Down the Rabbit Hole

“Dear God, Wes, that would be like announcing to the ton that you are on the verge of bankruptcy. Have you thought of marrying an heiress?”

“An heiress? Never!” Weston answered, more sharply than he intended.

“Very well.” Ian held up his hands as if in surrender. He stood up. “Feel free to call on me anytime, Wes. I will help you in any way I can. Indeed, I may even know someone interested in the Rembrandt.”

“Thank you, Ian.” Weston took the hand his cousin offered and clapped him on the shoulder. “No need to rush into it. I will think on it at Westmoreland. Who knows, something miraculous might happen. Yes, a miracle. Something that neither of us can imagine.”

Within a quarter hour, Ian was off to his lodgings and Weston was bound for the country. Eight hours more and the earl was less than ten miles from Westmoreland. The carriage rumbled on in the moonlight.

He wouldn’t be traveling in the dark much longer. Only a few miles more. The moon was full, the roads were safe, and he had a pistol if he was wrong about that.

He spent most of the trip leaning against the cushions, pretending to himself that he could doze off, but he’d spent the whole of the trip considering ways and means of righting the accounts. In a half-dreaming state, his head was filled with ideas from sensible to bizarre.

Weston fingered the round locket in his pocket and wished the future had a different look. One where he and Alice faced it together, with enough money to make her every wish come true.

He drew a deep breath and a sudden lassitude overcame him, dragging him to sleep just when he thought he might never sleep again.

CHAPTER ONE

“What the blazes is going on?” A hard thump had awakened him.

Weston’s first thought was to have a word with the coachman, but when he opened his eyes he wondered if his last visit to deal with the estate’s debt had done the job and he was ready for Bedlam.

He was not in his coach at all, but in the library of his town house in London.

He’d left London. He was sure he had. Weston could recall his conversation with Ian and his final words to the majordomo. “Send the overdue bills to Herbert.” His man of business knew what to do, and it would not be wise to let the staff know how much to let he was. Not with his sister’s come-out within the next year.

Now that seemed to be the least of his worries. As he straightened, he realized he was seated on the sofa, and that there was someone next to him.

And another man stood nearby, wringing his hands in a way that was not at all reassuring.

“Answer me, man. What the devil am I doing in London after riding in my carriage for ten hours?”

“I can explain, my lord. Truly I can. You must calm yourself and allow me to see to the lady. She should be awake by now.”

Weston turned to the person beside him. He’d assumed it was a man, given the clothes worn. Pantaloons. Dark blue pantaloons of some coarse material. He leaned forward a little to see her face.

“Alice?”

Alice Kemp stirred, and Weston shook his head, then checked to make sure he still had the locket. At first he could not find it, as he was no longer wearing a coat, but then he felt it at his hip in the pocket of the strange pants he was wearing, surprisingly like the pair Alice had on.

“Maybe insanity is not the nightmare I thought it would be.” Alice being next to him was a wondrous delusion.

He was speaking aloud but to himself, a sometimes unfortunate habit, and quite naturally, the man thought Weston was addressing him.

“Oh, my lord, I assure you. You are as sane now as you were yesterday. Something most unusual has happened, and as soon as I am certain the lady is well, I will explain it to both of you.”

“Kemp. Her name is Alice Kemp.” The earl took her hand and felt for her pulse. Alice’s hand was as warm and soft as he remembered, and her pulse was not much quicker than a normal beat.

As he watched, her impossibly long eyelashes fluttered, and he smiled at the green eyes he had never forgotten, any more than he had forgotten how she felt against him.

“Weston?” She asked more than said his name, and as her eyes cleared she moved to a sitting position. “Where am I?”

She brushed at the pants with an expression of disgust, if not outright revulsion. “Showing the outline of my legs is very embarrassing.”

“Yes, Miss Kemp, I am sure, but I can explain if you both will give me your attention.” The gentleman was wringing his hands again.

As was typical of Alice Kemp, she went on as if she had not heard him. “Where are we and why am I here?” She looked from the gentleman to Weston. It was not a friendly look. It was more like a glare.

Weston stood up and began to circle the room. The mantel that had needed paint last night was now a green marble. The room looked well-kept and dusted. “Now. I want explanations now.”

The man nodded, a series of short rapid movements that showed he was ready to comply.