Shades of the Past (5 page)

“Yes, my dear. It’s quite fascinating, isn’t it? Someone said it was a play on first names, but I couldn’t say for certain.”

“Really? Who told you?” Laura was keen to find out all she could.

Jenny’s father smiled. “It was probably Gulliver Harcourt, since he appears to be the font of all wisdom in Great Deveril.”

“Gulliver Harcourt?” Laura queried.

“The area’s resident know-it-all,” Jenny supplied a little acidly.

Her mother frowned. “Don’t be unkind, dear.”

“Well, he may be supposedly confined to that electric wheelchair of his, but he manages to be everywhere like a rash.”

Her father laughed. “I know what you mean,” he agreed.

His wife was cross with them. “Poor old Gulliver’s just lonely, that’s all, and he goes out to meet people. But you’re right about one thing, he was the one who told me about the names.” She looked at the carving. “I’ve tried to think what names they could be, but I can’t come up with anything, except perhaps something hippie like Moonbeam and Harvest Spirit.” She laughed.

“Celina and Blair,” Laura murmured.

Jenny’s mother didn’t hear. “It was also Gulliver who told me the house was once much bigger. We didn’t believe him until we found the engraving. Goodness, is that the time?” She looked at her husband. “Come on, we’d better get on with things. Jenny, you look after Laura. You know which room she’s to have, so take her there when you’re ready, then you can both enjoy a leisurely dinner. The entire menu is yours to choose from. It’s a pity Alun isn’t here at the moment, but Denise, his protégée, certainly is and will, I’m sure, live up to our Michelin stars.”

A little later, Jenny showed Laura to the beautiful second floor room set aside for her. It was situated at the end of a corridor, with views to the front of the building, and was clearly among the best the hotel had to offer, unless one had a suite. Furnished in soft shades of blue and cream, it enjoyed every modern comfort while maintaining the original Georgian furnishings and atmosphere. It was a warm and luxurious haven from the dismal January evening, which in this part of the house could be heard blustering beyond the double-glazed windows.

There was an antique four-poster with slender pillars and powder-blue brocade hangings, but thankfully it had a sumptuous modern mattress for any exhausted guest who’d tried the hotel’s truly vast range of leisure facilities. The large marble en-suite had gold fittings, and a large whirlpool bath Laura would have killed for in the Berkeley Square apartment.

A painting above the marble mantelshelf showed the local countryside in more clement weather. It was a watercolor of a woodland scene, with an unmistakably Cotswolds landscape in the background, and had been painted when bluebells carpeted the ground. Leafy shadows dappled a track leading toward a lightning-blasted oak tree that dominated the scene, and it had all been so skillfully painted she could almost smell the flowers. She didn’t doubt it was a scene from somewhere in the immediate neighborhood, for she was sure that the church spire on the hill in the background was the landmark she’d spotted earlier.

The watercolor was soon forgotten as she took a quick dip in the whirlpool bath, and then dressed to join Jenny for dinner. After a meal that more than lived up to expectations, and for which Denise, a petite brunette from Bath who was far more formidable in her kitchen than her appearance suggested, was personally congratulated, the two friends enjoyed a glass of Cointreau in front of the fire in the Fitzgeralds’ private apartment.

Jenny leaned her head back. “This is the life, eh?”

“It’ll do,” Laura replied with mischievous understatement.

“Do you miss the States?” Jenny asked suddenly.

“Well, I would, except the States equals Kyle McKenna.”

“I thought you were over him.”

“Oh, I guess so, but I’m still mad as hell that I was such a fool. He’s a remake of Don Juan, but it took me a year to realize it!”

“The one it matters to most is always the last to find out.”

After a moment Laura grinned. “The sex was great, though. Until Kyle, I had no idea I was so carnal. I guess I should thank him for teaching me a thing or two in that respect.”

Jenny gave a disbelieving snort. “Away with you, Laura Reynolds. You’re a natural-born daughter of sinful passion, and
you
probably taught
him
!” She looked at Laura. “From the photo you showed me, he seems very good looking.”

“Not as good looking as—” Laura broke off, for she’d almost compared Kyle with Blair Deveril!

Jenny raised a sly eyebrow. “Go on. Not as good looking as...?”

“Oh, no one in particular.”

“Out with it, Miss Reynolds. I know that right now you’re not thinking of Kyle.”

Whether it was the Cointreau or the atmosphere, Laura was suddenly tempted to describe the odd things that had been happening to her. She wanted to brave the flying saucer factor and confide, but the phone rang.

Jenny got up to answer it, and almost immediately her face went pale. “Oh, God! When? How bad is he?”

Laura sat up in concern.

After a moment Jenny replaced the receiver, and there were tears in her eyes as she turned. “It’s Alun. He’s been hurt in a car crash. That was the hospital in Dijon. I have to go to him.”

“Yes, of course. I—I’ll find your parents.” Laura hurried out.

Jenny’s father insisted on accompanying his distressed daughter to France, and rang the airport to book immediate flights, while her mother did what she could to offer comfort and reassurance. Laura felt a little in the way, and took the first chance to speak to Mrs. Fitzgerald. “Look, you don’t want me hanging around now. I’ll go back to London first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, no, my dear, I won’t hear of it. You were invited here, and here you’ll stay. Besides, I’ll be more than glad of your company.”

“If you’re quite sure?”

“Absolutely certain, my dear, although, of course, you’ll be on your own a great deal. If that bothers you, and you’d rather return... ?”

“I wouldn’t mind staying,” Laura said quickly, a little ashamed of herself because she knew Blair Deveril was a little too prominent in her thoughts.

“Then stay you shall.”

So that was that. Within an hour of the phone call, Jenny and her father had set off for Heathrow Airport, and Mrs. Fitzgerald had returned to her duties at the hotel.

When Laura went to bed that night, she snuggled in the bed, hoping there would be encouraging news waiting for Jenny in Dijon. Surely fate wouldn’t be as cruel as to— No, she wouldn’t even
think
it! Laura turned over and curled up again, listening to the January wind moaning outside. She could hear rain dashing against the glass. And music and voices.

Music and voices
? Slowly she sat up. There were definitely a lot of people somewhere close by, and an orchestra playing what sounded like a minuet. It could be a TV, except her room was at the end of the corridor and she knew the one next to it was unoccupied. So where were the sounds coming from?

Puzzled, she threw the bedclothes back and got up. When she looked out into the passage there was silence, but when she closed the door again, the voices and music returned. Maybe it was something from the ground floor. She crossed to the nearest window and leaned out into the rain, but the sounds faded into oblivion once more.

More puzzled than ever, she returned to the bedroom, where the sounds were loudest, as if there was a reception or something going on in the next room along. But it was the end wall of the house, so she knew that couldn’t be. Could it? Gradually she realized the sounds came from beyond the tall pedimented double doors in that very same end wall. The tall pedimented
what
? She stared, for there hadn’t been doors there earlier, and besides, any doors would lead to a sharp drop into the cold night air!

A tingle of expectation began to seep into her. Was this to be another close encounter? Could she actually go through those doors into the past, when the house had extended well beyond her room? Even if she couldn’t go through them physically, could she perhaps take a peek? She hesitated, but then thought of Sir Blair Deveril. She wanted to speak to him, know him. Touch him. Maybe he was beyond those doors right now.
Open them and see, Laura Reynolds. Go on, take a chance.

She walked toward the wall, and with each step the voices and music grew louder. Her hands trembled as she reached out, then her fingers closed firmly over one of the handles. The moment she touched it, both doors swung back to reveal a dazzling but crowded ballroom, and she wasn’t merely an observer this time, but a participant. She was among the line of guests who’d just ascended a grand staircase to wait for their names to be announced by the master-of-ceremonies at Marianna Deveril’s twentieth birthday ball. So her Regency self
had
been invited after all!

Chandeliers glittered and wall sconces flickered as guests in early nineteenth-century clothes assembled for the occasion. She glimpsed herself in a gilt-framed wall mirror, and gasped, for she was elegant and beautiful in a delightful magnolia silk ball gown. Her arms were sheathed in long white gloves, and a fan and sequined reticule dangled from her wrist. Her hair was pinned up with pearl strings, and several ringlets fell from a plaited knot. There was a wedding ring beneath her left glove, because this
alter ego
was now the widowed Mrs. Reynolds. Several people in the queue had already been startled by her resemblance to Celina Deveril. Quizzing glasses were raised and fans concealed whispering lips.

Stephen spoke beside her, his voice only just audible above the noise of the ball. “Oh, God, how I detest myself for being in Miles Lowestoft’s grip…and for every other stupid thing I’ve done in my useless life,” he added, running a nervous finger around his fancy neckcloth.

“We’re both in his grip,” she observed. She liked Stephen in spite of his wrongdoing where Marianna Deveril was concerned. He’d been little more than a charming rogue, but was now hopelessly devoted and desperately determined to merit Marianna Deveril’s love.

He managed a rueful smile. “I’m indulging in self-pity. Forgive me.”

“What if Sir Blair doesn’t find me suitable for this post?”

“He will.”

“I wish I were as confident. My resemblance to his late wife may not count for me, but against,” she murmured, glancing around. She noticed large ice blocks placed among ferns on special stands to take heat from the air as they melted, but the night was still so hot the ballroom windows had been thrown open to the starry May sky. She was just wondering how so much ice was obtained in summer, when their names were announced.

“Mr. Stephen Woodville, and Mrs. Reynolds.”

There was an immediate stir as more and more people saw a woman who appeared to be the ghost of the late Lady Deveril.

Stephen’s hand moved over hers on his sleeve. “Let’s to it, I suppose,” he breathed, summoning a bland smile as they went down the shallow flight of six steps to the ballroom floor.

For a moment she felt panicky, and glanced nervously back over her shoulder. What if she couldn’t return to her own time? What if she were forced to stay here in the past forever? But as they reached the foot of the steps she quelled the fear by reminding herself that so far she’d been able to return easily enough. There was no reason to think she couldn’t this time as well, so she walked on with Stephen, but with each step she became aware of attracting more and more interest. She could hear the rustle of whispers, and several times was sure she actually heard Celina’s name.

The minuet was still in progress, and Stephen’s hand tightened over hers as he nodded toward the crowded floor. “There’s Marianna. The
petite
brunette in the gold satin gown. She can’t have heard us being announced, or she’d be looking this way. Her partner is Alex Handworth, the numskull she’s to marry.”

Laura glanced where he indicated. Marianna Deveril’s darkly elfin beauty was set off perfectly by her golden gown. Her long-lashed brown eyes were large and expressive, and her hair was cut short at the back with a becoming tumble of forehead curls at the front. She seemed such a picture of innocence it was difficult to believe she’d fallen so far by the wayside last summer as to surrender her all to Stephen.

Her future husband was an angular young man with straight brown hair, a receding chin, and a questing nose. He hardly glanced at his future wife as they danced, and when the minuet came to an end, he immediately went to join a group of friends—not that Marianna appeared to mind, on the contrary in fact, she clearly breathed a sigh of relief.

Stephen whispered suddenly. “That’s Blair going over to her now.”

Laura saw again the devastatingly handsome man she’d spied upon so reprehensibly. Seeing him with others made her realize he was taller than she thought, and even though he smiled warmly at his sister had a distinct air of melancholy and danger. He made Byronic heroes spring to Laura’s mind, and—if such a thing were possible—he improved each time she saw him.

Regency Laura, knowledgeable in such things, assessed his clothes. His superb black velvet evening coat had to be the work of one of Bond Street’s finest tailors, his white gloves of the best glover, and the elegance of his neckcloth must have taken his valet an age to achieve. His grace of manner would have set him apart even at London’s Carlton House or the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, and there wasn’t a man present who came even close to him for looks or style. Yet as he raised his sister’s hand to his lips, he seemed unaware of the fascination he exerted over the many ladies glancing in his direction.

He turned to offer Marianna his arm, and for the first time his gaze fell upon Laura. He faltered, and his brown eyes widened with shock. His reaction was so marked his sister, who hadn’t seen her, looked inquiringly at him. He indicated the new arrivals, and Marianna’s swift joy on seeing Stephen was swiftly replaced with astonishment because of Laura.

Blair’s gaze was unwavering, and Laura felt its steady intensity as surely as if they were the only two people in the ballroom. She could sense his confusion, and in that moment knew once and for all exactly how much she resembled his wife. Only someone who was an almost perfect likeness of Celina Deveril could arouse such a stunned reaction in her grieving widower.