Belmary House Book One (3 page)

He opened his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to drive off the slight headache he got every time. And then he swore, long and viciously. Moonlight streamed through the open curtains to reveal a nearly empty room.

He knew instantly he was in the twenty-first century by the electric light switches and lack of furniture. Poking his head out to see boxes stacked to the ceiling along the entire length of the hallway confirmed it. He hated this time.

There was nothing for it but to find out the exact date, and he stomped downstairs, knowing the place would be empty at such a late hour. For some unfathomable reason— he was never able to stay long enough to figure it out— his family had lost the house and it was now in this shocking state. He knew people came during the day to paw through the things, and some of them dressed up as if they were from his era, which amused him to no end. But no one ever stayed much past dark, and by the look of the sky, it was quite late.

A few lights glowed at the bottom of the stairs and he slowed his steps, irritation almost canceling his relief to be out of the warzone time. Tiptoeing past the lit room, he saw a studious looking fellow hunched beside one of the ubiquitous glowing boxes, a velvet tray of miniature paintings at his side. Bugger. Who could that be, at this hour?

The man never glanced up and Ashford slipped into the next room, silently closing the door behind him, and rushed over to the computer there. He liked computers, they were quite convenient, but he hadn’t worked one in a while and it took a moment of poking before it hummed to life. As usual, he was amazed at how quickly the information he desired was right in front of him. He would love to find a way to take one back with him, but he’d have no way to run it, sadly.

As soon as he saw the time and date in the corner of the screen, he snapped open his notebook and found a path to where he needed to be, then made his way stealthily back to the bedroom. He was filled with relief that he could still get to the teacher, and wouldn’t have to hide out here. In fact, he needed to hurry, or he’d miss the portal opening. As he raced up the stairs, he felt the relieved smile that spread over his face. His luck, which he’d been certain had completely run out during the nightmarish weeks in 1940, seemed to have returned in force.

“Nice try, Wodge,” he muttered, the thought of the man making his smile disappear.

If it had been Wodge who tried to end him by trapping him in a time that rained bombs, his cowardly duplicity had failed. Ashford hadn’t seen or heard from the weasel in so long he’d relaxed his guard, and while it could have been poor luck and not anything shady on Wodge’s part, he didn’t believe it. He’d been using the portal too long, too many times, to get stuck like that.

He was so busy brooding over what Wodge might have done, he didn’t notice he now shared the hallway with an alarmed looking woman. She was dressed in a very small, form fitting black dress and it made him feel like a cad, but he swept his eyes slowly up her long, creamy legs, tamping down the rise of lust that swept over him. Bloody twenty-first century. This woman probably wasn’t dressed out of the ordinary in any way, these probably weren’t even her underthings.

Her face went from shock at his own appearance to a mildly annoyed acceptance of how he was dressed. It hit him that this must be Miss Saito, whom he needed to escort back to her own time. He squinted in the dim hallway. Dark hair, medium height, pretty. That was all he really recalled of the desperate woman he’d met only once, as he’d tried to explain to her what had happened and that she would be stuck in this time for a while until he could get her home.

He’d never seen her since, though he’d been able to leave messages for her in the few minutes he was able to occasionally grab in this particular year. The woman standing before him fit the description perfectly, and he didn’t relish what he was about to do.

According to his notes, it was too early, unless he dragged her through at least four different years over the course of several months. She’d been waiting so long to get home already, as much as she’d hate him for leaving her now, it would be better to stick to the original plan and come back for her at the agreed upon time.

He apologized and got past her into the room before she could raise a fuss. He could already feel the portal, and could tell he needed to hurry. He got into the corner just as it was closing, the chill feeling colder than usual and the headache hitting him sharply in the temple.

“Bloody hell, that was a tough one.”

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as he stumbled forward, hitting his shin and nearly tripping over a brocade ottoman.

A few blinks brought everything into focus and he swore again, clearly not in the right time. Based on his knowledge of his house’s furniture throughout the ages, he was more in the late eighteen hundreds. Which wasn’t right at all. He flung open the thick drapes to find it was daytime, and studied his book in the sunlight. He hadn’t calculated wrong, and the portal had been open when it said it would be, but hadn’t led him to the time it said it should.

He could almost hear Solomon Wodge’s obnoxious laughter and used all his self control not to smash something. It wouldn’t solve anything, and as tired as he was, he had to keep moving. He could feel the portal and knew he could try again, but he hated traveling blind.

“Stay or go,” he said, pacing around the room, looking for clues. “Should I stay or should I go?”

A frightened scream made its way through the door and he sighed, the urge to break something almost undeniable. He looked wistfully at the corner of the room, then against his better judgement, made his way toward the shrill sound.

At the end of the hall he turned to the main stair landing to see a young housemaid being ruthlessly beaten by a drunken idiot. One of his, no doubt, the current owner of the house. He barely paused to wonder how someone related to him could be so repulsive, then noticed the girl’s split lip and nose gushing with blood. He knew this girl, she was a sweet lass. There was nothing she could have done to warrant a stern tone of voice, let alone this beating. He also recognized the butler, Harris, who ineffectually tried to get the lout to stop, but he merely ignored him and hauled her up by the collar of her dress, silencing her wails by throttling her.

“I say, that’s quite enough.” Ashford clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder and shook him.

“Who the bloody blazes are you?” The man kept his grip on the girl’s neck, but turned his unfocused eyes on Ashford.

Even if he belonged here, the man was so drunk he wouldn’t have recognized him. With another sigh, Ashford punched him sharply in the nose, unable to stop the tiny bit of satisfaction he felt when the man’s eyes rolled back and he slumped to the ground with a heavy thump.

The girl stumbled back sobbing, and Harris threw his arms around him. Ashford clapped him on the back, filled with happiness. He loved this particular time. He had a window of six years where he knew all the people who worked in the house, and they were remarkably helpful and unafraid. Sometimes, in the rare instances when he explained his situation to people, they became suspicious, fearing he worked directly for Satan. A good lot of the time he wasn’t completely certain that wasn’t the case, due to all the misery his strange ability caused.

“What year?” he asked through the bone crushing hug.

“`92, and perfect timing, Lord Ashford,” Harris said, letting him go at last and pumping his hand. “I thought Adelaide here was a goner for certain this time.”

Adelaide let out one last sob, kicked her unconscious employer in the ribs, then rose to curtsy to Ashford. Ashford nodded a greeting and tipped her chin back to inspect her injuries.

“He made advances again,” she hiccupped, looking like she wanted to aim another kick. “Usually he’s so drunk he just passes out and I run away, but he was tenacious this time. And I’m not that sort of girl.”

“Of course you’re not,” Ashford said. “Go ahead. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.”

“That and more,” she said, slamming her booted foot twice into his soft bits.

As Harris and Adelaide roughly hauled their drunken master to his bed, Harris asked Ashford how long he would be staying.

“I don’t know. My schedules don’t seem to be working as of late. I just spent three weeks in a time that would keep you awake the rest of your days if I told you the terrible things that happen.”

“Then don’t tell us,” Harris quickly said.

Adelaide crossed herself, swollen eyes wide with fear. They refused to hear a thing about any of the futures he saw, though sometimes the girls asked if certain expensive styles stayed in fashion long enough to warrant buying.

“That’s not normal about your book, is it?” Adelaide asked shyly, as they left his embarrassment of an antecedent passed out on his bed.

“Not normal at all, and I’ll admit it has me concerned,” he said.

They made their way downstairs to the kitchen where he greeted the cook, who was delighted to see him and began plying him with food and tea. He set to work cross referencing dates and times, absently munching on the food that kept appearing before him, and answering their curious questions.

“You haven’t seen a weaselly man nosing about, have you?” he asked, wondering if Wodge had been here recently. “Skinny and mad-eyed, dresses a bit bizarrely?”

It disconcerted him that he’d gone wrong three times in a row now. Of course there were other reasons things could be wonky, but Wodge was his first choice to blame when things went really off-kilter.

The cook dropped her knife with a clatter, her face turning red as she leaned over to pick it up. “Indeed, such a man visited with the current Lord Ashford a week ago.” She looked apologetic to have to use his name in reference to the sot upstairs. “I only laid eyes on him at all because Lord Ashford, er, the other one, made such a clamor in tossing him out, that I had to see for myself what it was about.”

Ashford silently blessed her nosy nature and nodded encouragingly for her to continue.

“He was just as you describe, with tartan trousers and a wild red coat, and the strangest boots I ever did see. They had laces and a star on them. And as agitated as the master was, this man was completely calm, as if all the venom spewed at him didn’t bother him at all.”

“What was your Lord Ashford saying to him?”

She frowned, and a tear welled up in her eye. “Oh, you have to know how we wish you were our Lord Ashford.”

Harris and Adelaide backed her up by bobbing their heads vigorously. His heart filled with warmth at their loyalty, even though he felt he didn’t deserve it. Of course they thought he was a magical, heroic entity since they only caught glimpses of him now and then. His own servants weren’t nearly as impressed with him.

“Thank you, all of you. You’re very special to me as well.”

He smiled at each of them, wondering if he could somehow get the current owner shipped to America and slide into his place. Ah, what a fantasy, to leave all the problems of his own time behind. Of course he’d be tormented by guilt and new problems would arise, that was just his lot in life. At least he had the comfort of these kind folks whenever he passed through.

“But what was the ruckus about with this man? Did you hear his name?”

“Yes. It was biblical, I think.” The cook screwed up her face.

“Solomon?”

She brightened. “Yes, indeed, that was it. And his surname was Blodge or Nodge?”

“Wodge?”

“Oh, sir, could it have been? I do think it was. Is this the man you’re wondering about, then? Is he a bad man?”

Ashford laughed. “Well, he wants me dead, so I’m not overly fond of him.”

“It looks like our Lord Ashford used his only bit of sense in sending him away, then,” Harris said.

“Yes, he definitely made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything Mr. Wodge had to say. It was mostly his usual stream of rude epithets as he sent him off, nothing to say what he wanted.” The cook shrugged sadly.

“Thank you. It’s marvelous you saw him at all. It could be he only wanted in the room with the portal. Please keep an eye out for him in future, and if you’d be so kind as to write down the dates and times, that could help me in finding him. And if you get the chance, feel free to shoot him as well.”

As the three blanched, he laughed to show he was joking about the last part, though he knew they would probably go so far as to murder for him if he’d been serious.

They nodded, and he told them to continue their duties so he could find a path to 1671 to get the unfortunate teacher back to his proper time, still hopeful he could do that and save Miss Saito as well. He didn’t think he could handle Wodge having any kind of victory. It was one thing to mess with him, Ashford was used to dodging threats to his life, but he wished Wodge would leave the innocent bystanders alone.

The poor people who accidentally stumbled into an open portal were just victims, but Wodge insisted on continuing to target them. Ashford clenched his fists in frustration, glad he got to punch the drunk twerp who currently owned his house, and almost wishing the man would wake up and come looking for more.

“How will you explain it when he wakes up?” he asked, nodding his chin at the rooms above.

“Oh, he was so far gone he won’t even remember he got hit,” Harris said breezily. “I’ll send Adelaide to her mother’s for a few days to make sure, but he most likely won’t recall she was involved.”