cue for tears to start. She did her best not to sniff, but even without a sound he knew and turned her so they were facing each other.

“Why the tears, Amy? Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“We’re so far from home.” Amy leaned into him. “No one knows where we are. We can’t give the coin to the earl. He’s not here and we seem to have lost it. Simon, how will we get back?”

“Hey, come on, you’re the one who told me to ‘believe.’ I think that applies all the way. I have no idea how or when we’ll get back. What I do know is that we have a job to do. And we don’t know how much time we have to do it.”

“It feels like a Mission Impossible. And while you are every bit as fabulous as Tom Cruise, I am not cut out for this kind of adventure.”

“Why not? If I’m Tom Cruise then it’s obvious you are the remarkable and talented Amy Stevens from Topeka, Kansas.”

He kissed her on the forehead. She shook her head, pretending that she believed him, and in about ten seconds she actually began to.

All right, she thought, this is strange and no one will ever believe it. But we have each other. It will be as much fun as we make it. She straightened, stepping away from Simon.

“You know, you’ve done a complete turnaround. I had you pegged as a first-class cynic, a younger, hip Professor Higgins.”

“Fair enough. I thought you were on the dodgy side of honest. That you and Mr. Wentworth Arbuckle had some scheme to cheat me of something. God knew what it could be. Then I was sorting through wishes and half wished I had as much faith as you did. The coin didn’t give me a chance to pick. That was it.

“But let me tell you—even without the coin’s magic, it’s hard not to believe in time travel when I see Westmoreland looking the same, but not. Or when I have linen wrapped around my neck. It makes a tie seem civilized.”

“Is it that bad? The stays are not nearly as uncomfortable as I thought they would be.”

“What are stays?”

“The Regency version of a corset.”

He smiled and she could imagine what he was visualizing. Corset and stockings with some kind of sexy garters. Which, in fact, was what she was wearing. No way was she telling him that.

“Amy, how did you learn all this?”

“In the romance novels I read. Don’t make a face,” she said before her words could even register. “Most of them are written by intelligent, educated women who value research. God bless writers like Mary Balogh and Sophia Nash.”

“I’ll send them a personal letter of thanks once we’re home. Come to that, from now on I am not going to be so cavalier about alien sightings either.”

“I’m not sure if it’s the kiss on my forehead or your confidence, but I’m feeling much better.”

“Right-o—let’s see what this will do.” With his hands framing her face, he kissed her lips.

If his shoulder had been comfort, his mouth was persuasion. His lips held her as surely as his hands. She welcomed it and opened to him, the sweetness of the kiss exploding into a tumult of delight that echoed through her body, tempting, taunting, teasing her until she needed him as surely as she needed breath. The feel of starched linen, the smell of spice, the clean, cool taste of him—she wanted all of it.

Her breath of disappointment as they drew apart had him pressing his forehead to hers. “Wow.”

“Right-o,” she said back. They stood still, conversation more than either of them could manage for a minute. Her arousal matched his. Wisdom dictated that they step away from each other, that they try for some measure of decorum.

Imprudence won out and she raised her face to his once again.

He showered kisses on her eyes, her cheeks, her lips as she whispered, “The first time you touched me. It was nothing more than a tap on my hand. That touch was as intimate an invasion as a kiss.”

“It was the look of you that cornered me. All this wonderful hair, your incredible eyes, the way life radiates from you. And then there was your accent.”

“See, you are Professor Higgins.” As they traced back the attraction, they moved apart. Amy felt her hair escaping from the tight knot at her nape, and did her best to twist it back into shape.

The sight of her with her hands raised to fix her hair was so arousing that Simon turned away and walked to the window. What was it about that pose that made him ache? Concentrate on something else. There wasn’t much activity outside. Spring sunlight spilled through the trees along the drive. The trees stood as they had for hundreds of years and still did in his time. Later he would take Amy for a walk, show her his favorite spots, spend an hour at the folly.

“After that kiss, Simon, anything is possible.” She was near the Guardi painting, but her eyes were on him. “Amy and the earl are going to have an amazing adventure.”

Is a kiss all it would take to make her smile again? Now that was a welcome prescription.

“How do we find the coin, Simon?”

She wasn’t smiling now.

“I think we have to let the coin find us. It could be anywhere. It could have been left behind.”

“All right. Hard as it is not to tear apart my room and the coach and your bedroom, I can see your point.”

She bit her lip and he knew she was holding back. With a long breath, she let it go. Turning away from him, she gave her full attention to the painting.

Would they be able to travel back if they did not do what they had been sent to do?

“So this is the Guardi. The real thing.” She leaned very close to it, examining it as though she could read something in each brushstroke.

“It is,” he said, taking her lead. “Painted around 1780 and brought from Italy two years later. One of his classic scenes of the Grand Canal in Venice.”

“You will note that it is still here. Not given away, stolen or otherwise lost. Not yet anyway.”

“That in itself is intriguing, isn’t it? It means that someone noticed it was gone almost as soon as it disappeared.”

“Of course they would.”

“No, Amy. Think about it. It’s one of a dozen paintings in this room. That big one over the fireplace is the focal point. It could be missing for days, even weeks before someone noticed it was gone. You know how that is.”

“Okay. That’s happened to me a few times. I guess it’s possible. So what do we do now, my lord earl?”

“Watch and wait, I guess.”

“And you’re sure the last time anyone saw it was in this room?”

“That’s what Stepp’s records indicate.”

“You started to talk about that in your study. So the house steward kept a written record?”

“Right.”

“And you still have it?” At his nod she went on, “Wow. That is so cool. Can I see it when we get back?”

“Sweetheart,” he said with a teasing edge in his tone, “when we’re back in our time you can sleep with it if you want.”

She grinned at the thought, or was it because she was thinking of sleeping with him rather than the household record? He smiled back. One could only hope.

“So,” she said, moving away from him. “Stepp would make notations in the book?”

“Yes, it covered all manner of household incidents. If a glass was broken, or if dry rot was found. The item listed before the painting is about the dismissal of a servant after an ‘accident.’ There is a notation that the painting is missing on April 10, 1805, and the next item is a discussion of spring plantings in the kitchen garden and some changes to be made.”

“You have a darn good memory.”

“I’ve looked at that page a hundred times.”

“The fact that there is no additional information would argue for the earl intervening. In this little kingdom, the earl is head of state and no one questions him.”

“Right.”

“So that means the painting will disappear within the next few days. How do we solve a mystery that hasn’t happened yet?”

“Spend a lot of time in this room while we figure out who we should give the coin to?”

“Simon,” she said as though his suggestion was one a five-year-old would make, “you’re joking, aren’t you?”

“What do you think we should do? Start a full-scale investigation before it even goes missing?”

“No, it’s only that if we’re hanging around here no one will come to take it away.”

“Right.” Simon covered his face with his hands. “I feel a headache starting.”

“You don’t mean to prevent the disappearance, do you?”

There was a small commotion outside, and Simon walked to the window.

“I mean, you want to know what happened to it?”

“Right. Right,” he said as a man rode into the yard leading a horse. Simon closed his eyes as he thought about Amy’s question. “So, we go about our daily routine, whatever that is, and check on the painting every few hours.”

“I’m not sure that will make it any easier to figure out who took it.”

“Of course it will.” He turned his back on the horse and rider to watch her look at the painting. He loved the little tendrils of hair that escaped her attempt to control it. They tickled her neck at the exact spot he next wanted to kiss.

He was quiet too long and she looked over her shoulder. There was that smile again. He could read her mind as surely as she could read his. He stayed right where he was. For now.

“It will be easier to find out who took it,” he said. “For one thing, the household will be talking about it when it does disappear. There will be rumors even if Stepp says the earl took it. And you, as Lady Anne’s companion, will be in the perfect spot to hear it all, above, and below stairs.”

“So our plan is to be on the lookout for the coin and to watch out for any gossip about the missing painting?”

“Right.” There was a knock at the door before Simon could say anything else.

It was Fancett. He did not so much as look at Amy. “My lord, Stepp asked me to tell you that your new horse has arrived. It’s being settled in the stable and everyone is awaiting your arrival.”

The valet stepped out and as he turned he did glance at Amy. His expression was so impassive that Simon was sure he knew exactly what the man was thinking. There might be ten feet between the earl and Miss Stevens, but hormones were singing in the air. Ah well, the man was his valet and was surely used to less than discreet aristocratic behavior. Hopefully, he was snob enough not to share the gossip below stairs.

“Does part of his job description include being a condescending jerk?” Amy walked over to the looking glass near the door. He saw her wince at her reflection and begin fiddling with the pins that held her hair. He could not look away. When their eyes met in the mirror, he saw her smile.

“You are a minx, you know that.”

She faced him and blew him a kiss. “I suppose we shall see each other at dinner, will we not?” Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door, paused, and then closed it again.

“One more thing, my lord. Who is Lord Allbryce Stevens?”

“Stevens? A bloke I met at University. His family lives in the Orkneys and I’m pretty sure the title dates back beyond time.”

“That is so weird, Simon. I told Lady Anne and her maid that I’m from the Orkneys and I don’t even know where they are.”

“Off the north coast of Scotland. So not likely Lord Bryce will turn up here.”

“It’s weird, Simon,” Amy insisted.

“Weird does not make it magic.”

“You know,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “I would think that after time traveling to 1805 the idea of magic in the cosmos would be a little more believable.”

He put his arm through hers and tugged her through the door. They left the room laughing, the sound echoing up the stairway.

Even with the door to the small music room closed, Amy could hear the pianoforte. Passion was the word that came to mind and she found it hard to believe that the aristocratic snob she had met upstairs was capable of such feeling.

Indeed she was. Lost in the music, she did not seem aware that Amy had entered the music room. A moment later, Amy heard someone else enter the room and turned to see Simon, who came to stand beside her.

When Lady Anne finished the piece, she raised her head to the ceiling with her eyes closed. The power of the music swam in the air around them and she seemed to draw in what energy she had lost with one deep breath.

She stood up, twirled around, and curtseyed to their applause.

“That was wonderful, Anne.”

“Thank you, Weston,” she said with a sincere smile.

One of the footmen came in to tell the earl, again, that his newest horse had arrived and the groom was awaiting him at the stable.

“Tell him he will have to wait a little longer.” As he spoke, Simon gave his attention to Lady Anne, missing the look of complete surprise on the footman’s usually impassive face.

“Did you not hear him, brother?” Anne asked. “Your new horse is here.”

“Yes, yes,” Simon answered irritably. “The horse will still be there in twenty minutes. For now I should like to hear you play something else.”

“Weston, are you feeling quite well? The last time I played you were restless after five minutes.”

“That was before Miss Stevens told me how important music is to you. You have only to play that piece and all London will be at your feet.”

“Oh nonsense. How do you know? You are deaf as a post when it comes to anything musical.”

He was? There were so many pitfalls when you were trying to be someone else.

“You have been at the brandy already, haven’t you?”

Talk about a woman who could not accept a compliment. Amy decided that Simon needed rescuing and abandoned her attempt to try to blend in to the wall, as any good paid companion should.

“I am sure Lady Anne appreciates your praise.” Amy turned to her patron and knew at once that she had made a mistake.

“I do not need lessons in conduct from you, Miss Stevens,” she said stiffly. “You are not my governess.”

“That was rude, too, Anne,” her brother added.

“Indeed,” she said, the lady of consequence triumphing over the artist. She curtseyed to her brother, as formally as if they had just met. “Thank you for the extravagant compliment, Weston. I shall treasure it always.” She sat down again at the pianoforte. “Now if you will leave me, I am going to continue my practice.”

With a bow and a curtsey, they left the room.

“I’d best go to the stable to see the blasted new horse the earl has spent too much money on.”

Amy turned to face him. “Footmen have ears,” she whispered. “Play your role.” And then added in a louder voice, “May I walk part of the way with you? Lady Anne asked me to see if the roses were ready to be cut.”

As they made their way to the front door, the sound of the pianoforte reached them again. This time it was Beethoven. Angry, almost vicious music left no doubt of Lady Anne’s mood. Well, Amy thought, at least the footman would be entertained.

“No doubt about it, that was my first big mistake,” Amy said. “I am not her governess.”

“Not to worry. You don’t have to face a job eval. That kind of reaction to criticism is a family trait. You’re all but asking for a bloody nose if you tell my brother Will that he’s driving badly or drinking too much. I, of course, am exempt from all the West failings.”

“Of course, my lord.” She was sure he was joking. Pretty sure. “I wonder how her governess handled it. A shame she’s gone.”

“You will find a way back into her good graces. Now toss those worries away and run off to the garden to check the roses, which, by the way, are nowhere near blooming. I think you must have misspoken and meant tulips.”

“Indeed I did.” She watched as he walked off and then turned abruptly for the garden. Please, let no one see me looking at him as though he were a god.

“Fine figure of a man, is he not?”

An old, old woman was tottering down the pathway, coming from the garden. A maid followed her, a basket filled with the tulips that Amy was supposedly on her way to inspect.

“I beg your pardon.” Amy curtseyed, sure that no matter her station, a woman this old deserved the courtesy.

“My nephew,” she said, nodding toward the now distant figure. “The earl is my nephew. His father was the second earl’s brother. The second Earl of Weston was my husband.”

The genealogy was hardly confusing; still, it took Amy a second to reason out who this woman was: the Dowager Countess of Weston. How many more of the earl’s relatives called Westmoreland home?

Amy curtseyed again. “How do you do, my lady.”

“We had no children and so William inherited.”

How disappointing for them. What did one say to a woman who had failed at her only responsibility? Providing an heir. No matter how the modern world saw it, the Regency placed the blame squarely on the woman. “I am Amy Stevens, Lady Anne’s companion for the Season.”

The countess’s pleasant smile became a grimace and Amy’s own smile stiffened. Yet another supercilious aristocrat. She was beginning to have some sympathy for the French, if not their awful method of ridding themselves of the aristos.

“Amy Stevens? What happened to Miss Kemp? I specifically asked Mrs. Braintree to send her.”

“She will come as soon as she can. Miss Kemp was detained.” More likely being held hostage in the twenty-first century. Please, Lady Weston, please leave it at that, Amy prayed.

“Are you related to the Stevens family? The ones who live in those horrible islands north of Scotland?”

“The Orkneys? Yes, my lady, I am.”

“This must seem like Paradise to you then. Does the sun ever shine there?”

“It is lovely here, and I have not been in the Orkneys since I was a child. When my parents died I went to live with my godmother in Yorkshire. It was through her that I came to Mrs. Braintree’s attention.” Maybe she should try her hand at a novel when this was over. Her imagination was in high gear. She was certainly better off than the earl and Miss Kemp.

“I should like to hear about that.” The dowager countess shook her cane at the maid next to her. “Angston, take those flowers to the cutting room. They will wilt if they are not in water soon. You may begin to arrange them. Miss Stevens will give me her arm and I will come to see how you are doing. Then we must dress for dinner.”

It was hardly the third degree, but by the time Amy went up to dress for dinner she was exhausted. She lay down on the cot, only for a moment, thinking over the questions fired at her and the answers she returned. The first few were easy: How old was she? Twenty-four. How had she met Mrs. Braintree? Through the headmistress at the Yorkshire Academy for Young Ladies. Surely there was one. The other questions were more difficult. Who seemed likely to make a match this Season? Were there any ducal heirs or perhaps a marquis? Yes, always. And the best way to meet them was through the mothers and grandmothers who were the dowager countess’s friends.

Quickly, before the dowager could get another question in, Amy had shot one back. “Who did you think we should call on?” It was the perfect question. Soon Amy had a list that would be useful.

Her biggest misstep came when Amy dared suggest that someone with a taste for music might be most suitable.

“Making the right match is not about who likes to hear music in the evening, it is about increasing position and power. You know that as well as anyone, Miss Stevens.”

Amy fell asleep wondering how she was supposed to know that. Because she had no position or power except what was given her by her employer? How could servants stand that kind of dictatorship?

She dreamed of a world where love and lust were fueled by power, where a man could claim you with only money as a measure of his worth as a husband. Loyalty, honesty, generosity meant nothing. Where sex between married strangers was little more than mating to ensure the same game would be played by the next generation. It was a nightmare.

“Miss, miss, you must wake up.”

Amy surfaced from the heavy, too-short nap.

“It’s Martha, miss. I have your dress and am sorry I have taken so long. I promise you will not be late.”

The maid hurried her through her toilette and then led her down to the dining room.

Simon was waiting, as were the rest of the dinner guests. He did not look at her as she came in. A well-dressed man had his complete attention. Amy guessed that the woman beside him must be his wife.

Stepp announced dinner the moment she arrived. It saved her the effort of trying to figure out whether she should simply sit unobtrusively or join the conversation as an equal. More than one person had made it clear she was not.

The group that sat for dinner was eclectic. The earl, the dowager countess, and Lady Anne were to be expected. Besides herself, there were five others, all unknown to her though it was easy enough to figure them out. There was the portrait artist who wore his badge of honor—a smear of paint on the collar of his cravat. Then there was a hearty man, dressed in a flamboyant style. He was introduced as a cousin who acted as the estate librarian. Judging by his appearance, he seemed an unlikely bibliophile.

There was one more relative, the first earl’s brother, a very old man, who held the title of chaplain.

The estate steward and his wife made up the last of the group. They were a delightful couple who seemed on comfortable terms with the family. Mr. Smithson was the gentleman Simon had been talking to when she came into the room. He had the Weston smile, which left little doubt in Amy’s mind that he was some relation to the family.

By the time the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, it was clear that despite the egalitarian nature of the meal, everyone knew whether they belonged above or below the salt. She followed the ladies into the large music room and found a corner where she could observe.

This world did not seem to welcome strangers with neither money nor rank. She had known that from her novels, but living it was decidedly frustrating.

Was the British aristocracy still like that? Or had the tax structure and industrialism been the great equalizers? As fascinated as she was by Simon West, she could not imagine living in a world where your value hinged on something less than ability.

Conversation was desultory while the ladies sipped tea. The dowager countess prosed on about the virtuous Miss Kemp, while Lady Anne played some light, vapid tunes, even as she absorbed every word her aunt was saying.

It was Mrs. Smithson who came to sit beside Amy. “As you can tell from our dinner companions, the earl is very kind to his relations and his staff. He will not turn you off without finding another post for you.”

Which translated to “he might be a dictator but he is a benevolent one.” “Do you think that is what will happen? Is the dowager countess deliberately undermining my influence with Lady Anne?”

“Yes,” she answered bluntly. “For all her charm, the dowager countess is willful and still wants things run her way. The earl has made it clear that the estate is his. Lady Anne is in a tug-of-war between them.”

Amy did not know whether to be worried or not. Hopefully her stay would be short enough that she would not become a point of contention between the countess and her supposed nephew.

The gentlemen joined them for tea, the earl the last one to come into the room. He ignored her and for a moment Amy worried that it was the real earl and not Simon. She tried to catch his eye and when she did he winked at her. It made her smile and she pursed her lips when she saw the librarian looking from one to the other of them.

The arrival of the men was a signal of sorts. Lady Anne stopped playing and the whole evening sped up. Fresh tea arrived instantly and in less than thirty minutes it was gone and the good-nights were said.

It was not yet bedtime. What did people do? She decided that with the moon still full she would take a few moments to walk outside. Her brief almost-visit to the garden had been all she had seen of the estate grounds.

With a word to Martha Stepp and her assurance that Lady Anne would be playing in the small music room, Amy grabbed a shawl and found her way to the side door that opened onto a patio and down to a path that would ensure she would not get lost.

A moment later, she heard someone behind her. Her dress was the color of the leaves so she stepped into the trees and watched to see who it was. Simon came along, not in a hurry, but moving as though he was looking for her.

“Simon,” she whispered, “I’m over here.”

He turned sharply.

She stepped away from the tree and curtseyed. “Is it not a perfectly gorgeous evening?” She drew a deep breath of the sweet spring air. “It feels like twenty-first-century Ireland on a good day.”

He laughed, drawing a deep breath himself. “Clean, and sweet, with only a hint of damp. You’re right.”

She went to him and they fell into step together.

“And quiet,” she continued. “So blessedly quiet. Without that constant hum of electricity, not to mention leaf blowers, and traffic. I think the quiet is my favorite part.” She stopped and spoke to his back. “How did you know where I was?” she asked, only slightly distracted by his broad shoulders and the way his Regency-era jacket emphasized his fine body.

“I asked and one of the footmen told me he had seen you leave,” he said, facing her.

“Can anyone keep any secrets here?” They looked back toward the house where they would still be visible from the upper-floor windows. They resumed walking.

“So far we’ve done pretty well.”

“Think about it, Simon. Westmoreland is huge, but one is rarely alone. Footmen and the rest of the gang of servants outnumber the residents. Both the servants and your family must feel as though they are always playing before an audience. And after a while it becomes second nature. How often do the people here let their true selves show? This experience has completely ruined my fantasy of Regency life.”

“Which was?” he prompted.

“A world where the ladies shopped and drank tea and had nothing more to worry about than what novel to read next.” She twisted a flower from a stem and twirled it as they walked. “Now I know that in between tea parties they worried about producing an heir, whether they would catch pox from their faithless husbands, if their children would survive infancy…”

“Except for the particulars, it’s the same in our time.” Simon took the flower from her and tucked it in her hair. “You have one face for the world and keep your worries to yourself.”

“Like you did when you thought I was a con artist.”

“Right. Both of us have a lot to learn about each other, don’t you think? Secrets to share, if you will. Which only goes to prove that details may change, but man remains the same.”

They came to a fork in the path and Simon nodded to the left. “This way, it’s a bit of a walk but worth it.” The turning put an end to their conversation. Amy marveled at the way he listened to her, treated her ideas as though they had merit.

Moonlight lit the way, the treed path giving way to a clear hillside. Now she could see their destination.

“It looks like the Jefferson Memorial!”

“I guess it does,” he said. “It’s called a ‘folly.’”

“Oh! I’ve read about them. I’ve always wanted to see one.”

She ran a little ahead of him. He slowed and watched as she stopped in front of it. In her green dress she stood out against the moon-bright white of the folly, the slight breeze pressing her clothes against her. With her hands clasped together she looked like a windswept supplicant before the temple of a god.

He wanted her. He wanted all of her. Her mind, always questioning, always interested. Her heart, so open and generous, and her body, so soft, so welcoming. He had always made light of his parents’ story—now he understood how it could happen.

When he was beside her, he waited a moment, watching her watch the play of light on the façade. Finally, she looked his way, and he decided to tell her exactly what was on his mind.

“Did you know that my father proposed to my mother on the night they met?”

“Really?”

He could tell by her smile that she thought that was romantic.

“What did she say?”

“That’s not the point,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too much like a teacher correcting a student. “The thing is that he knew the minute he met her that she was the one.”

“Which means she said no to him.”

“True, but now that he’s gone she tells us that she wasted two whole months that they could have been together.”

Amy was quiet for about a second. But not silent. Her eyes told him as surely as words that she understood the feeling. She spoke with a laugh. “Wow, that’s off the chart on the romantic scale. And you might be right about it not taking more than a touch to know you’ve found the one. You have to admit, though, these are not the usual boy-meets-girl circumstances.”

He walked up the steps, into the folly’s one room. He could hear Amy following him. When he faced her, she was looking out over the vista, down to the river. “You’re right about that. This is not the usual. As a matter of fact, I can’t recall anything as strange. Except that time I drove by this outdoor photo shoot. It was the middle of winter and a Victoria’s Secret model in a teddy jumped into my car and told me to turn the heat up.”

“Awful pun.” Amy let go of the vista and gave him her full attention as she grimaced, then laughed out loud.

He loved that laugh, so he went on. “I proposed to her right away, like my dad had. Didn’t work. So I learned my lesson and am waiting until we know each other for at least a few hours.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh yes, I am. After that first kiss, is there any doubt left?”

“Just a little,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He’d always thought that love would blind him to all but the beloved. He had never understood that it would be all-consuming in a completely different way. With her body pressed against his, her mouth teasing him with kisses along his neck, all he could think of was Amy Stevens. No other woman came to mind, no other love tickled his memory. Amy was his touchstone and his world.

She pressed her lips to his and his thoughts were flooded with a storm of sensations. There was nothing but the feel of her, the taste, the scent, the gift. It swirled though his brain, his body, his heart.

Holding her back in his arms, her breasts pressed against him, he could barely hear her over the thunder of his need. He lowered his head and kissed the sweet, smooth skin where the bodice of her dress barely covered her breasts. Her moan was all the encouragement he needed.

He pushed the dress down and edged the chemise aside. Her welcome was a sound of pure delight that enchanted him, made him want to give endlessly. They shared the pleasure of learning the other’s secrets, undressing each other; their own heat was warmth enough even on this cool evening.

It was magic and madness until need eclipsed feeling.

“There’s no bed here, Amy.”

“We’ll find one next time. Please don’t stop,” she begged.

He smiled as he used his jacket to protect her from the cold stone wall at her back, promised more with a kiss and filled her with passion as fully as his heart filled her with love.

The night wrapped them with its quiet. Simon matched his breathing to hers, felt the beat of her heart, the warmth of her around him, and knew a moment of perfection. No words were needed, as a lifetime of possibilities opened before him.

“I noticed you the minute you came through the pub door. When you ignored the football game and sat down I thought I knew it was more than looks. Amy, that was even before I saw the coin.”

“Your smile, Simon. It was your smile that made me think that I wanted more from you than a few words.”

They shared kisses with their confessions, but Simon could feel the air cooling and knew that they had to find their clothes and walk back to the house.

Dressing in unfamiliar clothes in the dark was a process as absurd as it was arousing. By the time Amy had her stays tied and had helped Simon into his close-fitting jacket, they were both cursing and laughing and swearing that valets and maids earned every pound of their pay.

As they walked back to the house, Simon suggested a plan. “At least it is fully dark. Less chance of discovery. You go in through the large music room. Can you find your way from there?”

She nodded.

“I’ll go on down to the barn and check on the status of my new horse. He really is a beautiful animal,” he said as he turned her to face him. He smoothed her hair and drew the shawl around her. “Much too high strung for my tastes. Good to know that the third earl died in his sixties from a lung inflammation and not as the result of a riding accident. I’ll see if I can surprise any of the grooms gambling.”

He kissed her, a quick touch on her lips, the kind any longtime couple would share. It was anything but casual for her, reviving every fine memory of the last hour. She could feel him watching her to the door, where she turned to wave him on.

It could not be much later than nine o’clock, not what one usually thought of as the dead of night, but the house seemed so still and quiet it might as well be midnight. As she made her way past the library, she saw the light under the door and wondered who was still up or if the light was left on until the earl retired.

The stairs were a gray marble and easy to see. She skipped up them quick and quiet. The sound of the pianoforte drifted from the small music room and Amy knew that Lady Anne was still practicing. Was the endless practice her way of finding privacy? Where did she escape to in her music?

One more long hallway and she was at the door to Lady Anne’s suite of rooms. She might not be Lady Anne’s maid, but she thought it would be best if she remained dressed and available until she came up for bed. There was a full mirror in the corner of her sitting room and Amy used it to make sure she did not look as though she had just come from a romantic tryst.

No amount of hair brushing or shaking of her skirts could erase the softness from her eyes or the fullness of her lips, and if she did not stop smiling, she would be called a simpleton.

She found a chair in Lady Anne’s sitting room, near the single lit candle, leaned back, closed her eyes, and yawned, part glorious fatigue and part the exhaustion that came with dealing with the oddest day of her life.

I wish we could find that coin. Simon could give it to Martha to give to the earl and they could find a way home. She picked up the book that was at hand. It was a work of art in itself. Lovely leather binding in dark blue, lovely gilt edging on the pages. Before she could do more than admire the workmanship, the sound of arguing came from the bedroom. Amy recognized Martha Stepp’s voice. The other was definitely not Lady Anne.

“I found it. I found it on the floor in the conservatory and it’s mine. It’s no proper coin anyway.”

“It may well be yours, Florrie, but we must ask the earl first. Give it to me.”

“You are not the housekeeper. I do an have to.”

“Florrie! Give it to me, this minute.”

“I wish you would get what you deserve, Martha Stepp!”

As Amy made sense of the conversation she was out of her seat and at the door as quickly as possible, still too late to prevent the wish. The moment before she pushed through the bedroom door, the other door opened and Lady Anne came into the sitting room.

“And on whom, may I ask, are you eavesdropping?”

“No one, Lady Anne. They were arguing and I wanted to see if I could help them.”

The bedroom door opened and Florrie raced out of the room, her apron raised to cover her face. Even with that protection, the sound of gulping tears was unmistakable.

“What is this, Martha?” Lady Anne asked at her most demanding.

Martha was red-faced. “I’m so sorry, my lady. Miss Stevens. This is not the place for such a thing. I do beg your pardon.”

“For what, Martha?” Amy asked. “Florrie ran out of the room in tears. Surely that was not your fault.”

“She found a coin today and insisted it was hers. I told her that she had to first show it to Mr. Stepp and the earl to be sure it was not of some importance to them or one of the guests.”

“Where is this coin?”

Martha came toward her, but as she handed it over she bumped the small side table. The music sheets that Martha had left there earlier in the day fluttered off and into the fire. It did not take Lady Anne’s cry of distress to make Martha reach into the flames to rescue them. Amy was one step behind, but could do nothing when Martha dropped the flaming music sheets. They fell on the chair nearest the table. Lady Anne’s nightrobe was there and it and the chair began to flame.

Amy grabbed the flower vase from a table nearest the window and poured the contents, both tulips and water, on the fire, stopping it before it had a chance to spread. The final insult was the splash of water that soaked the hem of Lady Anne’s elegant evening dress.

“That is the last straw, Martha Stepp. You are dismissed. Clean this mess up and pack your things.”

Martha looked stricken. Her face went white. “Yes, my lady” was all she said.

“But Lady Anne, it was an accident.” It was too unfair to blame Martha, Amy thought.

Anne would have nothing to do with her either. “You might as well pack your things and leave tomorrow, too, Miss Stevens. I will wait for Miss Kemp. The last thing I want is a companion who listens at doors or one who does not know who pays her wages.”

The coin lay on the floor, twinkling as it always did. Amy was beginning to wonder if it was a cursed coin and not a magic one. For surely what Martha deserved in Florrie’s mind was not fair at all. Despite the fact that she was still learning to be a lady’s maid, Martha’s loyalty and good nature were unteachable assets.

Following the maid’s lead, Amy curtseyed. “As you wish, my lady. Please, though, the coin is mine.”

“It is?”

“Yes, it was a gift from my father.” Oh right, she forgot, her father was dead. “He gave it to me before he died. It must have fallen out of my bag this morning.”

Martha picked up the coin and made to hand it to her. Lady Anne put her hand out. “I will take it and give it to the earl in the morning. He can decide whose it is.”

Yes! Amy bit her lip to keep from saying it out loud. She could handle being fired if she thought the coin was finally going to wind up in the right hands.

“You can gather your things in the morning, Miss Stevens. Go and have Stepp find someplace else for you to sleep.”

Martha was near tears and left the room without another word. Amy made her way down the front stairs more frustrated than worried. Poor Martha Stepp. With her hopes of being housekeeper so thoroughly crushed, what would she do? How could Florrie have made such a stupid wish? And above all, why had the coin granted a wish that was so wrong, would bring so much pain?

What she needed to do now was find Simon. He was the earl. He could rehire Martha. And she could tell him that they could return home. She would go to his bedroom if she had to. Brave Fancett’s superciliousness. It didn’t matter to her what he thought. Or it shouldn’t.

She stopped at the massive front door, with its smaller inset door, and asked the still bright-eyed porter if the earl had returned from the stables.

“No, miss,” he said, touching his forelock. “I won’t be off duty until he goes up to bed. Then I can lock the door, check all the other locks, report to Mr. Stepp, and go to me own bed. Let the night porter start his rounds.”

“Thank you.” She made her way to the stairs, stopping at the first landing, just out of sight. She leaned against the pillar, then sank down onto the stair, all the elation draining from her. It was positively selfish to be so happy when almost everyone in this house was miserable.

Waiting was torture. Oh, she wished he would hurry. She was having a staring contest with a statue when she heard the small door swing open. She peeked around the column and saw Simon step through.

He and the porter exchanged a few words that had Simon searching the stairs. With a final good-night, he hurried up the steps two at a time, stopping short when he saw her.

She jumped up. “Simon—!”

He pressed a finger against her lips and took her hand. “Let’s go to the library.”

When they reached the top of the stairs, Simon checked to make sure that the hall was empty. With a sign from him that all was clear, they tiptoed into the room and she burst out laughing. “I feel like I’m a teenager looking for a place to make out. Not that I ever did that.”

He swooped her into his arms and kissed her like a pirate claiming a prize. When he let her go, they were breathless. “You are a liar or a natural-born kisser.”

Amy pressed her hand to her chest and opened her mouth, hoping she had enough breath to talk. “Simon, listen, I found the coin!”

He handed her the small glass of brandy he had just poured and, as he quickly filled another, proposed a toast. “Here’s to Amy Stevens!” he sang out. “What a woman.”

I wish that were true. She put the glass on the table. “Simon, we have to find a way to leave. We’ve already had too big an influence on your family’s history.” She gave him a brief account of what had happened upstairs.

He shook his head.

“Don’t you see—?”

“You’re the one who doesn’t see, dear heart. Time travel is not some chance event. We’re supposed to be here as surely as the dowager countess, the artist, everyone who is originally a part of this time and place. We’re as real as they are. What is happening now is exactly as it should be.”

“How do you know that?”

“Arbuckle told us. He said that there are certain things that are meant to be. Man decides how and when they will happen. We are meant to be. The proof of that is you and me. Do you have any doubt that we were destined to be together?”

“No, but I do think there might have been an easier way to do it. And if that’s true, then Martha will get what she truly deserves.”

“We’ve done our job and now we go back so the earl can claim the coin.” He sat down and patted the seat next to him. “Sit here and visualize where you want to be.”

His lack of concern about Martha was like a knife. How could he not be worried about someone who had been wronged! Would it be possible to love someone, build a relationship with him, if his values were so different? Were they moving too fast?

“Both of us have to do this, Amy.” He spoke gently as if he thought her hurt look was pain at the thought of leaving.

“You think it will be that easy?” she asked as she sat close to him, but not touching.

“I think so. I am fairly certain that this settee is the one that is in my study, recovered and rebuilt once or twice.”

She looked at the slightly worn cushions. “Okay, though I do feel bad if some ancestor of your friend Allbryce Stevens comes to visit. My name is mud in 1805.”

“He can disown you, say you were a connection the family does not recognize because of your poor work performance or your loose morals or whatever.”

Is that the way it worked in his social circle? Were servants like the Stepps the only people in whom one found loyalty?

“Then there is poor Mrs. Braintree, who came to call on me in Yorkshire.”

“I feel confident that Miss Kemp will completely restore her into the family’s good graces.”

Amy looked around the room, trying to take in all the details. She had not even been here long enough to write down any of her impressions. Not even twenty-four hours. She should have written down the names of all the paintings. Oh, the painting! How could they have forgotten? “Simon! We won’t find out what happened to the Guardi!”

“I thought of that,” he said, nodding. “Obviously it wasn’t the right wish.” He squeezed her hand. “My other wish, the one I hope the coin will grant, is much more important.” He let her go without further explanation. “It’s time to go home. We have a life to live there.”

The study in London in her time was easy to visualize. She let the room fill her thoughts, the stack of books, the one on the East India Company, the portrait of the third earl, the sleek computer. The huge windows. The smell of old books and history, the constant buzz of London life just outside the window. Would the docent be waiting? It would be so good to be home again.

Nothing happened.

She opened her eyes, terrified that Simon had gone and she had been left behind. No, he was sitting beside her, his hands on his knees, as real as the cushions on which they were sitting.

“What did we do wrong?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“It felt wrong. I was so tired when we traveled before I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

“Right. Same here.”

“What did we forget?” She wasn’t afraid. Not with Simon beside her. “Do we need the coin?”

“No, the docent was quite clear about that. The docent’s wish was to find how the coin reached the Regency. We’ve done that. It makes no sense for us to bring it back to the present.”

They sat next to each other, now holding hands. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if they had to stay here. Yes, it would. She could not stand living in the same house as these small-minded, status-conscious people.

“Could it be…” Simon’s words came out slowly, as though he was still piecing the thought together. “…Could it be that just as we switched places with people so as not to distort the relationship of mass and space and time, things must also switch places?”

“I guess it could be,” she said, after thinking about it for a second.

“What? Stargate Atlantis never covered that?”

“No,” she said, more touched than embarrassed that he remembered that silly explanation. “But your theory makes sense. Our clothes didn’t come with us.”

“The coin did.”

“All right,” Amy said, “so what matters is that the coin is here and we have to take something back with us so we do not cause space and time to come crashing down.”

“Now there’s a nonscientific explanation that totally works for me.”

“So all we have to do is pick something to take back with us. No one would miss a comb or a brush.”

“Right, and we could donate it to the Regency museum.”

“Or, Simon, you could sell it and use the money to keep Westmoreland in good repair. You know, the eating pence and pounds thing?” She looked at the painting and the idea hit her so hard that she jumped up from the settee and gasped. “The painting, Simon! We are the ones who took the painting.”

“What?”

“Yes, don’t you see? We exchanged the coin for the painting. Your family can sell it if you want and have all the money you will ever need to keep Westmoreland in repair and in the family.”

“It’s too much like stealing.”

He was tempted, she could tell, even as he shook his head.

“It is not. Besides, we have to take it. It was meant to be. Don’t you understand? It’s exactly as you said before. We are as much a part of this time and place as the earl and his aunt and Lady Anne and all the rest.”

Simon nodded and then shook his head. “How will I explain that I found a Guardi painting?”

“You’ve been researching all year, for heaven’s sake. Tell them that the earl brought it to town and put it in a safe place and then forgot about it. It’s possible, isn’t it? It wasn’t worth millions of pounds then.”

“Still, it’s a stretch.”

“We can make it work. It’s been owned by your family for more than two hundred years. Lost and now found. Its provenance is not in question. Its validity can be sworn to. They can test forever and all they will be able to prove is that it’s a Guardi painting.”

“You might be right. If we leave it here there is a good chance that the useless fifth earl will sell it. He sold everything else that wasn’t entailed.” He reached up and took the painting off the wall.

“It will look perfect in your study,” she said, “in that space to the right of the door.” She could see it quite clearly in her mind’s eye. “You’ll see it every time you leave the room.”

She heard his “Yes, I can see it there, too,” but was so overcome with fatigue that she sank onto the nearest chair and fell asleep before she could reply.

 

There was no mistaking the sounds of London at night. A distant siren, the sound of a trash pickup woke him and the scent of hot tea roused him as surely as a cock crow in the country. It was not daylight yet, even if the city was awake. He could feel Amy beside him. Her eyes were closed, her body restless with a time traveler’s dreams. Bits of his dreams persisted, an aching sense of loss, a euphoric victory, despair so deep that death would be easier, the relief of love trumping all. There were no details, only the sensations. Was this his life? Could he be that blessed?

Light from his desk lamp gave the room shape and shadow. He watched as Amy opened her eyes, a long tear moving down her cheek. He kissed it. “We’re home, Amy,” he whispered and felt the anxiety drop from her. She turned her head and kissed him, still sleepy-eyed. It was more sweetness than desire, more warmth than fire, more love than passion. The perfect welcome home.

The kiss energized them both and they sat up as one. Simon saw the Guardi on the floor, lying face up, looking exactly as it had in the library at Westmoreland.

“Are we alone? Where’s Mr. Arbuckle?” Amy asked.

Simon stood up and went to turn up the desk lamp, though he was sure they were the only ones in the room.

“The portrait, Simon. Look.”

“What? It looks the same to me.” He walked closer to it and tried to see any changes. The coin glimmered—golden—the model train sat nearby, the earl still looked intent. “What do you see that I’m missing?”

“No, no, you’re right. Nothing has changed.”

He heard the relief in her voice and understood, even as she explained.

“I was so afraid that we had messed with history,” she confessed.

He had to admit he was relieved as well. Not that he hadn’t believed it when he told her they were meant to be in 1805 as surely as Lady Anne and Fancett were. To his way of thinking, a bit of uncertainty was man’s greatest strength, not a weakness.

“Did you make tea for me? How sweet.” Amy stood up, stretched, and oh, did the glimpse of her skin distract him. She made her way to the tea table.

“Sorry, not my doing. The smell of it was so familiar that it didn’t occur to me to think of it as odd.”

Amy raised the pot to the painting. “Thank you, my lord.”

“More likely, ‘Thank you, Miss Kemp,’” Simon corrected. “I might have only been the earl for twenty hours or so but I can tell you brewing tea would never occur to him.”

She poured for both of them and only hesitated a moment before taking a sip. “Tastes normal.”

“Right, but if there is a magic elixir in it, don’t you think that the sorcerer would be clever enough to have it be tasteless?”

“I saw that episode of Angel, too, though I find it hard to believe it’s a show you’d be into.”

“No, it’s not, but a friend of mind had a part. The kind of role where you die before the third commercial.”

She sipped the tea. “This is so weird, Simon. We’ve been to 1805 and back and now we’re talking about a television show. Do we just go back to our normal lives?”

“I bet there are records at Westmoreland that have never been studied. I imagine the Stepps have some as well.”

He went over and picked up the diary of the nineteenth-century Mr. Stepp. “You do realize that the entry about the ‘accident’ and the dismissal of the servant was a reference to his daughter, Martha, and the fire.” He held out the notebook.

“Wow. Of course,” Amy said, taking it from him and holding it against her heart as if it were worth her life to protect. “Where do you think the docent went, Simon? I wish there was a way we could find out.”

She went to hand the old notebook back to him when a piece of paper fell from it. Amy picked it up and handed it to Simon with a pained expression on her face. “Did a page fall out?”

“No, this is a letter. One I’ve never seen before.” He scanned it and then smiled. “Amy, listen to this:”

They were both silent a long time.

“Do you think he time traveled?” Amy asked.

“Or was he a ghost?”

“That could be. He always did have that fey quality. Like he would disappear until he was needed.” Silence settled between them again. Simon was sure that Amy’s thoughts were on the docent. His most definitely were not.

“Oh, Simon, I know you don’t care that much, but I want to know what happened to Martha. And what did the earl and Miss Kemp do while they were here?”

“What makes you think I don’t care?” he asked, as surprised as he was offended.

“You were so casual about the mess we left behind.”

“To be honest, at the time I was more worried about us returning to the right place and time.” Simon pointed to the painting. “I expect that the earl figured out that investing in trains was a sound financial move. And that miniature. I’ll bet money that it’s Miss Kemp. As for Martha Stepp, I do care. But it wasn’t our job to make her wish come true. Now that we are safe, we can spend the rest of our lives finding out the answers.” He put down his cup and took her hand. “Darling girl, listen to me.” He took her other hand in his. “We is the important word in that sentence. I hope you don’t want to go back to your old life any more than I do. Who can I talk to about ghosts and time travel? No one else will believe it.” That sounded way too practical. Don’t bugger this, Simon, old boy. “Amy, I love you. I want you to be part of my life. I want to marry you.”

She didn’t give it more than two seconds’ thought. “No, Simon, I’m so sorry. It wouldn’t work. Our lives are too different. Our stay in the Regency proved that to me. You’re Simon West of Westmoreland and I’m Amy Stevens from Topeka, Kansas. You go to Ascot and I go to Disney World.”

“I’ve never been to Ascot.”

“Then Wimbledon or—”

That was so nonsensical he cut her off. “Amy, I teach kids in one of the worst parts of London, in a school founded to give them a chance. The bartenders at Earl’s Place earn more than I do. The only time I’ve ever seen either prince is on the telly. Our lives are more alike than you think.”

She took a step back from him. Skepticism did not become her.

“Right,” he conceded. “Don’t marry me tomorrow. Hang around a bit, meet my mum. See what my life is like.”

The tears in her eyes gave him hope. “I have to leave next week. There’s a wedding I can’t miss. I’m the maid of honor.”

“Then invite me to the wedding. I’ve always wanted to see the fruited plain. Does Kansas have any amber waves of grain? My school leave ends in three months. What do you say?”

She laughed. “I think you’re insane. You thought I was a complete liar when we met and now you want me to marry you. It’s too soon. We haven’t known each other two days.”

“Amy darling, we’ve been together for two hundred years.” And if that did not convince her, his kiss did.