Roses in Moonlight

chapter 10





Derrick looked up as Emily pulled the door shut behind her. He had to admit he was perhaps rather more grateful to see her than he should admit to. There was something about her ability to walk into any situation and take charge that was unaccountably soothing.

She wasn’t his cousin by blood, but she might as well have been. They had spent part of their youth together when she hadn’t been in France, she as the granddaughter of Madame Gies, the Cameron cook, and he as the grandson of old Alistair Cameron’s valet. Never mind that his grandfather had actually been Alistair’s cousin. When one threw the current laird Robert’s genealogy into the mix, the family tree became very convoluted indeed. But he was grateful, as he always had been, for family, no matter how distant the connections.

“You look as if you’ve had a difficult day,” Emily said, sinking down on the couch gracefully. “I can watch over your charge for a bit if you’d like to go rest before dinner.”

“Good,” Derrick said shortly. “I’m liable to kill her if I have to have anything else to do with her.”

“What you need, mon cher, is a lesson in manners.”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, Emily. Thank you very kindly for coming to my rescue tonight. I’m assuming you brought clothes.”

“For you both, though you don’t deserve them.”

He would have smiled, but he was too damned tired to. “I daresay I don’t.”

“Go have a little rest,” she said, pointing to the doorway of the other bedroom. “Behave better when you’ve finished.”

He rose, kissed her hand, then thanked her very kindly before he walked into the other bedroom and shut the door. He knew he should have snatched what sleep he could, but all he could do was pace. The things that were currently causing him stress were so many and so varied, there was no possible way he would manage to even close his eyes.

Before he had truly begun to wear a trench into the carpet, a knock sounded on his door. He walked over and opened it to find Oliver there, gear in his hands. He took his own pack that he’d given to Oliver on his way through the time gate as well as Samantha Drummond’s that Oliver had obviously collected from her hotel.

“Anything interesting?”

“I just shoved her gear into the pack, mate, I didn’t paw through it.”

“Leaving that to me?”

“You don’t pay me enough for that sort of work,” Oliver said, straight-faced. He started to go back out the door, then turned and looked at Derrick. “Several lads outside are showing more interest in your doings than’s polite, if you’re curious.”

“I was. Thank you.”

Oliver shrugged. “Happy to be of service. Any news about the item of interest?”

“She stashed it.”

“Where?”

“Under a planter.”

“Hope no one thinks to water anytime soon.”

Derrick decided that it was best not to reply.

Oliver nodded toward his arm. “That doesn’t look good.”

“It just needs a wash.”

Oliver walked over, ripped off the sleeve of Derrick’s T-shirt, then sliced the sleeve into a strip with a knife he produced from his pocket. He tied it around the wound. “Shall I ring Lady Sunshine?”

Derrick wasn’t sure he would ever get used to calling his sister-in-law that, which was probably for the best. She never would have answered him if he had.

“Nay,” he said, through gritted teeth, “the throbbing will subside soon enough. A clean shirt will do the trick for the moment.”

“Make it a dark one.”

“I thought I would.”

Oliver frowned at him. “I’ll be around,” he said, starting out the door. “Perhaps closer than I intended.”

“Be careful.”

“I always am. I might sleep for a couple of hours, if you think you’ll be doing the same.”

Derrick supposed he had no choice, even if it meant sleeping on the floor in front of the doorway so Samantha Drummond didn’t escape during the night. He nodded, promised Oliver he’d text him in the morning, then shut the door and locked it. He changed his shirt, wincing at the pull in his arm, then decided that perhaps it wasn’t too late to ring someone whose advice he valued.

The phone only rang twice before the call was picked up.

“Ah, Derrick, lad,” a male voice said, sounding pleased. “Schedule’s freed up for a little adventure, is it?”

“I’m afraid not, Jamie,” Derrick said. “I rang you for advice.”

James MacLeod purred. If there was anything he loved, it was to immerse himself fully in the role of elder statesman on whatever subject might come up. “I’m prepared to hear about anything.”

Derrick had no doubts that was true, or that Jamie had heard just about everything at some point in his life. “I’ll be brief,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any rumors about Lord Epworth having a piece of lace go missing.”

“What I heard was he had a fit when you broke into his very secure hall and lifted said piece of lace from practically under his nose in fifteen minutes.”

“It was actually eight and a half,” Derrick corrected politely. “It would have been eight, but I had to stop and tickle the Pomeranian under the chin and feed him his favorite doggie treats.”

“I suppose we can all be relieved you haven’t chosen a life of crime,” Jamie said dryly. “Very well, so the lace has gone missing in truth this time. I’m assuming you’re hunting for it?”

“Aye,” Derrick agreed. “It’s just where it’s gone missing that’s presenting a bit of a problem.”

“Tell me about it.”

Derrick could just imagine Jamie settling comfortably in his expensive leather chair in his thinking room, as he called it, and flexing his fingers purposefully.

“In brief,” Derrick said, “it was given to a courier who managed to lose it in Elizabethan England.”

“Interesting.”

“She put it under a planter.”

“Hope it was wrapped well.”

Derrick pursed his lips. “That thought has occurred to me as well.”

Jamie clucked his tongue. “I don’t think I need to tell you how perilous it is to leave two of the same thing in the same place.”

“How perilous?”

“The deviation from the natural order of things might not be so noticeable at first,” Jamie said slowly, “but I’m not exaggerating when I say that the fabric of time becomes . . . hmmm . . . let’s say it becomes disturbed when things are added that shouldn’t be there.” He paused. “In some cases, when it comes to individuals perhaps, I have come to believe that those additions were meant to be. But when it comes to tangible things—”

“Bad?”

“They have a way of turning up where they shouldn’t and the result is never pleasant. Do you remember that fellow traveler we acquired during that trip a couple of months ago?”

“Vividly.” They had spent a week on board a Victorian frigate with a C. S. Forester nut who had heard a rumor about Jamie’s familiarity with time periods not his own and had been determined to test its veracity. He had followed them back in time, then continued to follow them onto the ship. It was only when he succeeded in poaching the captain’s sword that they had realized who he was and what he was up to.

And, well, Jamie was right. That sort of thing belonged in its proper time and place. He and Jamie had had a hell of a time getting the sword back where it belonged. They had managed, again just barely, to also get the would-be Horatio Hornblower back to the current day, but the man had eventually had to be institutionalized.

Time travel wasn’t for the faint of heart.

“I’d pop back and get it, were I you.”

Derrick could see the wisdom in it. “There’s just one problem,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure that the woman who stashed the lace will come along. And I’m not sure I want her to.”

“Can she give you directions?”

“I don’t think she will, even if she could,” Derrick admitted. “I think I could find it myself. She didn’t venture too far afield.”

“Then what’s the trouble?”

Derrick hardly knew how to voice his thought, but he hadn’t called just to chat. “I was thinking,” he began slowly, “that perhaps if I used a gate to simply go backward a day, just to yesterday, and managed to get the lace back from her before all this madness . . .”

Jamie made a noise that wasn’t quite disapproval, but it was definitely warning.

“Have you ever tried it?” Derrick asked.

“Aye,” was all Jamie said.

Derrick waited, but Jamie didn’t say anything else. It had to have been terrible, else he would have described the experience in minute detail. Derrick sighed.

“Very well, I’ll go back to the proper time myself.”

“Want company?”

Derrick smiled. “I think I’ll manage, though I’ll try to send word if things go awry.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the Tower inmate list.”

Derrick would have laughed, but he didn’t suppose he dared. “That would be very kind.”

Jamie laughed a little. “You’ll be fine, laddie. We’ll go have ourselves a goodly adventure somewhere safe after you’ve restored old Epworth’s treasure to him.”

Derrick thanked Jamie for his help and rang off. He considered, wished he hadn’t ditched his Elizabethan costume, then decided there was nothing to be done about it. He would scrounge something out of a rubbish bin, perhaps, and see if he couldn’t find the treasure. He couldn’t lay claim to many skills, but he had a very good sense of direction. He would retrace Samantha Drummond’s steps, then see what he could find. With any luck, he would run across her phone as well.

He told Emily he was going out, then left the suite.

• • •

Two hours later, he was sitting back on the couch, suppressing the urge to indulge in colorful language. He had sent Emily home courtesy of Rufus, who also never seemed to sleep, then settled down to brood. That he hadn’t slept very well in a pair of days most likely contributed to his foul mood. The fact that the gate hadn’t worked was also adding to his unhappiness.

He turned his mind back to the problem at hand, namely figuring out how to get back in time to rescue Epworth’s lace. Perhaps he had to have Samantha with him. Perhaps he would never get back to where he needed to go and the lace would languish back where it had come from, though now there were two copies of it where there should have been just one. The fabric of time would be forever marred and Jamie would frown. Derrick supposed he would have deserved it if Jamie had suggested a wee trip out to his training field where he could show his displeasure by using Derrick’s gut as a resting place for his very well-loved Claymore.

The other bedroom door opened, startling him. He looked up to find Samantha Drummond standing there, dressed in clothing he was sure she never would have bought on her own. She had gone from looking about forty to looking like she was scarce sixteen. She was wearing jeans, a trendy shirt, and a sweater that he would have bet good sterling was cashmere. He would get a bill for the entire outfit, he was sure.

She was, he had to admit dispassionately, rather pretty now that she was out of her librarian’s gear. Her hair was still behind her—in a braid, no doubt—and she still exuded an air of a woman who had grown up in the relative safety and innocence of the 1950s, but that only added to her charm.

Of course, he wasn’t interested in her in more than a purely academic way, but he was a man, after all. It would have been impolite not to at least look.

She looked at him, lifted her chin, then marched over to pull her bag up off the table. She pulled it over her head, then continued her purposeful march to the door. She stopped in surprise at the sight of her backpack sitting there next to it.

“Where did this come from?” she asked suspiciously.

“It was fetched for you.”

“I don’t suppose I should bother asking how you knew where to go get it.”

“I don’t suppose you should.”

She shouldered her backpack, muttering under her breath what he was certain were very uncomplimentary things.

“They’re still out there, you know,” he said mildly.

She paused. “Who?”

“Those two lads who were searching for us in the fair today,” he said, “as well as another two who have apparently decided to join in the fun.”

He heard her quick intake of breath. It wasn’t quite a gasp, but it was close.

“You’re lying.”

“Test it and see, if you like.”

She had her hand on the door and was wearing what she no doubt considered to be a look of fierceness. He would have smiled if he hadn’t suspected her of nefarious deeds. Then again, she didn’t look at all capable of nefarious deeds. She looked like a fresh-scrubbed, wide-eyed Yank who was completely out of her depth.

“You know,” he said slowly, “we might both be served by something to eat. I think I could order us dinner that wouldn’t be poisoned.”

She didn’t move. “And if I rip the phone away from you and start screaming?”

“I’ll have the concierge ring the bobbies and they’ll lock you up in Bedlam.”

She turned to look at him. “You’re bluffing. You don’t have Bedlam anymore over here.”

“I think there might be worse things.” He looked at her evenly. “I don’t think you want to test it.”

She pressed herself back against the door. “Where’s Emily?”

“I sent her home.”

“If you think I’m going to stay in this room for one more minute with you—” She paused for breath. “You’re crazy.”

“The alternative is, I assure you, much worse.”

She glared at him. “I don’t know you well enough to dislike you, but I would if I did.”

“You were couriering a piece of lace stolen from one of my clients by your employer,” he said with a shrug, “and that makes you rather unpopular with me.”

“I already told you,” she began through gritted teeth. “I had no idea that lace was in the package!”

“But you were willing to carry the package—”

“Well, of course I was,” she said, looking at him as if he were the one who was daft. “The Cookes are friends of my brother’s and I’m working for them. Lydia asked me to run that embroidery down to London for her, so I said yes. What else was I supposed to say?”

He sat back and studied her for a moment or two. “You could have asked her why she wanted it delivered.”

“It’s none of my business why she wanted it delivered,” she said in frustration. “I’m working for them. I’m house-sitting for them all summer. She was giving me a chance to see a few sights before I’m trapped in Newcastle for the next three months.”

“And it didn’t occur to you that she might be up to something?”

Her mouth fell open. “She and her husband are very reputable academics. They’re Shakespearean actors, for heaven’s sake. What’s more reputable than that?”

Derrick shut his mouth before he answered. His opinion of actors was something he was probably better off not voicing.

He studied her for a bit longer. He didn’t like to give any potential thief the benefit of the doubt, but he also could say with a fair amount of certainty that he had a finely attuned BS meter. He could spot a liar from across a ballroom. The woman in front of him might have been a Yank—and she could hardly help that unfortunate circumstance of her birthplace—but he was almost positive she wasn’t lying. He wasn’t willing to commit to that fully, because that mucked up his neat-and-tidy solution to his lace problem, but he was willing to consider it.

He studied her for a moment or two longer, then leaned forward. She opened the door, but didn’t go out into the hallway. She only looked at him as if she fully expected him to jump up and throttle her. He held up his hands.

“I think I’ve misjudged you,” he said slowly.

She looked at him suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means just that,” he said carefully. “Why don’t we have supper in this place that’s safe and we’ll discuss it.”

She peeked out into the hallway, then looked back at him.

“The devil you know,” he offered.

“I’m not sure you’re an improvement.”

“I might be when you consider that those lads there haven’t bought you supper or offered you a safe place to sleep.”

“You threatened to call the cops on me,” she said. “Oh, and I forgot about Bedlam.”

“We don’t have Bedlam anymore.”

“You said you have worse.”

“I might have lied.”

She clutched the doorframe. “I’m finding that quite a few people lie.”

He leaned back and tried to look as harmless as possible. After all, he needed her to get where he was going.

“They do,” he agreed, “but I don’t.”

“Ha,” she said, though she seemed less eager to bolt than she had been just a moment earlier. “Spoken by one who’s been lying about his identity for the past three days.”

He blinked. “What?”

“In Newcastle, in York, at Hedingham, on a couple of trains?”

“You’re imagining things,” he said dismissively. “Many people take trains to London.”

“Via Sudbury?” she said pointedly. “First as a Brit, then a Canadian, then a German, then a scruffy-looking nobody?” She looked down her nose at him. “Your German is lousy, by the way.”

“And yours is very good,” he conceded without hesitation. “My fault, I suppose, for choosing amiss. What else do you speak?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

He shook his head. “Trying to distract you so you’ll shut the door and I can order supper.” He leaned forward. “Miss Drummond, I give you my word I will not harm you. If you’ll shut the door and come sit, I’ll be completely frank with you. Perhaps there is a way out of this mess for the both of us.”

She considered. Apparently good sense prevailed because she finally shut the door, though she didn’t move away from it. She simply looked at him.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Lord Epworth trusts me. What does that tell you?”

“That you might be a criminal who has turned his life around,” she said without hesitation. “You might be a very good criminal, which doesn’t say much about your character.”

He sighed. Perhaps he was getting old, or tired, or jaded, but there was just something about the woman that shouted innocence. If she’d cheated on a test and lasted ten minutes without a full confession, he would have been surprised. He stood and gestured toward the sofa.

“Leave your gear, Miss Drummond, and please come sit. Let’s see if the kitchen is still willing to prepare something for us to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

She looked at him for another moment or two in silence, then she set her backpack down by the door. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I haven’t eaten very much today.”

“Let’s remedy that.”

She crossed the room, then sat as far on the opposite end of the sofa from him as possible. He fetched the menu, had a look for himself, then handed it to her. She named something very small indeed, which surprised him a little.

He was beginning to think he had seriously misjudged her.

He ordered enough for four people, then sat and shifted to look at her.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked, because that was what interested him the most.

“Set of your shoulders,” she answered absently. She had picked up the menu again and was obviously adding things up in her head. “I’ve fitted my father’s costumes for years.” She glanced at him. “I’d suggest shoulder pads in your jackets, but maybe you don’t want to go that far.”

“Most people aren’t that observant.”

“I’m not most people.”

“I’m beginning to suspect that.”

She looked at him then, bleakly. “I feel like I’ve fallen into a bad dream and can’t wake up.”

“Trust me,” he said, with feeling, “I understand.”

“I’ve never been kidnapped before.”

“I’m not kidnapping you now.”

“I don’t hold your driver responsible,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him, “because he’s probably just doing what he’s told to save his wife and dozen children.”

“Living in Dickensian squalor,” Derrick said wryly. “And he only has four, all grown up and moved on.”

“You know, for all I know, you’re a thug who just wants that lace,” she continued. “Maybe you stole it in the first place and this is all an elaborate ruse to get it back from the unsuspecting patsy.”

“You read too much.”

“Prove me wrong.”

He started to tell her he absolutely wouldn’t when he realized he had basically said the same thing to her. He rubbed his hands together, not because they ached, but because he was tired and needed something to eat.

“I could tell you what I do for a living.”

“How about you show me instead,” she said pointedly. “A website for your business. Maybe a business card.”

He shook his head slowly. “Don’t have either. We’re very exclusive.”

“Most high-end thieves are.”

“And you would know?”

“I can read the news, just like everyone else. And who’s we?”

He supposed he owed her that at least. He sighed lightly, then attempted a smile. “Let’s begin with introductions—”

“After all we’ve been through?” she asked. “Why bother?”

He considered. “I saw that Elizabethan ghost in the great hall at the Castle.”

Her eyes almost bulged. “You didn’t,” she breathed. “Really?”

“Really,” he said. “He did good work on your boyfriend.”

“Dory’s not my boyfriend.”

Then the wench had at least some amount of taste. He looked at her seriously.

“My name is Derrick Cameron,” he said, “and I am the, ah, owner of Cameron Antiquities, Ltd.”

“The Ah Owner? Is that something British I don’t understand?”

He was torn between scowling and smiling. “It’s a recent thing.”

“And you’re not comfortable with it yet.”

“Actually, no, I’m not,” he agreed.

“What sort of business is it you’re uncomfortable with?” she asked. “Or should I not be curious?”

He lifted an eyebrow briefly. “We deal in the very rare and hideously expensive. Antiques, mostly.”

“Would my brother know you?”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m afraid he would, but I wouldn’t suggest you go to him for a character reference.”

“Steal something filigreed from him?”

“Salt cellars,” Derrick clarified. “And I didn’t steal them. I used my impressive powers of persuasion and vast amounts of charm to convince the owner to give them to me instead of to your brother.”

“That couldn’t have been too hard,” she said with a snort. “Gavin has no charm and a lousy personality.”

“But he drives a hard bargain,” Derrick said. “He wasn’t pleased.”

“He rarely is.” She assessed him. “Did you give this Lord Epworth the lace in the first place?”

“I sold it to him, aye,” Derrick said. “It came from a private collection.”

“How did you know it was in this private collection?”

He shrugged. “I like old things, so I accept any invitation to view antiques people are proud of. I keep those in mind, on the off chance the knowledge becomes useful. When a potential client thinks of something he or she wants, they contact me and I get it for them.”

“Always?”

“Almost always.”

“Why are you so competitive?”

“I have a brother.”

“That answers that, I suppose.”

A knock saved him from explaining that further. He rose, swayed, then cursed silently as he made his way across the room. He was going to have to do something about his arm, and sooner rather than later. He opened the door, waited until room service had done its bit, accompanied of course by one of the assigned flunkies whose job it was to see that his every need was catered to, then happily collapsed in a chair in front of food that smelled thoroughly edible.

“Your shoulder is bleeding.”

He would have argued with her, but she was right. He sat back and sighed, hoping he wouldn’t bleed on the upholstered chair. Samantha frowned, then reached for a plate.

“What do you want?”

What he wanted was a very long night’s rest followed by a day where he didn’t wake with a headache and didn’t know that the bulk of his work was still in front of him, not behind him. But she was talking about food. He sighed.

“I don’t care, really. You choose.”

She filled his plate, set it down in front of him, then helped herself. Derrick ate, because there was nothing in the world that would stop him from filling his belly. He realized, though, that Samantha was spending more time watching him than she was doing the same.

“What?” he asked.

“Those were real swords.”

He considered, then nodded. No sense in not telling her the truth. She’d seen ghosts. Maybe the rest wouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

“In a street fair?”

“I don’t think that was a street fair.”

She put her fork down. That was probably wise, given that her hands were shaking. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Remember that Elizabethan ghost?”

She nodded uneasily.

“Strange happenings here in England,” he said. And Scotland, he added silently. He added it silently because he didn’t think there was any point in burdening her unduly.

“What kinds of strange happenings?”

“This part might be hard to believe.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “How hard to believe?”

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “What sorts of things do you consider to be unbelievable?”

She considered. “Well, I managed to get myself to a country where my parents don’t live, which seemed pretty unbelievable at the start. Then I took a little job and wound up with a priceless piece of Elizabethan lace in my purse, which also seems pretty unbelievable. Is it worse than that?”

He nodded.

“Worse than ghosts?”

“Maybe on the same level.”

She had a sip of water, but it didn’t go all that well for her. He imagined the tablecloth would survive and her jeans would dry.

“Go ahead,” she said, her voice breaking. “Lay it on me.”

He decided there was no sense in not being honest. She would have to find out eventually.

“You left the lace in Elizabethan England.”