Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

Weston asked Tandy for tea, and they made their way back to the library as though there were no other room in the house that would accommodate them.

That suited him well enough. In his day there had been a drinks cabinet in the corner of the room, and he was pleased to find it was still there. He poured himself a glass of brandy and raised the decanter to Mr. Arbuckle, who shook his head. Very well, he would drink alone.

Mr. Arbuckle rose. “I will be leaving you now. I must return to the museum I care for these days and make sure the alarms are set and that the cats are fed and settled for the night.”

“You’re going to leave us alone here?”

Weston could see that Alice would need something stronger than tea to soothe her.

“Hardly alone, miss. Tandy and her husband are within reach. All you need do is to use the bellpull to call for them.”

Weston held out his hand. “Thank you for your service today. I trust that we will see you in the morning?”

“Sooner than that, sir, I will be back this evening. Tandy has assigned me a room in the gentlemen’s wing. That way I will be relatively close in case you should need help with anything.”

“Very good, then.” It was a rather vague explanation, but Weston was reassured that Arbuckle would be nearby. “Does the housekeeper live here too?”

“But wait, please. What will Mrs. Tandy think if I am here overnight?” Alice asked, panic in her voice.

“I do believe Tandy is her Christian name, Miss Kemp,” Arbuckle said, with a gesture of apology. “She is used to the overnight guests that the earl and his brother welcome.”

“But ladies?” Alice asked, her hand going to her chest.

“Yes, miss.” This time he spoke with even more apology. “It is very common in this time for men and women to be more open about their—oh dear—” Weston heard him whisper to himself. “In 2005 short relationships of an intimate nature are very common. Tandy will think it nothing unusual that you are staying here.” He closed his eyes and went on. “What will strike her as odd is that you and the earl will have separate bedchambers.”

“I wondered why she seemed so accepting of an unaccompanied young lady with me all day,” Weston said, as Alice seemed beyond words.

“We are lucky, my lord, that you look so very much like the earl’s younger brother, Simon West, for he is the one who time traveled with Miss Amy.”

“She has worked here for so long, are you sure she suspects nothing?”

“My lord, I am certain that she does not suspect you have time-traveled from the Regency and changed places with Simon. You did it yourself and find it hard to believe.”

Weston nodded. It was a good point.

“Was Miss Amy Mr. West’s most recent short relationship?” Alice managed to choke out.

“No, Miss Kemp. They traveled as friends only.”

The earl suspected that Mr. Arbuckle wanted to say more but held the thought. If it was about the prospects of that time-traveling couple’s relationship remaining chaste, then Weston was glad he did not add to Alice’s upset.

Mr. Arbuckle bowed again and made his exit as if he dreaded any more questions. A profound silence surrounded them. Weston moved around the room aimlessly, too restless to sit.

Alice sat down with a less-than-graceful thump and reached for her tea, then looked at him. “What does brandy taste like, Wes?”

Without answering, he added a dollop to her cup and she sipped. “Oh!” She swallowed again without a second sip. “Rather soothing, actually.”

“Without the tea it burns more but is equally comforting.”

“Why, then, are women discouraged from drinking it? Why is tea our only choice?”

“I have no idea, Alice. As far as I am concerned you may have all the brandy you would like.”

“Do you want the truth, Weston? Do you really want to know how I think of you?”

They were working their way up the flight of stairs to the bedroom wing. At least he hoped it was still the bedroom wing.

Alice was speaking clearly, and that had fooled him into thinking that her tolerance for brandy was more than anticipated. But now she was hanging on to the railing as if it were a lifeline. That was just as well, as she had already missed one step.

He made a mental note that her capacity for drink was about what you would expect for such a delicately boned woman. Virtually nonexistent.

“No, Alice, I do not want to know what you think. Not tonight. What you need right now is a bed.”

They were at the top of the stairs and he saw, with relief, that the double doors of the master’s suite were just ahead, as they had been in 1805.

“Yes, that is exactly what I need. A bed with you in it.”

“Alice!” He could not keep the surprise from his voice. “Do you realize what you are suggesting?”

She wrinkled her face and laughed at his dismay. “I am just being honest. I suspect the brandy is, in fact, a truth serum and men do not want women to drink it for fear of the truths that they will hear.”

He opened the doors to the master suite and walked into the salon that the earl and countess shared, with their bedchambers on either end.

“It’s quite lovely, Wes.” Alice walked around the room, bouncing off a chair and almost knocking a figurine from a useless stand that was not quite in the corner.

“Do you think there is a loo near here? It is one twenty-first-century improvement that I can praise.”

He led her to the door that was slightly ajar and, indeed, it was a bathing chamber. He pushed her in and closed the door, hoping she would not faint dead away.

As he examined the china figurine on the mantel and the ivory combs and brushes on the dresser, he heard some unmistakable gagging sounds.

A few minutes later she opened the door and leaned her head out. “You, sir, are a monster. Why did you not tell me brandy would make me sick?”

“You drank too much, for which I will take full responsibility, my dear. But you do feel better now, don’t you?”

She closed one eye and appeared to give it some thought. “Yes, I do.”

“Then rinse your mouth out and come to bed.”

She smiled at the idea, shut the door and completed her ablutions.

He hurried to the bathing chamber that was designed for his use and freshened up. He could not imagine sleeping in his clothes, so he stripped out of them and donned a robe that was hanging on a hook at the back of the door.

The salon was empty, and he walked over to the countess’s side of the room and looked into the bedroom. The bed was untouched. With a mix of irritation, amusement and curiosity he headed for the earl’s bedchamber. He opened the door and saw a distinct little mound under the covers, and discovered the most amazing thing about the love of his life.

She snored.

Weston could not resist slipping into bed beside her. Maybe it was not what a true gentleman would do, but he was not perfect. She had not taken her half from the middle so he considered that as good as an invitation. They would only sleep together, if that was what she wanted.

He tried to ignore the sweet little snores and instead remembered that amazing summer afternoon in the Lake District at a house party where they had met after her not very successful London Season. It was the first and, he thought with regret, the only time they had made love.

The boathouse was not meant for boats at all but was designed for seduction. Never had it been more clear than the day they had raced there to escape from a storm. The weather had threatened all day, but the rain had held off until they were just far enough from the main house to make the little one-room boathouse a safer place in a storm.