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Authors: Hundreds of Years to Reform a Rake

Laurie Brown

BOOK: Laurie Brown



His touch
pulled her
the mists
of time


Copyright © 2007 by Laurie Brown

Cover and internal design © 2007 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover photos © Corbis, Getty Images

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Source-books, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including
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permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously.Any similarity to real persons, living
or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective
holders. Sourcebooks, Inc. is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

FAX: (630) 961-2168

ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-1550-6

ISBN-10: 1-4022-1550-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brown, Laurie

Hundreds of Years to Reform a Rake / Laurie Brown.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-1013-6

ISBN-10: 1-4022-1013-2

1. Parapsychologists—Fiction. 2. Time travel—Fiction. 3. Ghosts—Fiction. I.Title.

PS3602.R72227H86 2007



Printed and bound in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To my dear friend Mary Micheff,

Thank you for the tremendous gift of your help and encouragement, and most of all for your friendship.This book would not
have been possible without you.


I owe a debt of gratitude to those who have helped in the process of writing this book. A special thank you goes out:

To editor Deb Werksman for choosing this manuscript, which is not the same old, same old romance.

To agent Lucienne Diver for believing in this story and in my writing.

To my friends: Mary Micheff for helping with everything, Jeanne Anderson for generously reading pages and offering invaluable
input, Martha Powers and Debbie Macomber for sharing expertise, advice, and a whole lot of laughs during the Shop and Plot

To all of my coworkers at the Poplar Creek Public Library District, especially Patricia Hogan, Darly Doyle, and Sue Haisan,
for being understanding and supportive.

To the fabulous writers of the Chicago-North Chapter of RWA for unfailing enthusiasm and insightful critiques.

And last, but definitely not least, to my family: Jared, his wife Laurie, and the kids for arranging visits around a crazy
writing schedule; Adam for pitching in; and to my husband Brit, who is my real life hero and the wind beneath my wings.


Josie Drummond keyed the final notes on her Castle Waite investigation into her computer. She wished things had been different.
Poor Ms.Thornton had been so positive Josie would certify the existence of a ghost.
Discontinued monitors
, she glanced at her watch,
three twenty-five

As her hand touched the off switch, the sound monitor sputtered to life with a burst of static. Hopes rising, she turned up
the volume instead.Two of the maids chatted as they entered the great hall. Again Josie reached to turn the monitor off but
hesitated when she heard her own name mentioned.

“Miss Drummond is leaving after tea?”

Josie checked her voice printout and identified Emma, a recently hired maid.

“And it should have been sooner, to my mind. With that ghostbuster still here, we’ll have to set for three.” Vivian’s whining
voice was easily recognizable.

Josie hated the term
To those who took her work seriously, she was a paranormal researcher. But eavesdroppers should expect to hear nothing good
about themselves. This wasn’t the first time she’d been called that name, or worse.

“Being as it’s Thursday,we’ll have to drag everything into the library,” Vivian continued. “Never mind that it’s extra work
for me. No one ever thinks of that.”

“I thought the swells always took tea in their drawing rooms.Three? Is someone else coming?”

“Mind you, I’m not one to gossip, but I might as well be the one to tell you. Amelia Thornton is crazy as a loon. Every Thursday,
she entertains the ghost of Deverell Thornton, and
says Lord Waite prefers
tea in the library.”

“You mean him?” Emma squeaked.

Josie pictured the plump maid pointing to the life-sized portrait that scowled down from the landing of the grand stairway.
He was posed casually despite his formal evening clothes; one elbow on the mantle, a nearly empty brandy snifter close by,
and a thin cigar dangling from his long elegant fingers. His snowy neckwear was tied in an elaborate knot as if he were about
to leave for dinner at his club or for a romantic assignation at the opera. Yet his gray eyes held no merriment or anticipation.
His gaze seemed to mock the pretense of posing, to challenge the artist to be unflattering, to dare the observer to look into
his tainted soul. A shiver shook Josie’s shoulders, an echo of the jolt that had ricocheted down her spine at her first confrontation
with his saturnine countenance.

“The ninth Lord Waite, famous for his wicked parties and his lavish generosity to his mistresses, had been killed in a duel
after thirty-seven years of debauched living,”Vivian said, her tone that of a tour guide.“There are those...” she continued,
her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “who claim to have seen his ghost riding to the hounds or striding through
the gallery.”

“Really?” Emma whispered, her tone revealing rapt attention.

Josie turned up the volume another notch. She hoped for details of a recent sighting, names, dates. Maybe the servants knew
more than they’d been willing to share with an outsider.

“I say crazy Amelia is in the library alone,” Vivian said in a superior tone.“Everyone knows a ghost doesn’t take tea.”

The women moved out of range. Josie had set up monitors only where sightings of the ghost had been reported: the great hall,
the library, the drawing room, and the gallery. Listening to conversations was her least favorite part of the job. Next year,
if she got the Burkes-Sheetz Grant for Scientific Research, affectionately known as the BS Grant, she’d buy a new computer
that filtered out identified voice patterns. For now, her company, Paranormal Certification, operated on a shoestring budget.

She unplugged the equipment, packed the instruments in their padded cases, and piled them by the door with her luggage. She’d
pick up the monitors on her way out. Looking around to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, she realized she’d miss the
quaint blue and white bedroom with the old-fashioned poster bed, ruffled-skirted dressing table, and comfortable chaise next
to the fireplace.

Finishing the Castle Waite job early left her with two unexpectedly free weeks. A call to her office in Chicago brought more
unwelcome news. Her next appointment had canceled. Now with five vacant weeks, she really should visit her mother, but then
she would have to listen to the
“your body clock is ticking”
speech. At age thirty, Josie didn’t need reminders. Since breaking up with Richard eleven months, three weeks, and four days
ago, she’d totally immersed herself in her work. Maybe she’d paint her apartment as she’d been meaning to do for nearly a
year. Or purchase some artwork for the still bare walls. Slipcover the old couch that came with the furnished space. One unappealing
plan after another occupied her until teatime.

Josie dreaded the interview with Lady Amelia Thornton because she still hadn’t come up with a gentle way to dash the hopes
of the sweet, apple-cheeked woman who had made her so welcome in her ancestral home for the past three weeks.At precisely
four o’clock Josie presented herself at the open library door. The afternoon sun sparkled through the leaded glass of the
mullioned window, dispelling the gloom of the dark wood paneling and weighty books.

Her hostess motioned her to a Queen Anne chair covered in deep green damask and seated herself on the matching sofa. Amelia
wore a light gray cashmere sweater with a single strand of pearls, an over-the-knee tweed skirt, and sensible shoes, the outfit
that comprised the afternoon uniform of every country gentlewoman past the age of sixty.

“Beautiful day today for September,” Lady Amelia said as she poured tea from a pot shaped like a country cottage. She handed
Josie a delicate china cup decorated with pale pink rosebuds.“Did you get out to enjoy the weather?”

“No, I didn’t.” Josie breathed an inward sigh of relief, but her reprieve was short-lived. “I hate to seem in a rush, but
do you give me the certificate verifying our ghost now, or should I expect it in the post?”

“Actually, I...” Josie hesitated. Quite against her natural inclination to maintain a professional distance, she’d become
fond of the eccentric older woman, even if her conversational leaps were sometimes difficult to follow.

Amelia added a dollop of cream to her cup and settled back into the overstuffed sofa with a wiggle of her shoulders.“I ran
into Ruth Simms this morning at the Altar Committee meeting. I told you about her, didn’t I? She owns Twixton Manor, across
the river, and she said she’s made enough money from her guests to put on an entire new roof.”

Josie knew Amelia planned to open her home to tourists to bolster her sagging financial situation and pay for the much-needed
repairs to the aging castle.“No, but...”

“Of course, her ghost plays the harpsichord. They say it’s Mina Cracklebury. The Cracklebury girls were known to put themselves
forward. No relation to the Simms who bought the manor in 1897; came up in trade you know, and the Crack-leburys were long
gone by then. Did I tell you this castle has been in my family since the first stone bailey was built in 1273?”

“Yes.That was in the history I requested.”Amelia hadn’t sent the usual dry report of building dates and styles, but a rollicking
saga of knights and their ladies, intrepid explorers, and dashing heroes. That was probably one reason why Josie was disappointed
at failing to find evidence. However, she wasn’t one to put off unpleasant tasks in the hope they’d fade away.“About your

“I can’t imagine Deverell playing the pianoforte for guests.Why, I don’t even know if he can play, but surely the ghost of
an earl will have more draw than a baron’s daughter. This would be so much easier if he were...well, accommodating is not
a word I would use to describe him.”Amelia paused to sip her tea. “I’m rather anxious to get started. That nice young man
from the National Trust said the south wing needs immediate work to prevent a total collapse.”

“I know this is important to you.” Josie wished she’d found something, anything to substantiate a ghostly presence.“Unfortunately,
I can’t issue a certificate. I found no scientific evidence to support your claim.You have a delightful home. I’m sure guests
will come.”

“But I’ve seen the ghost, talked to him.” Amelia blinked. Her tight gray curls bounced as she shook her head in denial.

“I’m sorry. I monitored nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe you looked in the wrong place at the wrong time.You could stay longer, try something else.” Amelia leaned forward and
touched Josie’s arm as if the action would hold her there.

“I checked for sound, temperature, and air movement in every room you named.” Josie’s passive sensors even covered the full
electromagnetic spectrum from infrared to gamma and x-rays. There was no ghost at Castle Waite. “I’m sorry.”

Amelia looked away, but not before Josie noticed the glisten of tears.

Josie couldn’t totally rob the woman of the small comfort her delusion seemed to give her. “Maybe he appears only to you.”
She knew it was a sop, but what harm would it do?

Amelia sniffed and straightened her shoulders. “That won’t do me any good in the tourist market. One must have a gimmick to
be successful on the scale I need to restore this castle.”

Josie stood. She was trying to think of some consolation, some way to close the assignment on a positive note, when a sphere
of opalescent light near the fireplace mantle caught her attention. Chimes tinkled as if a breeze teased unseen bells to life.
The ball of mesmerizing light lengthened to a column within which tracings of bright blue electricity and ribbons of rainbows
swirled and twisted around each other, faster and tighter. Goose bumps rose on Josie’s arms.

A clap of sound as sharp as a gunshot startled her. Then the unearthly light coalesced into the figure of a tall handsome
man. Dressed in a navy blue coat, snowy white shirt with a stand-up collar and elaborately knotted cravat, buff trousers,
and knee-high black boots, he looked nearly as solid as if he’d walked through the door in the usual way. When he stepped
forward, the last bit of the shimmering light clung to him like an aura.

She recognized the dark visage, black hair, and deep-seated gray eyes from his portrait. She recognized Deverell Thornton,
ninth Earl of Waite, and ghost of the castle, before Amelia triumphantly introduced him.

is the word that came to her mind, and she’d never used that term to describe a man before.

Josie’s legs buckled, and she plopped back into her chair, her gaping mouth clacking shut. She’d built her career on the supernatural.
She’d photographed misty apparitions and recorded eerie wailing with equal aplomb. But never had she confronted a fully materialized
ghost. Could this really be happening? She shrank farther into the cushioned chair and stared at the oh-my-god, honest-to-goodness

Deverell was unperturbed by her rudeness. He’d meant the flash and flourish of his entrance to shock her, to impress her.
After sitting in his favorite high-backed leather chair, he accepted a cup of tea and allowed Amelia to chastise him for not
making himself known earlier so Josie’s gadgets could detect him.

“Now we can proceed,”Amelia said.“I think we should begin with an advertisement in the
.Tastefully done, of course.” Her usual buoyant spirits apparently restored, she popped a tiny cucumber sandwich into her

“Tasteful advertisement is an oxymoron.” Deverell set his cup on the table with deliberate care. “I fear you misunderstood
my purpose in advising you to hire Miss Drummond.”

Indeed, he had intended she should. The very idea of strangers tromping through his home, gawking at his belongings for the
price of a night’s lodging, was absurd. A member of his family reduced to the status of innkeeper; he shuddered at the thought.

Perhaps he was partly to blame. He should have noticed the deteriorating condition of the castle. However, financial matters
were so tedious, and it wasn’t his nature to worry about shillings and pence. Now the situation had reached a crisis, forcing
drastic measures.

“I never intended for her to certify my existence,” Deverell enunciated. He spoke to Amelia, but he did not want either woman
to miss his meaning.“My apologies for misleading both of you as to my purpose, however I deemed the small ruse necessary.
This family’s finances began to decline after a gypsy seer fleeced my gullible mother by holding expensive séances in a futile
attempt to recover a lost family treasure.” He purposely left out the other reason his mother had paid the gypsy the bulk
of her fortune.

“Your mother was quite avant-garde. Even though Swedenborg’s books had been around for more than fifty years, spiritualism
did not become all the rage until the Victorian era.” Amelia shook her head.“Back to the point, I can’t see that séances held
nearly two hundred years ago are relevant.”

“I am simply providing a bit of background for the benefit of our guest,” he nodded toward Josie, who still stared at him
with wide eyes, “And in so doing, the resolution of the current problem becomes obvious. If you want to kill a snake, you
do not cut off its tail, you cut off its head.”

“I don’t see—”

“The solution is simple. Miss Drummond will accompany me backward in time to 1815 to unmask the charlatan who stole your inheritance.”

“Time travel?” Josie asked, her voice a raspy whisper.“That’s impossible.”

“While not effortless, it is possible.”

“It’s the stuff of science fiction. Books that—”

His quelling look halted her explanation. “There is nothing wrong with my memory.” Despite a few gaps that he’d rather not
explain, he was not unaware of the world. “Jules Verne published
From the Earth to the Moon
in 1866, speculative fiction of the most imaginative sort...until your countrymen actually went there.” He turned to Amelia.
“Your grandfather was much enamored of H.G.Wells’s work when he was a boy, but I always—”

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