A Twist in Time (Kendra Donovan #2)
Julie McElwain
With much love to John and Tammy,
who always have my back.
PROLOGUE
The woman fought a shiver as she scampered down the dark back alley, her footfalls echoing hollowly on the cobblestone. She grimaced, wishing for a more silent approach. But there was no way around it. Get in, get out, she reminded herself. Her fingers curled around the collar of her serviceable wool coat, clutching it close to her throat in a vain attempt to ward off the night air. It was uncomfortably moist, thanks to the dirty brown fog that had rolled in earlier from the Thames.
God willing, her brief return would not be noted by her mistress. Soon she’d be back at her sister’s flat, safely tucked in the trestle bed with a hot brick to warm her feet for the rest of the night.
As she approached the servants’ entrance at the back of the Grosvenor Square town house, she withdrew the heavy iron key from her reticule. From the nearby mews stables, the snuffle and snort and shuffling of horses drifted across the alley. In the distance, a night watchman’s voice was a lonely warble as he called out the hour: “Eleven o’clock . . . and all’s well.”
Squinting—it was so bloody dark here with no torch or lantern to light the way—she inserted the key into the lock, and had to bite back a gasp of surprise when the door immediately creaked inward a few inches. She could’ve sworn they’d locked the door when they’d been told to leave earlier. She vowed that her mistress would also never hear about the shoddy security.
Hurriedly, heart thumping, she slipped into the hall and shut the door behind her. For good measure, she threw the thick bolt. Only then did some of her anxiety ease. Even though it was as dark in the hallway as it had been in the alley, she wasn’t concerned. She knew every inch of this place, and so didn’t bother to light the tallow candles stored in the mahogany cabinet next to the wall.
She moved quickly now down the shadowed corridor. Only when she reached the foyer, well-lit from the many candles flickering in the two-tiered crystal chandelier, did she pause. The light that dispelled the gloom should have been comforting, but she felt exposed.
If my mistress should see me . . .
Her heart, which had calmed since entering the townhouse, began again to beat painfully against her breastbone.
Get in, get out.
Caution slowed her footsteps as she crept to the bottom of the staircase. There, she stopped and held her breath, straining to hear any noise. Nothing. They were most likely already in the bedchamber, she decided. She only needed to be quick about her task. Letting out her breath, she lifted her skirts and scurried up the stairs, no longer afraid about making noise—the thick woven rug that ran the length of the steps would absorb her footfalls.
She hesitated again when she reached the top of the stairs. Like a woodland creature scenting danger, she glanced in the direction of the drawing room. The door was open, allowing amber light to pierce the shadows of the hall.
She pivoted in the opposite direction, toward the narrow stairs that would lead her to the servants’ quarters on the third floor. Get in; get out.
She would never be able to explain why she didn’t go about her business, why the light from the drawing room seemed to beckon her. For a moment, she swayed in indecision, her gaze darting back and forth from the servants’ stairs to the drawing room door. If her mistress caught her spying, she’d be dismissed without references for certain. Against her better judgment, she picked up her skirts and stole down the hallway to the doorway.
Silently cursing herself for her foolishness, she held her breath and inched forward. Her heart thudded harder. Just a quick peek . . .
The next second, her breath whooshed out of her lungs. She stumbled back, her heel catching on her skirt. As she fell, she was already screaming.
1
Sam Kelly did not consider himself a particularly superstitious man. However, as he sat in the Pig & Sail, a popular tavern with Bow Street Runners such as himself, thanks to its short distance to Bow Street Magistrates Court rather than the quality of its whiskey, the back of his neck prickled with an eerie sense of impending doom.
London Town had always been a brutal city, but tensions had been rising ever higher since England had won the war with Boney, finally exiling the little tyrant to Saint Helena. Sam would’ve rather seen Napoleon hang—or his head roll from la guillotine, like so many French aristocrats had during their bloody revolution twenty years ago. It didn’t seem fair that the bastard had been sent to live out the rest of his days on a tropical island, while honorable Brits shivered in late September’s cool climate.
In England, it should’ve been a time of jubilation. But there were too many returning soldiers, and the scarcity of work had put the entire country on edge. The recently passed Corn Laws didn’t help matters either, sending the grain price soaring beyond the means of honest, hardworking folk.
Sam stared morosely into the glass of hot whiskey he cupped in his hands, enjoying the warmth from the glass seeping into his fingertips, and ignoring the laughter and talk of those crowded around him in the smoke-filled room. Times were changing, he thought. Every day seemed to introduce some new machinery that could do the work of ten men. He didn’t side with the Luddites—a bunch of ruffians, if you asked him, smashing the new power looms and weaving machines, burning down factories, and causing general mayhem—but he sympathized with their plight, with their frustration and fear that the machines were taking away their ability to earn a decent living.
He’d read that some handcrafters had even ended up in the workhouse—if they were lucky. Otherwise, it was debtors’ prison. London was a powder keg, he knew, waiting only for a flint spark to set it off. Where would it all lead? How would people survive if machines took over?
“Oy, gov’ner! Are ye Sam Kelly?”
Sam lifted his gaze to the small urchin who’d materialized next to his table. He thought the lad looked familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. The city was fair to bursting with smudge-faced urchins. “Who wants ter know?”
“William Drake sent me fer ye. ’E wants ter see ye.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Will Drake?”
“Aye. ’E’s a night watchman.”
“I know who he is. What does he want?”
“Yer the thief-taker Sam Kelly?”