

### A Lady Out of Time

### By

### Caroline Hanson

### A Lady Out of Time

Copyright 2013 Caroline Hanson

Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

# Chapter 1

Helen's dog tags clinked against the china teacup, the sound like mocking laughter. She squashed a desperate urge to swear. Helen was a soldier, not by choice but because being in the military was mandatory. Once upon a time, women hadn't been drafted. But the world had been at war for so long now, everyone was drafted.

Maybe that was why it pissed her off to be scolded over improperly pouring a cup of tea, because she'd never been taught how to do something so useless. Something so...girly. It almost seemed cruel—come pretend to be a lady and then go back to cleaning your gun and running five miles in full gear.

Jerks.

When the class was over, Helen rushed out to find her best friend Mary, who would be grabbing a quick smoke before the next class. After all, if you've got an 80% chance of being dead by thirty, why not smoke?

The smoking area was at the edge of the military base, the view consisting of loading bays and black asphalt tucked neatly behind a barbed-wire fence. Beyond the base were rolling, yellow hills. There was so little rain in California's Central Valley that everything was dried up and had a burnt quality to it that Helen found more than a little depressing.

She liked green grass and trees, the vibrancy of life surrounding her. The Central Valley looked like nature had lost and was dying a slow, dehydrating death. Her gaze was pulled back to a line of camouflaged military trucks that were idling at the loading bay.

Eight black body bags were brought out, pulled up to the trucks on gurneys and hefted inside like unwieldy bags of trash. Fear flashed through Helen, and she thought about asking Mary for a cigarette. Seeing the body bags made her think cancer was the least of her problems.

Mary's voice sounded urgent. "That's thirty. _Thirty_ body bags that have come out of there in the last week. What the fuck? And I haven't heard a thing _._ You?"

A plume of smoke shaped vaguely like a dragon drifted in front of Helen, singeing her nostrils. "No." Not that either of them were important enough to hear anything significant, but sometimes there were rumors. Helen hadn't heard any, maybe that was even more ominous.

Mary continued to guess. "Tests of some kind. That's obvious. With so many dead people, how come we haven't heard anything?"

Helen pulled out her ponytail holder, gathering her shoulder-length dark-brown hair in her hands and putting it back up, just to have something to do. "I've spent the last three hours staring at maps of Victorian London. Do you know what I learned? It was crowded, and they could have used a city planner. Drinking the water was a bad idea. Why am I taking a damned history class? England belongs to the Nazis and has since 1948. And even if we _were_ going to invade England, why would I have to know how to pour tea to do it?"

Mary shrugged and crushed her cigarette under her boot. "Where do you go next?" she asked.

"Umm. General Fox wants to see me."

"What?!" She yelped so loud that Helen flinched in response. "Do you think you'll get promoted? That would be amazing! Then I'd finally know somebody on the inside." She rubbed her hands together gleefully, as if she were already coming up with plans for world domination. Or maybe free beer nights. That was more Mary's angle.

"I just told you that I've been learning how to pour tea. There is no way that's a promotion. If anything, it could be a demotion. Maybe I'm being moved to the mess-hall or something."

"Potato peelers have good life expectancies. You'll be bored to death, but alive." The bell rang, and Helen was both glad and a little nauseous to get the meeting with the General out of the way. "I'll tell you all about it later. And if it's a promotion, you're buying."

"No, if it's a promotion, _you're_ buying," Mary said, her smile a little forced.

"Like it matters, I always buy."

"And I love you for it," Mary said, and she gave Helen a big hug. "You'll be fine."

Probably. But for some reason, Mary's final words felt like a jinx.

# Chapter 2

Helen was shown into a large office where a nervous secretary held some papers and seemed to vibrate with agitation. General Fox, one of the big head-honchos and someone Helen had only seen from afar, was in front of her. She knew some of the missions he'd been on: taking out the Dachau Engineering Lab and the Nazi Headquarters in France. He was a big fish, and Helen wasn't even sure she _was_ a fish.

"Specialist Foster. You must be wondering why you're here?" He spoke like a bulldog. And Helen had the suspicion that it wasn't so much a question as it was the prelude to a speech. At least he was going to get right to it.

"Yes, sir."

"Close the door first."

Helen closed the door and went back to standing at attention before the General.

"Do you remember the tests we did last week?" he asked.

Helen felt her insides turn to water and wondered if there was a bathroom nearby. What _was_ the protocol when one was worried about crapping themselves in front of a senior officer?

"That was a very important test. A test that you, and you alone, passed. Out of the 400 candidates who have been tested, your genetic code reacted the best. I'm sure this will sound odd to you, Specialist, but those tests were designed to see who might be able to survive time travel."

"Time travel?" Helen said, trying not to give any indication that, yes, it did make him sound like a whack-job.

"Obviously, this is top secret. It's our newest weapon in the fight against the Nazis. In fact, it may change everything forever."

Sooo, no pressure then.

General Fox smiled insincerely, the bright overhead light shining off his bald head. "How different would our world be if the war had ended in the 1940s?"

Helen tried very hard to keep her expression blank. That was almost 100 years ago.

"All the people who would still exist, and the lives that might have been lived." He shook his head. "For a while, it looked as if we were going to win the war. Hitler was bogged down in Russia; he didn't have the manpower nor the money to keep the war going. Really, his defeat looked inevitable. And then, just when we were making headway, the Nazis came out with a new weapon."

_The Warmaker._ Everyone knew about the weapon that allowed Hitler to conquer Russia.

"The Warmaker." He said it as if it were the name of a man who was fucking his wife. "The plans for this weapon were created in 1853 by Roland Black. Black couldn't get the gun made in the United States, so he went to London. Black sold the plans at auction, and then they disappeared for almost a hundred years until Hitler somehow got hold of them and built the Warmaker. We believe that if Black's gun design never got sold, but was destroyed, Hitler would have been defeated, perhaps as early as 1945."

"So..." Helen stood there for a minute with her mouth open. There were words in her head, and they almost made a sentence, but reconciling what General Fox was telling her with what she knew of the world was apparently quite a brainteaser. She cleared her throat. "Permission to speak candidly, sir?"

He nodded.

"You're telling me that Black invented the Warmaker and sold it to someone...in London at auction, and...you want me to go _back in time,_ get the plans and destroy them?" She emphasized the words, wanting to make sure she was getting the key point right.

The back-in-time part.

"Yes."

Helen scowled. She was pretty convinced that his response should have been longer than one word.

He motioned the secretary over, and she set some papers down next to General Fox before backing away quietly. "These are your release forms. They say you understand the mission we are assigning you, and that you are aware that it's a one-way trip."

"Sir?" she croaked.

His expression was stern. "Your mission is to go back in time and find the Warmaker plans. Destroy them."

"Why me, sir?" _Because there must be someone more qualified to be here listening to this speech and signing papers than me._

He looked down, hiding his expression. "Time travel has been theory for centuries. And while we now have the technology, it's still experimental. Initially, we'd envisioned sending back a few agents with combat training. But something about the male DNA means they can't travel. We tried and that...that was a loss."

Helen wanted to ask how many times they had tried it. Wanted to know just how many men had been killed. How many more body bags had been carried out when she wasn't standing there because Mary was smoking a cigarette?

He leaned back in his chair, and it squeaked like he'd just rolled over a mouse. "Women have always been able to withstand genetic modification better than men. Their cells and chromosomes are more adaptable and easier to tinker with because of their reproductive capabilities. It's the same for this. Combine that with the genetic modifications you already have, specifically the way you conduct heat, means that if anyone is going to pull this off, it's going to be you."

_You mean if anyone is going to survive, it_ might _be me_ , she thought dazedly.

"You won't have any resources. Nor will you have any money. We can't send anything through except the person. Not even clothes. You will pretend to be a rich American socialite who has come to England looking for a husband."

Her mind tripped up on the idea that she was going back in time...and naked! Wait. Was this a joke? A vision of herself materializing in a crowded market á la Lady Godiva made her clench her fists. The military didn't joke. No whoopee cushions or hidden cameras. But...

She didn't know shit about Victorian England! She had so many questions she wasn't sure where to start. "Sir, how will I survive? How can I pretend to be rich if I don't have any money?"

He grimaced. "The answer to that, while distasteful, is acceptable due to the gravity of the situation."

She wondered if he were about to tell her to be a prostitute.

"Blackmail. This will all be in the file that you may read after the briefing, but the short version is that Edward, Duke of Somervale, was illegitimate. If you threaten to expose him, he'll give you the money to complete your mission."

Helen really wanted to sit down. "Sir?"

"In 1925, renovations were done at the Somervale's family estate. A diary was found detailing that the Somervale heir had been stillborn. Edward, the sixth duke, was a bastard; swapped at birth because it looked as if his father were going to die. If there had been no heir, the family would have been penniless. You know his family's dirty laundry, and he'll give you the money to keep quiet."

"Am I supposed to get the diary?"

"No, it has to stay where it is so it can be found in 1925. But you can tell him you have it. Get the money and give him nothing. The record of events is included in the file." General Fox went on to explain the weight of her task, the volume of information threatening her sturdy expression and steady legs. He finally stopped speaking, and she knew she was dismissed.

But she had one last question. One that seemed pretty important to her, but that he had managed to gloss over. "Sir, you said it was a one-way trip?"

He put down his pencil and gave her a small, maybe even sympathetic, smile. That scared the shit out of her. It meant she was as good as dead, and he was trying to break the news gently. "We don't know how to get you back. You go, and you stay. Ensure you get enough money from the Duke to live comfortably for the rest of your life. And remember, what you're doing will make you a hero." He stood up, came around the desk and stuck out his hand. "Your government thanks you for your service."

She shook his hand, unsurprised when he squeezed hard. That was one of her pet peeves, men trying to break her hand when they shook it, so they could prove what a big dick they had. She squeezed back, and his eyes widened.

"Dismissed," he said.

Helen left, her ears ringing. That faint, high-pitched ring that meant she was one shallow breath away from passing out on the floor. _So this is how I'm going out_. Not in combat with her friends, as she'd always believed, but on her own. In a corset. She was going back in time. To a period when a butcher was a doctor, where the dentist was a man with a set of pliers, and where women had no rights; in order to stop the Nazis from conquering Europe. Hopefully.

Again, no pressure.

She tried to look at the bright side...where was that again? Past the pot of gold, and beyond the unicorns somewhere. Changing the course of history was a big deal. History books would know her name. She opened her new schedule and noticed she was assigned to have her photo taken before she left.

A photo for the history books. Which was slightly surreal. This was an honor, a great opportunity to serve her country. There, wasn't that a bright side? To possibly save millions of lives, maybe even prevent the Aryan Cleanse of 1955? Perhaps even the Holocaust. She slumped to the ground, her back sliding down the wall until her ass bumped the concrete. _If I can prevent that much death, and all I have to do is spend my life in a time before TV and suffrage, isn't it worth it?_

Fucking-a it is.

# Chapter 3

Her next stop was to see Daniel, one of the scientists for their Quadrant. Or as he would now be known to her: Time Machine Guy. He didn't look like a scientist per se. He was tall and boyish, with a perpetual smile and lots of enthusiasm. Mary had 'dated' him a year or two back. And by 'dating' Helen meant 'boned.' Mary was a love 'em and leave 'em kind of gal. Daniel had hung around longer than most though, and Helen considered him a friend.

Daniel was already smiling as she came in, extending one arm wide as he showed her a monstrously large white machine that was kind of egg-like. "Here it is! This is the baby that's going to send you back in time. How cool is this? You're impressed, aren't you?"

"Impressed and terrified," she said. "But it's an incredible accomplishment. Congratulations." She might have to rethink the friend label if he were this excited about sending her to her doom. She reached out and touched his arm, getting his attention. His head cocked to the side, the smile dimming.

"What's up, Helen."

"Why _me?_ "

"You mean, why are you chosen? Why did you survive?"

She couldn't say 'Yes.' For some strange reason the word was stuck in her throat. He turned to face her more fully, hunching a little so he was eye level with her. "I tried to keep you out of it. I pulled your file and sent you to the back twice, hoping we wouldn't get to you. But...anyone we thought had a chance at surviving just kept dying. We'd open up that box and..."

He didn't detail what he saw, but she knew. She'd experienced it. The smell of death and scorched flesh, burned hair and cooking blood. The silver walls splashed with red as if a child had taken a bucket of paint and gone nuts. Even though it was 100° outside, Helen shivered. She saw it all again: going into a large metal box with ten other women, the loud mechanical whine that sounded like nails on a chalkboard, all of it culminating in a blinding white light.

And when it was over, and she'd opened her eyes...they were all dead. Blood streamed from their noses and eyes. Their bodies limp and slouched over or sprawled on the ground as though they'd stood up, ready to open the door and escape; as if they knew they were seconds away from death and that if they could just get out that fucking metal door, they might survive.

She knew it, because she'd felt it too, the sizzling heat and destroying rays. Helen had walked out of there, the scientists and doctors watching her with wide eyes, as if they were surprised she'd survived. The only one to walk out of there. They'd sent her to a radiation detox chamber and changed her schedule. Now she was learning history, pouring tea and studying maps, and it all made sense. If going back in time made sense.

"Yeah, they died. But not you. It didn't kill you like it does the others; your body can disperse the radiation, expel it from your cells." Helen looked down at the ground for a moment, mind racing. The Nazis had engaged in genetic engineering since the 1940s. Once Hitler had decided that certain groups of people had no value, he could experiment on them at will. Expose them to chemicals, graft things onto them, inject them with whatever compounds they thought might make the Germans better, stronger and faster.

The US had no choice but to keep up.

Helen was a product of the genetic race. Her nerves were different from normal people because she could choose how her energy was expended. This meant she could survive in the cold for a long time. Drop her into the Arctic and she'd be able to generate her own heat; live a lot longer than most other people. One of Hitler's top priorities was making a way for his soldiers to survive a Russian winter. And if the Nazis could do it, then the US needed to be able to do it too.

Helen could do it. Although, she wasn't quite sure she understood how the ability to survive the cold and make her own toast meant she could travel through time.

"Okay, I have another question."

He nodded and crossed his arms.

"Actually, I have a lot of questions. Do you think the Germans are building a time machine too?"

"Not that we've heard of, thank God. Two groups messing with the timeline...just thinking about it gives me the heebie-jeebies."

"Why?"

He smirked, trying to keep things light, but she could see a tightness around his eyes, a forced smile, and it was nice to know he was sad she was going. "Oh good, I get to explain the complexities of time travel to a layperson," he said, voice thick with sarcasm. She frowned at him. "Think of it..." He chewed on his lip for a moment. "Think of it like throwing a pebble into a pond. You are the pebble, and your entry into the pond creates ripples. It takes a few days for those ripples to settle down. If we sent somebody back in time, and they sent someone...like the next day? It's bad. Let's leave it at that. What's next?"

She smiled sickly, the expression quickly melting off her face. "Why don't you just kill Hitler?" Helen asked. "Go back twenty years and pop him when he's on the toilet somewhere?"

"Ah. That's too dangerous. Anything under a hundred years and it risks destroying the space-time continuum."

"I don't know what that means," she said.

"It means we could blow up the world."

"That sounds bad," Helen deadpanned, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yeah, and...well, there are different theories of how this will work. But, we think that even if we could go back and kill Hitler...someone else would take his place. History and time are determined; we can change little things—"

"Like papers not being sold at auction."

He nodded. "Exactly, but to take out people...no. Just...no."

"I would also like it noted that when you say 'we think that's how it will work' or that there are 'theories' about what may happen, it scares the crap out of me. I'd feel a lot better about this if you were certain."

"Ditto." He cleared his throat. "Did General Fox tell you that we can't give you money or clothes? Not even jewelry? Only you will go through."

"Yeah, I've been doing sit-ups and squats like you wouldn't believe. If Covent Garden is going to get a visit from Lady Godiva, my ass is gonna be smokin."

"Sorry, horses don't go through either," he said. Was he joking? That was the trouble with scientists, they were always so literal.

"Where will I show up?"

"We don't know. Somewhere in London. I've _tried_ to pinpoint it, but it's not an exact science or anything." He chuckled nervously.

_What the fuck do I say to that?_ She balled her fists, desperate to hit something.

"I'm sure you'll come up with something. Break into a haberdasher or something." He gave her a confidence boosting smile. One that said she could do anything once she put her mind to it.

_Jackass._ "A haberdasher is for men's clothing and hats," she said through gritted teeth.

"Well, whatever. Find some clothes. You know what I mean. A woman's haber-something. Anyway, I need to run some more tests before you go. Just double-check some things. If you could roll up your sleeve so I could take some blood, that'd be great."

He led her over to a medic station in the corner of the warehouse-sized room.

She rolled up her sleeve, ready to watch him draw her blood, but pulled her arm back before he could jab her. "Am I going to make it there?" she asked, hoping he'd be honest.

He gave her a small nod. "I think so. Mathematically and scientifically speaking, you certainly should." He reached for her arm, tugging it down and laying it flat on the table before swiping it with alcohol.

That was less than comforting. "How does it work? The time travel thing? I read the file, but it's confusing."

He snorted and jabbed her with the needle, her blood filling the vial quickly. "Time travel is complicated. Now there's an understatement," he muttered.

"Yeah, what I mean is, there are lots of different things I've seen, but what's right? I saw this show where someone goes back in time and becomes his own grandpa. Is that possible?"

He put a bandage over the pinprick on her arm and set the vials of blood on a table before answering her question. "I'm not familiar with that theory, but it doesn't sound accurate."

It was clear he wasn't taking her seriously, but she didn't know how to articulate herself any better. "Well, then...I saw this other movie, and the guy goes back in time, but he starts to disappear— gets erased from the timeline—when he kisses his mom."

"You seem preoccupied by incest," he said, teasing her.

Her stomach felt as if it were filled with hot lava. "I guess...what I want to know is...can I screw it up?"

"Sure. Anybody can screw up. Don't invent anything or kill anyone. What if you kill Einstein's dad? Will someone invent everything he does? We don't know for sure. If you change things, we won't know because we won't remember how it was supposed to be. That's why you should stick to the mission. Stopping something from being invented shouldn't cause as much mayhem as erasing someone from the timeline. Go back, keep a low profile and only do the mission. Get the plans and destroy them. You wipe them out, and the ripple effect should be negligible. Don't have kids, don't get married. Don't do anything that could change the course of someone else's life." Gooseflesh swept over her skin as if she were suddenly cold.

He dismissed her, telling her to get some sleep, but before she left he called her name. She turned back to look at him, and he said seriously, "And just to be safe, whatever you do, don't sleep with your grandpa."

"I haven't seen how hot he is yet," she said with a straight face.

His eyes widened.

"I'm kidding," she said.

"Good. I was worried."

"It's my grandma I'm interested in."

His eyes bugged out, and Helen couldn't help but smile as she left, willing to enjoy even the most feeble joke if it would distract her from what she was about to do.

The next few days passed quickly and before she knew it, she was standing naked in a laboratory while thirty people stared at her from behind radiation-proof glass. Goose bumps puckered her skin, giving her frozen nipples...fripples. Was that a technical term? If it wasn't, it should be.

Daniel escorted her to the giant egg, waiting until she sat down on the cold metal, and gave her a nod before he closed the door. Through a small window, she saw him leave the chamber and a door close behind him. A moment passed and another door, this one made of steel, came down from above, so that no radiation could possibly leak out to the people who watched. _Lucky bastards._ A speaker came on, and someone wished her good luck and told her to relax. Helen bit back an obscene and scathing response.

The coldness of the metal seat on her bare ass was peculiarly distracting. But it was better to focus on that, than the fact that she might be dead in the next twenty seconds. The machine began to hum, and Helen bit her lips between her teeth, determined not to beg for them to let her out. _It's an honor. You're saving lives. Changing the course of history._

The humming changed, growing into a vibration, as though she were in a huge cargo plane, riding on top of the engine. The feeling of coldness vanished and she began to sweat, the heat licking at her like fiery tongues, and she knew that was the radiation seeping into her and absorbing into her pores. Was she imagining the sensation?

Sweat dripped off her nose, the blinding bright light forcing her to close her eyes. Her skin felt swollen, her blood hot and beginning to boil in her veins. Pressure and the scream of twisting metal surrounded her; she smelled blood, felt something trickling down her face and knew that she was just like all the others, another experiment that failed; another body to be hauled out in a plastic bag. She was dead, cooking from the outside in. She couldn't hold it in. Couldn't fight the flames incinerating her body.

She screamed.

# Chapter 4

Waiting.

Edward glanced at the clock on the coffee table next to the tea tray. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten his newspaper. Every Tuesday and Thursday for the last year, he had called upon his fiancée and waited for her to grace him with her presence. He'd only been waiting for ten minutes, and he'd be damned lucky if she didn't make him wait for another half an hour. Edward wanted to sigh, but that would be an outward expression of his irritation and was unnecessary.

He stood, unable to stay seated a moment longer, feeling as if the sunny room were some type of cage. Edward prowled to the window, clasping his hands behind his back, hoping to erase some of the tension from his shoulders.

Looking out at the garden with its formal rows of hedges and roses, small paths, and the fountain that gurgled in the middle of it all, he had a sudden urge to leave. Throw open the French doors and just walk out. He could imagine the gardener gasping in horror. Maybe even a maid shrieking in feigned shock for his break in routine.

That was what it meant to be _him_.

Every gesture, every move was scrutinized. By the lords and ladies of the ton, by the staff, by merchants and tradespeople. Everyone was waiting for him to do something—anything—that was vaguely unusual so that it could be talked about endlessly.

_They are waiting for proof that I am like my father_.

Edward was twenty-eight; had been managing his estate and turning a profit for over a decade, but memories were long, and the days were boring. They would watch him until the day he died, hoping he'd amuse them by disgracing himself or causing a scandal. Would he gamble too much, or get a string of maids and actresses pregnant; would he drink himself into a stupor? Really, the possibilities were endless. And then there was the other option, the one everyone eagerly anticipated and undoubtedly discussed ad nauseam, the one he would undoubtedly find in betting books by his peers who would remain nameless—would his poor duchess have as many accidents as his mother had? Always falling and being bruised.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache starting just behind his eyes. And he sighed. Edward unclasped his hands from behind his back and took a slow wander around the room. A meander really. After all, there was nowhere to go. He opened and closed his right hand, his knuckles sore and red from boxing. Perhaps he should get a newspaper from the butler. He'd take it un-ironed if he had to. The door opened, and his eyebrows rose in mild astonishment. Was it possible Katherine would only keep him waiting for ten minutes?

No.

Her mother. His close-lipped smile stayed fixed, but his jaw clenched. He went towards her, exchanging greetings as she blushed over the sight of him. Edward was tall, well over six feet and broad-shouldered. His hair was dark brown, his eyes the color of coffee. The gossip sheets described his looks as devilish, a description he could only call inane. Though accurate when one was the son of a fiendish man.

"Lady Calper, you look lovely as usual."

"Your Grace, it is so nice of you to call," she said as if his visits were not a standing appointment. She blushed and extended her hand for him to kiss. She took a seat on the sofa, and he went back to his seat, nodding his acceptance when she offered him a cup of tea. Another cup of tea. He couldn't help but wonder what she wanted, but suspected that whatever it was would somehow inconvenience him.

"I cannot tell you how nice it is to have a man around the house. If only my Charles were still alive."

"He is greatly missed." _Mostly by every actress in town_. However, it was an appropriate display of loyalty on her part. It was undoubtedly much easier to forget how much one hated their spouse if said spouse were dead.

"Katherine misses him too. She needs the guidance of a strong man."

_Hmm._ Edward took a sip of tea, refusing to comment. Was that the faint sound of the trap door swinging open?

"Now that she is eighteen, she needs more than a mother's guidance. Your Grace, if I may speak candidly...."

He waited. His permission was obviously irrelevant.

"She is no longer a girl. It was admirable, even romantic, for you to allow her to have a season before being wed. But the time has come." Her gaze fixed on him. Determined and vaguely terrifying. Rather savage, really. "You need an heir, and nothing soothes a woman's disposition like children."

Were children soothing? That sounded damned unlikely. "As well-meaning as you are, Lady Calper, the necessity for an heir doesn't seem all _that_ desperate at the moment. In fact, I plan on living for quite a while longer."

She blinked, mouth opening and closing once, as though that hadn't been the response she'd expected. Valiantly, she persevered. _Mothers._ "Well, of course you will! I didn't mean it that way. Why, never has there been a more vigorous display of manhood than Your Grace."

What the blazes did that mean? "I can assure you, I try to keep vigorous displays to a minimum. Sometimes it seems to be my only goal in life." He smiled, and she frowned. _And I'll ignore the comments about my manhood. Surely, she meant to say something else._

"But...Katherine's dear father and I had always hoped she'd be married by now. I can't help but wonder why you would push it back another six months?"

"I was given to understand that moving the date was preferred."

"By whom?" she said, tea splashing onto the saucer as she set the cup down hard.

"By your lovely daughter," he said, keeping his voice polite but firm. He couldn't remember the ridiculous details, but had been more than happy to agree to push the wedding back. "There was lace for her dress, but it was made by nuns or virgins or children somewhere in Europe and would take a year to arrive. It might even be _carried_ here by nuns or virgins or children...probably via pony-cart or donkey. Something that takes a long time." With every word he said, her chin pressed tighter against her neck, giving her the look of strangled poultry. "And then there was some flower that she wanted...A tulip? But it would have to come from the depths of some far-away land...probably brought to this country via slow pony-cart. Or donkey...as well." _Maybe even a swimming donkey._ Her eyes were wide, and so he kept the last thought to himself. If her expression were any indication to her feelings, she did not think Katherine's demands were ridiculous in the same way he did.

He made a dismissive gesture and put down the empty teacup, smiling at her charmingly. At least, he hoped it was charming. "Anyway, it comes from very far away, and she wanted it. My goal was to make your daughter happy."

"That is very kind, Your Grace. But unnecessary."

"Simply tell me when to be there, and I will," he said magnanimously.

After several more minutes of what had to be the most inane chatter (he'd been unable to work in a reference to the pony-cart, although he'd tried quite valiantly), his fiancée finally made her appearance. She looked as lovely and perfect as always. Her perfection was impressive, something she actively strove for and something he had to admire. She made it look so easy, as if perfection were a game, and she had crafted all the rules. Edward idly wondered if there might come a time over the next several decades when he might be able to ask her if she genuinely enjoyed the rules and formality that governed every moment of her existence.

Probably not.

Her pale blonde hair was piled onto her head, her dress cut to emphasize her slender form. She appeared much older than her eighteen years, and he attributed it to her icy hauteur. She was every inch a perfect duchess. The weight of her frosty gaze would stop a person in their tracks; make a servant drop to the ground in terror of being dismissed.

A skill if ever there was one. _Is it too early for whiskey?_

Katherine smiled at him, and he instantly looked to her eyes, something he did out of habit now, waiting to see if they would crinkle a little. A sincere display of pleasure. Not this time. She was ever so concerned about lines upon her face. He smiled back at her and bowed over her hand, kissing her cool flesh and inhaling the rose perfume she always wore.

It reminded him of his mother.

In fact, he'd bought her a different fragrance, even taken her to Bond Street to buy something different, but she seemed to have no interest in changing to please him. She'd chosen a perfume, smiled at him and never worn it. With a last lingering look to the gardens, Edward went to his seat, turning his attention to the ladies' conversation. What exciting topic would it be today?

The wedding.

Of course, the wedding.

# Chapter 5

Helen awoke to the sound of water gently lapping against the shore. She was lying on her side, a bed of mud all around her. At least, she hoped it was mud. It didn't smell like mud.

Her body was awash in pain. For a while, it hurt to breathe, so she did it shallowly and slowly, trying to keep the pain at bay. After several minutes, she could breathe normally; the pain shifting from one of sharp heat to a dull, warm throb, and she was able to sit up to take in her surroundings. A huge stone bridge was above her, and the River Thames flowed sluggishly by.

Holy shit, I made it.

She was on the riverbank, and if she'd materialized three meters over, she would have awoken in the water, unable to move or breathe, and surely she would have drowned to death. Mission over before it had started. They never would have known what had become of her. She shivered, her teeth chattering in the cold.

It was nighttime and everything was dark, except for the occasional flicker of candles and fire in the distance as people rumbled past in carriages or walked in groups on the bridge above her. Her eyes were heightened thanks to the genetic modifications she had received, and while she could see in the dark better than any human, it was still pretty damned dark. There was no light pollution from electricity, and the stars above were shockingly bright and dense.

She climbed up the riverbank, avoiding bushes and piles of refuse. The area was paved with stones, and the bridge looked brand new. Didn't that mean she had to be under London Bridge? It had been replaced in the nineteenth century, and this bridge looked new.

She paused, blinking several times as the full enormity of where she was, and _when_ she was, hit her. She'd made it. She'd survived. Helen reached up to push the hair out of her face, her hands trembling with emotion and shock.

There had been a few moments back there where she was sure she was a goner. An overcooked human steak. The thought made her gag.

There was a residential area off to her right, and she walked between the mews, stopping at a water pump to wash the mud off of her. She tried not to think about how polluted the water was. Cholera was a serious problem during this time... _during my time. Just another exciting way to die before the mission even starts_.

As clean as possible, but feeling like crap and colder than she'd been since her Polar training, she set off to figure out where exactly she was and find the nearest clothing store.

After several minutes of walking, Helen found a clothesline full of damp clothes. The house was still dark. The brick wall came to her chest, and visions of ripping off her toenails and scraping the skin from her chest as she scaled the brick naked came to mind. Not that she had any alternatives. She climbed as carefully as she could, moss and a recent rain making the brick slippery. Slippery was bad. Helen landed on the other side of the wall with a bruising thump. Her palms stung as she moved swiftly to the clothesline.

It didn't matter what she found, she was going to wear it. Even if it meant she looked like a cross-dressing loon, it would be better than nudity.

Helen found a shift and a dress that was so ragged it was almost sheer. And it was obscenely tight in all the wrong places. It was made to be worn with a corset, but she hadn't found one. She thought about trying to steal one, or continuing her search for a better dress, but the sun was beginning to rise, the blackness of the sky lightening just a little. People would be up soon, starting their day.

She needed to get going, and no matter what she found, she still wouldn't look like someone the Duke would normally see. Helen grabbed the extra shift that was on the line, ignored a pair of men's trousers, and headed back out to the main street. The shift was insurance. She could either sell it or wear it depending upon how desperate her situation became.

She wanted to get to the Duke as fast as possible. The sooner she saw him, the sooner her mission would be complete. _And then what? A life of spinsterhood in the country? Adopt a plethora of cats and become the local witch?_

Helen crossed London Bridge on foot; the bridge already crowded with people starting the day even though it couldn't be more than a bit past dawn. Her stomach rumbled unhelpfully. What was she going to do about food? Steal something from a cart or stall and hope she didn't get caught? Could she wait until she saw the Duke and got the money? Carriages rolled past, and farmers drove carts carrying vegetables and animals into the city. Life surrounded her, from people to animals, germs and bugs. The people were unwashed and their clothing threadbare. Even though Helen had known she was coming back in time, even though she had packed up her belongings and given them away, a part of her hadn't really believed that she would get here, let alone understood quite how different it would be.

On her last night, she'd been given her favorite meal, like they gave to prisoners on death row. Mary had sat across from her; occasionally wiping tears from her face while they watched the platter of Fettuccine Alfredo begin to congeal. It had been fucking depressing.

Helen shivered again. If she were up to her usual super-powered self, she'd keep herself warm, but that required energy. The trip through time had drained her, leaving her miserably cold and feeling weak.

The weather was no help. It was almost raining but not quite, almost dark but not quite, almost freezing but just warm enough not to be. The weather was miserably indecisive. The funny part was that she'd always wanted to come to England. Had hoped that if they ever took it from the Nazis, she'd get deployed there.

This wasn't how she'd thought she'd get here.

She had no shoes, and her feet were paying the price. She'd ripped up the shift and wrapped her feet to make socks, the material soaking with dark liquid instantly. Now her feet were cold and blistered, little rocks burrowing between the layers of fabric and pressing into her with each step.

The Duke lived in Mayfair, and getting there took forever. She couldn't help but look around her, viewing her surroundings in terms of history, almost dispassionately. She couldn't help but think this was a world other people lived in. As though she'd leave and go back to the reality she knew. As she passed from one neighborhood into the next, she knew that during the Victorian era, London was the biggest city the world had ever seen. That people viewed London with a mixture of fascination and horror, as something incredible that couldn't possibly survive. A social experiment destined to fail. Never had so many people been crammed into one area.

London's sprawl went for miles, requiring food to be brought in from the countryside. She passed things she hadn't known existed, had never thought would exist: carts filled with human excrement that would be taken to the countryside to fertilize fruit and vegetables, groups of children that were near naked, homeless and parentless. They eyed everyone hungrily, looking for a chance to steal or beg for money.

Pools of water and filth were everywhere, impossible to step around. The hem of her dress was black, dragging along the ground and carrying all manner of diseases. Buildings listed to the side, thrown up with haste and with more people and animals crammed inside one room than she'd thought possible.

It struck Helen as odd that people's homes were mixed in with factories and shops. Breweries and tanneries were next to houses, like cities within cities, the press of humanity overwhelming. She passed people lying in the streets and knew with horrible certainty that they were dead. Men would come by with carts and load them up, take them to a pauper's grave or sell them to men who called themselves doctors and were always eager to find a body to cut open and study. If she died here, they'd throw her on a cart just like that. Nobody would be willing to pay for her grave; no one would visit her or care.

Eventually, the streets became cleaner, the people better dressed and groomed. She began to pass women in beautifully tailored clothes with amazing hats. The air was no longer thick with refuse and chemicals. Mayfair was quiet, empty compared to the poorer and more crowded parts of town that she had passed. Servants were out, there were still people, but this was civilized. How rich did one have to be to live somewhere so clean and empty?

The Duke's house was a mansion. Beautiful and made of white stone. Helen stared up at the banks of windows with the curtains pulled closed, and wondered what the hell she should do next. Should she wait for a more respectable time to visit? Yes, it was still early, but it had taken her hours to get here. And if she waited, he might leave, and then she'd be stuck hanging around for hours. Plus, she was there to blackmail him; the timing of her arrival was irrelevant really. The Duke was going to have a lousy day no matter what time she arrived. Her stomach growled, urging her onwards.

Helen tucked her brown hair behind her ears, smoothing it down nervously. _I'd kill for a shower._ She walked up the steps and knocked on the massive black door. A hatchet-faced butler opened the door almost immediately. He peered down at her snootily and was about to shut the door in her face when she stuck a foot out, wedging the door wide.

He gasped in horror, either at her dirty feet that were wrapped in tattered rags, or her boldness at keeping the door open. Using both hands, he tried to close the door in her face.

"Oh no, you don't!" Helen gritted out, bracing herself as she pushed back, the both of them struggling. "I need to see the Duke," she said, panting at the effort it took to keep the door open. She couldn't believe how weak she was. Normally she'd be able to shove this door open one-handed. The trip through time had sapped her strength.

The butler's face was beet red with strain. "Not on your life!" he said, voice near a shout.

_That was the wrong thing to say._ It would have been more convincing if she'd had enough energy to say it out loud, but every fiber of her being was focused on keeping that damn door from slamming in her face. He abruptly let go, the door crashing open unresistingly. She stumbled into the house, falling on the marble floor as the butler scowled at her from above. Helen felt a sense of short-lived victory.

A man and a woman were descending the stairs as Helen came skidding in. The woman shrieked and turned, running up the stairs as quickly as she could, her yellow skirts bunched in her fists. She was young, barely more than a girl, and she turned so quickly that Helen didn't get a very good look at her. She wondered if that were the Duke's sister Amelia or his fiancée. Although the girl had had brown hair, and Edward's fiancée was blonde. The butler obscured her view, stepping between her and the man on the stairs, swiping at her with a bony hand as he tried to grab her by the arm. Helen scooted back on her bottom, daring a glance at the man who stood frozen on the bottom step staring at both her and the butler in mild astonishment.

_So that's the Duke._ He was remarkably good-looking. The painted portraits she'd seen of him didn't do him justice. Actually, they didn't look like him at all. He was tall and broad-shouldered with thick dark-brown hair that was ruthlessly styled off his forehead, hair that a woman would want to sink her hands into and muss up, as though disheveling his hair was the same as disheveling _him._ His face was angular, his cheekbones almost harsh and contrasting nicely with his rugged jawline.

She couldn't help but blink in shock, even as she threw herself forward and away from the butler's grasp. Perhaps it was stupid, but she hadn't really thought there would be any attractive men in this time period. Weren't they all supposed to be toothless and unwashed?

The butler closed in on her, and Helen cried out, uncertain what to do. She wanted to punch him. But that would be bad, right?

"That is quite enough," the Duke said, his voice low and cultured. He sounded bored, as if the whole spectacle before him were something he saw every day and was nothing more than a petty annoyance.

The butler froze above her, unblinking, not moving, as if he were waiting for the Duke to say 'go' so he could resume his attack. A well-trained dog waiting for his master's approval. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Duke step down off the stairs, moving towards them in a few leisurely strides. He looked down at her, expression severe, the only indication that this was an extraordinary event was a narrowing of his eyes, as if he weren't quite sure if she were an illusion.

But hoped to hell she was.

The Duke stared intently at her face, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and she wondered what he was thinking, the seconds stretching out like years. Suddenly, he dropped down beside her, balancing gracefully on the balls of his feet. He grabbed the hem of her dress without looking at her legs and flicked it back where it belonged, covering her bare lower leg and mummy-wrapped feet.

The ridiculousness of the gesture made her want to laugh. Now she knew she was in Victorian England. She'd broken into his house, terrified his sister and attacked his butler, and he was worried about a wanton display of calf.

The Duke rose back up to his feet, adjusting the cuff of one shirtsleeve absently. His gaze bore into hers, and after a long scrutinizing moment, he offered her a hand up.

She wished she knew what he was thinking. His hand was large, the nails trimmed and even buffed, and the idea of putting her grimy paw in his polished one was embarrassing. She picked herself up off the floor, ignoring his hand, so rattled that it didn't occur to her that a lady would never get up unassisted.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace. I'll just get her out—"

"I have to speak with you," Helen said in a desperate rush. "Please, it won't take long. But I've come a very long way and—" The butler grabbed for her, and she stepped to the side, eluding him easily. "Please! It's urgent! A matter of life and death!" That was true, wasn't it?

She thought she heard a sigh.

"If she refuses to go, then I'll just speak with her, shall I? Then she will leave, and the problem will be resolved." Helen's mouth hung open for a moment. She'd never heard someone speak like that. His tone was low and deep, the words so precisely spoken and confident that he could have been reading her a menu, and she would have thought it was brilliant oration. In the world she knew, men conveyed confidence and intellect by ordering and shouting. This man didn't shout. She just knew it. He'd probably never raised his voice in his entire life. Because he didn't have to. People probably obeyed him without question. His words had a weight to them that indicated he'd never been wrong or ignored. It was unreasonably sexy.

The accent didn't hurt either.

The Duke gestured down the hallway with an open hand, a large gold ring on his finger with a ruby in the center.

Helen gulped. _This is it._

# Chapter 6

Helen smiled at the Duke and started walking towards his office, certain that she could feel his eyes on her back, judging her. She just knew he was taking in her garb. It wasn't good enough to be an outfit. She was squished into a cleaning-rag-worthy dress without a corset. She looked not only fat but poor.

And she was a woman with curves. The military had done what they could, she'd been exercised and honed to perfection, but there was still junk in her trunk and under the hood. Without whale-boning or a steel frame to give her an hourglass-figure, she looked massive compared to other women.

_You don't have time to look good. Just blackmail him and move on._ She needed to get herself together for what was to come. She needed to be hard and ruthless. Demanding and cunning. Leaving him in no doubt that she wasn't a woman to be trifled with. He needed to know that she'd do what she threatened. Especially since it was clear that he was so...imposing. Her mouth was dry, and her forehead was damp with sweat.

Helen had hoped for someone dandy-like and mincing. She'd wanted a Victorian dandy with floppy wrists and eye-wateringly bright waistcoats. She'd hoped to blackmail him and have him say something like, 'Well, tally-ho, you're not a terribly good sport now, are you? No more than five thousand per year. Now be off with you!"

But it was pretty clear that wasn't fucking happening.

Oh no, she was stuck blackmailing the only alpha male in all of Victorian England. She'd seen him and fixated on him. As if he was a natural focus for her eye to go to. He'd come down the stairs, and she had felt intimidated by the sight of him. Which was stupid, because she'd killed bigger, more dangerous men than him.

But it wasn't that he was threatening so much as _better_ , if that made any sense. The polish and dignity of him, the very way he held himself and looked at people said that he _owned_ them all. Maybe it was just because this meeting was so important. In order to change the future, she needed his cooperation. Well, she needed his money. Helen had a certain weakness for authoritative men. _Crap, they probably gene-spliced it into me._

Totally irrelevant.

The mansion was beautiful and smelled of beeswax. A residence befitting a duke, one of the most powerful men in the land. When people came to visit, they would need to know just how rich and important he was. The hallway had dark paneling and huge paintings, the frames massive displays of gold gilt. Every surface gleamed, as if an army of servants were hiding around the corner and ready to clean. She'd seen hospitals less clean.

"Here," he said and she jumped a little, his voice abrupt and close in the quiet hallway. She turned around to face him, catching him in the act of opening a door. He didn't look at her or wait for her to enter but strode in, expecting her to follow. He walked straight to a large wooden desk that dominated the middle of the room. He didn't go behind it but stood in front of it, leaning against it. The leather wingback chairs were too close to him, and she understood that she wasn't invited to sit.

He'd claimed the office, taken away all options to sit, forcing her to stand and feel unwelcome. "Touche," she muttered, and he leaned slightly forward, as though to catch her words. His frown intensified.

Helen stood in the entryway, looking at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the walls. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, undoubtedly lit just in the off-chance that the Duke decided to use the room. What would it be like to have a life so pampered that people spent their days trying to anticipate your every whim?

_It'd be frickin' weird._ Helen put her hand on the door, ready to shut it and give them privacy.

"Do not close the door," he said, voice hard. It was a command.

Her gaze jerked back to his, and inexplicably, Helen blushed. "Believe me, you will want privacy for this conversation."

He crossed his arms, the fabric of his black coat pulling taut across his wide shoulders. He scrutinized her from head to toe, and she knew exactly what he was seeing: A woman who was up to no good. He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Fine. Close it. The gossip will already be salacious enough that a closed door is immaterial. Unless, of course, a pistol-toting washerwoman will barge through my front door in two minutes demanding I marry you after compromising you."

Huh? Helen licked her lips, momentarily at a loss. Then she remembered that men went to considerable lengths not to be alone with young women for fear of being trapped into marriage. "No, I'm not a washerwoman. I guess I'd be cleaner if I were a washerwoman. And I...certainly don't want to marry you."

"Well, that's a start," he said flatly.

This wasn't going as Helen had expected. She had to start as she meant to go on, let him know who was boss here. "Might I sit down?" she asked, already moving forward as if he'd said yes. She'd move into his personal space, proved she wasn't intimidated.

He raised an eyebrow at her, appearing supremely superior, then paused, before inclining his head towards the chair furthest away from him.

"I expect you'll want tea as well?" he asked, the sarcasm plain.

"Yes. Thank you," she said and waited. She was ravenous. Helen smiled at him, wide and artificial, displaying teeth, and he blinked at her as though she'd grown another head.

"What can I do for you, Miss...?" His voice was deep and mocking, as though he knew she was there for something nefarious, and that she was no 'miss'.

Helen wasn't sure what to say. Pleasantries seemed a bit ridiculous, and he clearly wanted to cut to the heart of the matter, so, what the hell— "I'm here to blackmail you, I'm afraid," she said, stopping herself mid-shrug.

She took a deep breath and felt herself blush. _Dammit._

His expression was blank. He waited. Didn't say anything else. He stood, towering over her for a moment, before walking to a bell-pull and ringing for tea. He went behind his desk and sat down, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in his chair. "I'm sure you are." He propped an elbow on the arm and covered the lower half of his face with his hand, thumb under his chin and index finger over his full lips—a thinking pose.

She felt like they were 'on.' This was a test of who'd break first, and she was no chump. So she waited. Her gaze strayed to his mouth, drawn there because his full lips were partially concealed by his hand. He'd just shaved, but she suspected that if he went out in the evenings, he did it again.

A clock was ticking in the room, the seconds dragging out. Helen blinked. Good Lord, was he still waiting for her to say something? The butler came in with tea and looked confused, as though unsure she would even know how to pour a cup of tea she was so backwards. He set the tray down on a table and stood there awkwardly for a moment, before giving a little half-bow and backing out of the room.

Helen was pleased to see an assortment of cookies. She went to the tray, picked one up and took a bite, disappointed that it was dry. She stared at the teapot for a long moment, trying to figure out the etiquette. She shot him a glance, surprised to see he had not moved an inch, his dark eyes trained on her.

"I'm guessing you don't want me to pour you tea. On account of the...dirt. On my hands."

"That's the second time you've mentioned your appearance and your lack of hygiene. You may find this surprising, but I have no interest in your appearance. I have no interest in _you_. But you apparently have an interest in _me_ and are bold enough—or deranged enough—to believe you have a reason to lay claim to my time. And my money as well, is that right?" His derision made his voice low. She decided he wasn't nearly as attractive as she'd first thought.

Helen made herself a cup of tea, careful not to spill, intent on being graceful and making it just like the British etiquette teacher had taught them, which took a ridiculous amount of concentration. Her hands were even shaking. She could feel him studying her every move, which made her feel clumsy. It was the difference between walking a straight line on the ground, or walking a straight line a hundred feet in the air on a rope. Helen paused in the act of stirring as a revelation came to her—there actually wasn't any reason to be nervous.

He already thought she was lower class. She didn't need him to think she was an aristocrat. It was utterly ridiculous to think she would do something so odd that he would suddenly say, "You must be from the future to behave like that!"

Some of the tension left her, and she walked back to the chair feeling more confident. Helen sat back down and took a sip of her tea. "You have not told me your name," he said, speaking first. _Ha! I won the invisible pissing contest! Put that in the history book, motherfucker!_

"Your name," he repeated.

"Helen Foster."

"Miss Foster. Is it Miss or Mrs.?" His tone implied he didn't care, but strongly suspected it wasn't Mrs.

"Ms.," she said a bit testily.

"So, Miss Foster, tell me about your blackmail. Actually, let's wait just a moment longer." He leaned forward, putting his forearms on the desk and lacing his fingers together as though he were about to tell her a secret.

But his expression was predatory; his voice inflected with purpose, demanding she pay attention to every word he was about to say. In that moment, she felt all the distance of two hundred plus years between them. "I see you're enjoying your tea, no doubt happy to be out of the elements on this cold day, warming yourself by _my_ fire, in _my_ home. However, before you take more from me than my bare hospitality, I want to make sure you understand the consequences of blackmail. Especially, _attempting_ to blackmail someone like myself. You'll be lucky if you get jail. With my influence, you could be hung." He let the threat rest between them, as if he were waiting for her to conjure up the image of herself being hung, the noose tightening around her neck. Then he said, almost gently, "But you've not done anything yet. You may still go."

Helen supposed that it was quite kind of him, in a perverse sort of way, to remind her of the consequences of her actions. A chance to spare her. "Your Lordship—"

"Your Grace," he cut in, icily.

"Right. I knew that." Helen put the empty teacup down on his desk and leaned forward, mimicking his position, laced fingers and all. Her voice a whisper to match his. "I do realize the severity of blackmail; that's why it's best to be sure one knows that they state the truth."

He stood and went to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid before coming back to sit down. Was it brandy? All the books said the men drank brandy or whiskey at times like this. He didn't drink it, just looked at it. Almost as though it were a prop. She looked at the clock. It was barely 10 am.

"There are other options for a girl with your looks."

Girl? She was twenty-six. In this day and age, she was a spinster. Although, thinking of the women she had passed on the streets, she looked young. Young and pretty. She supposed that a lifetime of healthy food, medical and dental care, had given her a lot of advantages. She had nice teeth and clear skin. Most people she passed had smallpox scars on their face. Even the Duke wasn't spared, a small row of scars on the side of his neck, only visible when he'd gone to get a drink, and she'd watched him. She was a catch!

"I'm not spending my life on my back if that's what you mean. I'm not a whore." She wondered if there had been a more polite way to say it, but she found the recommendation offensive.

His jaw firmed, and she thought she detected a blush on his lean cheeks. "With your looks, you could be a very wealthy mistress. Not only is it legal, but it has a certain level of respect."

Helen choked back a laugh. Was he serious? She shook her head and decided to get on with it. "Yeah, thanks. So, blackmail." She took a deep breath. "I know that you're not the real Duke of Somervale. The real duke was stillborn. Your father was gravely ill when you were born, and everyone thought he'd die. The property would have reverted back to the crown if there hadn't been an heir."

There, that was the moment she should have stopped speaking. But Helen couldn't. His expression hadn't changed from malevolent boredom, but his fingers were white against the crystal glass. Her heart beat faster, only half aware of what she was saying, as she thought about what she would do if he did snap and throw the glass at her or attack her. The words spilled out of her.

"You support your family and sisters. You are at the forefront of the Industrial Revolution, and a lot of people depend upon you and your wise decisions. If you're not the duke, if I _tell_ everyone and get you stripped of the title, a lot of people will suffer, including your sisters and mother."

He looked at her oddly when she said 'Industrial Revolution', and she felt like a fool. Of course, they wouldn't call it that now. She clamped her mouth shut, refusing to say anything else in case she screwed it up even more.

"And what do you want?" His voice was silky and dangerous. He set the glass down beside him gently, and she automatically shifted in her seat. She didn't trust self-control like that.

There was always an explosion.

"I'm afraid I'll need money to support myself. I have an idea of how much. Assuming things go as I expect."

"You speak like a gambler," he said, the words barely above a whisper.

Helen laughed a little. That was closer to the truth than he realized. She was gambling on the future.

"A gambler and a thief," she said. _Never bait a caged animal._

"And how much money does it take to support a woman like you...?" His voice had gotten an almost lazy drawl to it. The crisp vowels were slightly slower. Like he was speaking to a lover instead of a con woman. And whatever he was going to say at the end of that sentence was undoubtedly something she didn't want to hear.

A shiver raced down her back. "I'll need five thousand pounds. As you can see, I've come with very little." The plans would cost 200 pounds at auction; the rest of the money was for her, so she could live out the rest of her days in relative comfort.

"You are American, yes?" He was back to perusing her outfit, his gaze skipping her chest altogether.

"Yes."

"Are you a servant who has run away? Indentured perhaps?"

"No."

He shrugged, as though it didn't really matter.

"And where would you like this money? Do you have a bank account?" he asked, the same way one would inquire about the weather.

"I'll take it in cash."

His eyebrows raised for a moment, as though her response was boringly obvious. "That's not the sort of money I have laying around. You'd need to come back and get it."

Alarm bells rang through her. Giving him time to think couldn't be a good idea. "We will go together."

He drummed his fingers on the table. Just once. "The problem with blackmail, is that the blackmailer always comes back for more."

"I won't. I promise."

Now he laughed. A deep and slightly bitter laugh; the sound inherently masculine. Her stomach flip-flopped. "And what's that promise worth? The dress on your back? The rags on your feet?"

Helen sat up straighter. "If you don't believe me, fine. You still have no choice but to pay me. You'll just have to hope that I mean it when I say I won't come back for more."

"What about proof?" he asked, head tilting slightly to the side. His skin was tanned, the hint of neck that she saw strangely alluring.

"What about proof?" she asked. Why was he so tanned? Oh yes, he'd liked to ride horses. _Correction, he does like to ride horses_. He was no longer someone from the past.

He raised both eyebrows at her, and a devilish glint came into his eyes, "Well, as far as I can tell, you don't have any. So, why on earth would I give you anything, when no one will believe your outlandish claim? No one would take your word over mine. Do you understand that, at least? I am a peer of the realm. I dine with the Prime Minister." His smile was pure condescension. She wanted to hit him. "You don't even have shoes."

_Ouch._ When he put it that way, it did sound a little ridiculous. She made sure to keep her breathing steady. He was right; she didn't have proof, but he didn't need to know that. "The proof is in the diary of your mother's former maid, who was there the night you were born and saw the whole baby-switching drama occur. If confronted with it, she'll have to admit it, or I'll have her diary published. Long diatribes about former lovers and her hopes of one day becoming a wealthy mistress. Very embarrassing stuff. And she would do anything to prevent the world from knowing her past." He looked down, picking at something on the knee of his trousers. Imaginary lint probably. _That's a tell_ , she thought irrationally.

"And who is this maid with a reputation to protect?" But she suspected he knew what was coming next. Something about his question lacked conviction.

"Mrs. Helmsley," she said.

"Of course. Current mistress to the prime minister. Yes, I suppose she is the one woman who would happily expose me to save her own skin."

He became perfectly still in his chair as he thought through her words. She could imagine the wheels turning. She spoke quickly, "Just give me the money now, and no one will ever know. I—" She stopped talking. She was about to make him a promise, and that surely wouldn't do. He didn't want promises from her, he'd made that clear.

She couldn't give him the diary. It was real, but it was hidden in the wall of his ancestral home, and it didn't get found until 1920, when his ancestors were renovating the house. By which time everyone concerned would be dead.

Including me. Which blows.

The Duke was still watching her, and it made her want to get up and walk away from him, turn her back so he couldn't see her so intensely. Was he trying to figure out what she'd been about to say? Helen flexed her fingers out of nervousness, opening her hands wide, and the Duke's eyes followed the move, a small frown creasing his face—again.

"I find myself most interested, Miss Foster, in how you came to learn this information. I can't imagine you've met Mrs. Helmsley."

She didn't need to answer his questions about how she got the information. Especially since she had no credible answer. 'I'm from the future' probably wouldn't go very far. So she said nothing. She wanted to look at the floor, but that wasn't her training— to look away from a challenge. Helen looked him in the face, even though she knew a young woman from this time might not do so. What's a little breach of etiquette when you're already blackmailing someone? Wasn't that the biggest breach of all?

"I assume you do this for your young man. Has he so little respect for you, and I suppose me, that he can't come to me himself?"

What did she say to that? There was no young man, but would it help to claim that there were one? After all, women had virtually no rights in this day and age. "You will only deal with me," she said, hedging her bets. Things were complicated enough without making up a fictional boyfriend or husband.

"That's not the answer to the question posed to you. I asked you if there _was_ a young man."

"Did you? I thought you'd assumed there was one," she replied tartly.

One eyebrow raised in acknowledgement. It was a neat trick. "And what will you do with the five thousand pounds?"

"Don't stall me." He was trying to get the upper hand, but this was her show. "We go, get the money, and part ways. You are a rich enough man that the money is truly trivial to you. The sooner we part ways, the sooner we can both pretend this never happened."

"Are you ashamed, then?" He regarded her curiously.

"It doesn't matter what I think or feel. But we need to go now."

He stood, smoothing his coat in a simple gesture. His gaze stopped on the untouched alcohol as he considered it. "What the hell," he said and drank it in one big swallow. "Fine. Let's go. I'll call the carriage," he said. She followed him out of the room, unsurprised to see the butler waiting outside the door like a faithful hound.

"Clemens, I'll be going out for an hour or so. Tell no one what has occurred or where I've gone. Be sure the servants know that if there is any discussion about the events of this morning, they will be let go without a reference. We need the carriage immediately, and have the housekeeper bring down a pair of Amelia's old shoes and a cloak."

The butler nodded stiffly. They stood in silence in the entryway, the air not just thick with tension, but solid. Helen feigned interest in her surroundings, unwilling to meet his gaze. The Duke of Somervale, Edward Clifton, stared at her steadily, all of his attention focused upon her so that his gaze felt like it had a weight to it. As if it were pushing her down and would crush her.

The butler, Clemens, returned with a slightly worn cloak. It looked like an old opera cloak, and the velvet was heavy, rich, and black. He held it out to her.

Helen put it around her shoulders, unreasonably happy to be covered up. The Duke preceded her outside, the clop-clop sound of horses' hooves striking stone and making a staccato beat. Her breath fogged in front of her, and she had the vague sensation she'd just stepped onto an elaborate movie set: the horses, the carriage, hell, even the Duke, seemed unreal. And the fact that it was 1854 didn't help either.

As the carriage came to a stop before them, a coachman appeared instantly, hurrying to the door and opening it with a flourish. The Duke gestured for her to go in first, following right behind her. Inside, the carriage was cozy and new. It struck her as odd that the carriage would be new, having only seen them as antiquated relics.

It was luxurious and opulent, with fine attention to detail: hand-stitching of the dark leather seats, carvings in the wood—and the smell—polish and leather. It was rich, intoxicating, and somehow masculine. Perfect for him. She mentally slapped herself.

_Save world. Don't fantasize about irritating—but surprisingly attractive—Duke._ The butler came down the steps and handed a pair of shoes to Edward before closing the door. Edward sat across from her, then he handed her the shoes with one hand, leaning forward with stiff elegance. Helen reached out for them, her fingers grazing his.

It was stupid, but his touch made her catch her breath. She wouldn't describe the feeling as a sizzle, which always seemed moronic, but that it was as though she was riding in an elevator that stopped too abruptly—a wobbling feeling in the pit of her stomach.

He drew back, seemingly unaffected, wiping imaginary lint off his charcoal trousers before reaching into his pockets and pulling out gloves. He didn't put them on, but looked at them harshly, as though they had offended him.

Helen set to work putting on the shoes. She lifted her dress to her knees absently as she unwound the ruined chemise she'd wrapped around her feet. She wiggled her frozen toes and pushed her foot into each boot. They were a little large, but revolutionary compared to fabric strips. The leather was cream-colored, heavily scuffed, and the heel was lightly worn down. They were comfortable though. More than she would have expected. Happiness suffused her. Maybe everything would be alright. She was here, she'd survived. She was clothed, had food and shoes, was on her way to get money. She knew there were still many ways this could go wrong, but it was nice to savor these first few accomplishments.

She looked up from her shoes, surprised to see that for once he wasn't watching her face. She followed his gaze—her dress was still up, bunched around her knees. His gaze moved up her body very slowly, as if he could see every inch of her through the heavy black velvet. By the time his gaze reached her face, she was blushing. His look was harsh, with a fine edge of scorn.

Something inside of her snapped. "Shouldn't a gentleman look away?"

He spoke through gritted teeth. "You can't be a lady and a criminal. You are one or the other."

"But isn't a duke always a duke? Always well-bred enough to look away from a display of flesh?"

He shook his head lightly. "It is your behavior that is unacceptable. Do you know, if a man goes to a tavern or a gaming hell, and a woman lifts her skirts in such a way; it's clear to all what's being offered? I can't decide if you have been so little in society that you don't realize, or if you take nudity so casually that it doesn't disturb you to put yourself on such wanton display."

How the hell had he gotten through all that without actually saying the word sex or calling her a slut? His words were weapons, carefully crafted to inflict the maximum amount of damage without obvious bloodshed.

Coldness went through her as they stared at each other. She'd be stupid to underestimate him, had been stupid to feel a moment of confidence that everything would work out as it was supposed to.

I don't have the money yet.

A thousand biting remarks went through her mind. But she wasn't here to fight with him; she was here to steal from him. In less than an hour, she'd never see him again. "You don't need to question my background, you just need to pay for my future," she said sweetly. _Dammit!_ She shouldn't goad him. She'd meant to say nothing.

She tried to rein in her temper and caught a flash of movement at the last moment.

His hand snaked out to grab her wrist, and she evaded him, throwing herself towards the other end of the carriage. He followed her, lunging across the seat and grabbing her hands in his. He gripped them tight, and she had to force herself not to pull away from him and slam her elbow into his face.

_He won't hurt me. He won't hurt me._ The refrain ricocheted in her mind, but staying still and not fighting him, went against every instinct she had. She didn't want to let him see how strong she was.

She didn't know what his goal was in grabbing her—to threaten her, like she'd threatened him? To humiliate her and make himself feel tough? Or had he simply snapped, the situation breaking through his icy control.

And so she waited, her eyes fixed on his face, both breathing heavily, looking for any twitch that would tell her his next move. He was close to her, close enough for her to see his eyes had become almost hazel, and that he had thick, black lashes. His lips were a hard line.

He gentled his hold. She bit back a laugh.

He wouldn't hurt her. Not really. He would harm her with words, maybe even with a look. And that was _nothing_. Not like she'd been hurt in training, or the mission she'd completed three years ago where she'd almost died, her stomach ripped open and her insides hanging out.

Even though she'd just met him, only knew snippets of things about him from history books and diary entries, she _knew_ he wouldn't hurt her. This man was a protector first. That was what had shone through about him, down the centuries, that he was a good man.

She recognized it for its rarity. In her world, the world she _had_ known, survival was everything and acting morally was not black-and-white; it was flexible depending upon the situation. This man was not flexible. She was blackmailing him; she was beneath him socially and morally, and still he gentled his hold.

He was so close to her she could smell him. Shaving soap and clean clothes, a hint of cologne. It was delicious. Almost drugging, like walking into an opium den. Was he a good kisser? Or was he so uptight and stuffy that kissing him would be like making out with a dead fish?

Jesus. Get a grip.

If anything, his inability to lash out with violence should be less attractive rather than more. Wasn't it cowardice?

She tried to pull away and he let her, moving away from her slightly, before running his hand through his dark hair, the hair parting in waves and giving him a tousled look. She suspected he hated his hair. It betrayed him at the slightest touch.

"I..." Was he going to apologize? The future would eat him alive. He stopped himself just in time. Whatever he was going to say, she knew he was choosing other words. "Just tell me... _who_ is making you do this?" His eyes searched hers. "I am a powerful man, and I can get you out of this," he said, the words low and persuasive. Almost secretive, as if her imaginary partner in crime might hear him.

His words and the sincerity of them made her breath catch in her chest. Made her whole body feel constricted. This was so dumb. She wasn't here to moon over him or make it complicated. He wasn't supposed to be trying to _save_ her.

Someone had to be sensible here. For Christ's sake, this was blackmail! Helen chuckled, the sound thin and a little high. "Don't try to rescue me. You don't _know_ me. All you know about me is that I display myself like a whore, and I'm taking advantage of a family secret that you need to keep hidden. The money is for _me_. I need it, and there is nothing," Helen paused and leaned in to his personal space, meeting his eyes so he understood, " _nothing_ you can do to talk me out of it."

The carriage jerked to a halt, and the door opened. Helen peered out from the dark interior into the sunny morning. They were in front of a white stone building, tall and imposing with a guard at the front. Men in suits were walking quickly by, going about their business.

"You should wait here. It would cause quite a stir if I walked in with a hooded woman and gave her five thousand pounds," he said as soon as he descended to the street.

What to do? If he went in on his own, would he decide to have her arrested? Not go through with it? Could she take the risk? It was only his pride and reputation that would be harmed if word leaked out that he'd taken a woman into the bank and paid her a small fortune. "I'm going with you."

"I don't know why I bothered to mention it," he muttered and pulled on his gloves. Helen climbed down from the carriage, ignoring the coachman's hand. "Oh for the love of...why do you think I gave you a cloak? Cover yourself," he said, sounding exasperated. And as if he didn't trust her to do it, he pulled the hood of the cloak over her, covering her face. They walked up the steps to the bank and a guard opened the door, allowing them in. He bowed to the Duke and looked at Helen under his lashes, undoubtedly trying to see who she was, but she bowed her head.

The bank manager appeared instantly. As if he spent all day waiting for royalty to walk in the door. With much bowing, he ushered them into his office. He was short and round with fuzzy hair. Helen stopped the Duke with her hand on his arm, and he looked at it as if it belonged to a leprosy-ridden urchin.

She moved close, standing on tiptoes to reach his ear. "I'm not alone," she murmured. "If I get arrested or you turn on me, my accomplice will go to the papers, and your story will be everywhere by tomorrow. Think of what will happen to your mother and your sisters if the estate is taken from them. And your youngest sister? Amelia? There would be no fine marriage for her. She'd be lucky to become someone's governess."

"Believe me, I've thought of little else for the last hour." He moved past her, drawing away from her touch.

The manager tried to make pleasantries, but the Duke was having none of it, answering each question as tersely as possible. When he requested five thousand pounds, the man tried to hide his shock, but bowed and shuffled out, leaving the two of them alone. After a very long few minutes, the man came back, carrying a leather-covered case in his hands.

"Will you wish to count it, My Lord?" he asked.

"Leave us," he commanded, and the manager hastily backed out of his own office, closing the door softly behind him. The Duke moved away from the desk, standing in front of the door and leaning against it casually as though he were simply relaxing, rather than blocking the only exit out of the room. Helen opened the leather case, taking out the bills and counting them. Five thousand pounds. A fortune in 1854. She felt sick and giddy as she put the money back into the case, as if she'd just downed three cups of coffee.

"Don't come back for more," he growled. An unruly lock of dark hair was on his forehead.

Well, she hated to rub salt in the wounds, but..."I hope it doesn't come to that." No promises. She went to the door, stopping in front of him when he didn't move out of the way. His arms were crossed over his chest.

_Ugh_. He was so tall that if she went any closer, she'd have to look up to maintain eye contact. She was 5'8, not short by any stretch of the imagination, but she was no match for his tall, muscular frame.

"Where will you go with your ill-gotten gains?"

She tucked the case under her arm securely. Their relationship was over. Wham-bam-thank-you-sir and she hoped never to darken his doorway again. And so she said nothing, just stared at him, willing him to move, wishing he would let it go. She wished he wasn't staring at her with cold animosity; she wished he was not so large and imposing. She wished he wasn't a _good_ man who looked at her as if she were a _bad_ woman. He smiled tightly but spoke to her as if she were a child. A stupid child. "Let me inform you of what I think you will do. I think you will find lodging. Then you will find clothing and have a good meal—hopefully toasting my continued good name—but what _then_?"

"You need to get out of my way now," her voice was husky. She told him what she thought in her expression: you don't know me, I don't comprehend a man like you, and I don't want to.

"Do you understand that I can find you? I will track you down if I have to."

There were a lot of things she could say to that. It was almost like he was taunting her. As if he were loath to have their interaction end. _Because he's waiting for a chance to get me hung!_ She pressed her lips together to bite back various responses. "In a city this large, you think you could find me?" _Shut up!_

"I'm certain of it," he said, and he moved away from the door in one graceful step. Like the first step in a dance, using his body to express the heat of his emotions even if his words were cold. Then he pulled the door open, the tilt of his head indicating that he was dismissing her, not the other way around.

Helen pulled the cloak tighter around herself to shield her face before walking out of the bank. Half of her expected the Duke to shout 'thief!' and cause a panic, but he didn't.

She made it to the doors without being stopped. Her heart began to pound with a sense of accomplishment, but she squashed it down. She wasn't safe yet, hadn't gotten the weapon plans yet.

Exiting the bank she turned right, which led her deeper into the city. The city was filled with tiny alleys, thick with shadows and places to hide, perfect to lose him.

She turned at the first corner, rushing up the street as fast as she could before pausing in a dark, narrow alley. She leaned down, pretending to fiddle with her boot as she surreptitiously looked back down the street. _There_. The kid who'd ridden at the back of the carriage. He was dressed in the Duke's livery, and he was trying to find her. As soon as he passed the alley, she took off in the other direction, almost slipping in a puddle of something best left unidentified.

If she were a cat, she would have purred. This she knew: how to evade, how to disappear. She loved a chase, loved winning. Helen strode out boldly on the next street, walking calmly, feeling a gust of wind catch the hem of the borrowed cloak and blow it outwards. A hackney was parked on the side of the street, and she hopped in, told him to take her to the Savoy, and for the first time in what felt like years, maybe even a century or two—relaxed.

# Chapter 7

Edward swore. This was a disaster. He'd been blackmailed. The entire situation was beyond incredible. After all, he was a duke. He was the law for hundreds of people. At his country seat, they came to him with problems, expected him to enact justice. Even in London or with the King, he was not someone to be trifled with.

_Apparently, no one told her how important I am,_ he thought and grimaced at himself. He wasn't a total prig. But this was ridiculous; who the hell did she think she was? _A very rich woman considering how much money I just gave her._

He went home and packed, trying to decide whom he should speak to first, his mother or his governess. There was the possibility his governess wouldn't know...but his mother might not tell him even if it were true.

_Yet another woman who is uninspired by my grandness._ And then his mother would put on a spectacle complete with fainting, weeping, wailing, and as much misery as she thought was dignified, before succumbing to what would undoubtedly be days of hysterics.

_That_ was something to be avoided at all costs. His governess it was.

Within the hour, he was on his way, taking only a groomsman and his fastest horse. He could be there by nightfall if he were fast.

And he was. He loved riding—the communion between man and beast as they traversed the lands together. But this ride brought him no pleasure. The morning replayed itself over and over in his head, the questions piling up as his horse ate up the miles. Was it true? And if the real duke were dead, who the hell was _he_? One of his father's by-blows? A stray, unwanted servant's child?

And why on earth had he given her the money? Now there was a question. She had given him no proof, nothing but a story and a claim that she had evidence. Couldn't he have demanded she wait until the following day? Couldn't he have called in his butler and servants, and tied her to a chair while he set off to get the evidence from wherever she was keeping it?

But it had all happened so quickly. Hadn't it?

Looking at things in hindsight, it was always easier to see a perfectly logical course of action, he knew that. But surely he could have done _something._

His reputation was impeccable. No mistresses or actresses bandied his name about; his private life was just that, exquisitely closed to the outside world. He took the responsibilities of his rank and family name seriously, and she had come and called it all into question.

Why had he given her the money? It wasn't just for his ego and his reputation. Yes, of course, five thousand pounds was a lot of money, but it wouldn't bankrupt him. It wouldn't make the slightest dent in his fortune, especially not when his house was joined with Katherine's.

If what she said was true, and the world found out, not only would he be ruined, but his family would be too. What if Katherine found out he wasn't even a bastard, but potentially a commoner? She sure as hell wouldn't marry him. The fraudulent duke whose family paid the price.

In the scheme of things, it didn't matter that he'd given some money to a blackmailer. So long as it kept her quiet. _Yes, because quiet is the perfect word to describe her._ Provoking. That was a better word to describe her. Or menace.

Helen Foster. Good God. From her clothing and her boldness, to her immodesty and outrageous demands...he couldn't have imagined a more repellently vulgar woman if he tried.

_So repellent you couldn't look away. So repellent you touched her person and ogled her like a savage._ He had never in his life reached out and touched a woman like that. The desire to see her up close, to hold her still for just a moment and make sure she was real, that she was actually there turning his entire life upside down and not just a figment of his imagination. He'd come close to shaking her, to kissing her, to doing some unknown thing to a filthy, amoral woman in his carriage.

She was, absolutely, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And he despised himself for thinking it still, even after she'd taken his money and threatened him. She'd lifted her dress casually, unwrapped the rags from her silken legs, wiggled her pretty toes... _pretty feet! Really?..._ and he'd lost his mind.

And then his estate was before him, and he didn't have to think about her anymore nor his reactions to her. He could focus on finding out the truth and put all thoughts of Miss Foster far from his mind. After all, he'd never see her again. He loosened his tight grip on the reins.

He arrived at tea-time, throwing the house into turmoil. He found his governess in her private parlor in the East Wing. There were no more children to take care of, and his mother had long wanted him to pension her off, but he had refused. Lucy had no one besides him and his sisters, and had been more of a mother to them than the Duchess ever had; why wouldn't he let her stay in the home she'd lived in for the last three decades?

The parlor door was open and he walked in, blinking at the new yellow wall coverings. They were _very_ bright. It was like looking into the sun. He went over to her and kissed her hand, settling across from her and looking longingly around the room for the tea tray.

"Edward, I did not know you were coming. Will you be staying long?" Lucy asked, her voice sounding frail.

"No, my dear, I will not. I'm needed in London; it is simply that something rather...astonishing happened this morning, and I was hoping you could give me some answers."

Her white eyebrows crinkled together, and she pulled her shawl tighter around herself. It was warm in the room, but was she cold? He stood up and went to the fire, adding a log and arranging it properly. "You haven't taught your footman how to build a fire," he said.

She chuckled. "If they ran around with as much destructive energy as you had when you were a boy, then perhaps I would have taught them."

He dusted his hands and came back towards her, smiling gently. "Imagine my surprise when I went to boarding school and realized that none of the other boys spent their days carrying firewood from one room to another."

"You were a very good helper when you weren't being a devil," she murmured as he sat back down.

He had no response to that. The fire popped, and he took that as a sign of a job well done. He cleared his throat, uncertain where to start. "A woman came to visit me this morning, and she claimed that I am not the real duke. That I am...no one, I suppose. She claimed that I was switched at birth and that the real duke was stillborn. Does any of this sound familiar?" he asked, and tried to smile, needing her to understand that he wouldn't blame her for perpetuating a lie.

Lucy looked away from him, her gnarled hands twisting in her lap. "Ridiculous! Never has there been a boy more suited to the title. Generous and caring, intelligent and fair—"

"That is not an answer," he said. Edward couldn't help but cut her off; he wasn't looking for a list of his good qualities. And then he sat back, realizing that perhaps what she said was an answer, after all. "More suited," he repeated. "Caring? Generous? Now you have me confused with someone else." He paused while he worked through her statement. "Surely it must be true if you're trying to soften the blow by attributing those imaginary and saintly qualities to me." He leaned forward, squeezing her cold hand gently. Holding on to the one person who'd known him and cared for him when he wasn't perfect. "If it is true, I would like to hear it from you," he said, softly. "It was not your place to tell me. I know that. But I'm asking you now. You must tell me...."

Her eyes grew misty. She shook her head. "There was another child. You were no more than two weeks apart. A maid...and everyone knew that she carried your father's child. She had a son, and the babe was healthy. I've never seen such a plump and robust baby. It was quite a surprise when the child passed. It happened fast. In the middle of the night."

"The same night I, or the real duke, was born?"

She nodded sharply, staring vaguely into the distance.

So it was true. "Presumably the maid had a name?" His voice was cold. _My mother. My mother the maid._

"Susan. Susan Landry."

"And she was from?" He was amazed at how calm he sounded. How in control and unruffled. His world was unraveling, and yet he still appeared calm.

The governess looked at him with pity. "That I do not know. She was pretty and your father took a liking to her." She leaned forward, her voice steely. "And it won't do you any favors to be asking about her. The woman is not your mother in any way that counts. You are the duke. That is the end of it."

Then she looked at him intently. "So this woman came to you and what? Threatened to expose the family's dirty secret?"

He nodded.

"What did you do?"

He wanted to look away, like a guilty child who'd raided the kitchen for sweets. "I paid her. Then came straight here to find out if it were true," he said.

Her eyes widened. "You paid her? She must have damning evidence indeed."

"She said there was a journal, kept by Mrs. Helmsley, when she was father's mistress and mother's companion."

"Is it any wonder your mother is delicate. Forced to have her husband's mistress as company. That doxy!" she exploded. "Now there was a woman who got above her station! For the last decade, she's wormed her way into men's hearts and pocketbooks. She's with the prime minister now if you can believe it." She stopped, her expression changing to one of confusion. "The prime minister's mistress is blackmailing you?"

"No. But she had a diary apparently. Which my blackmailer somehow got a hold of. Helmsley would happily sacrifice me and my family to keep Palmerston from finding out her sordid past."

"Oh, Edward," she squeezed his hand hard.

He didn't want her to worry about this. "It wasn't very much money in the end. I decided to pay her and have done with it."

"And a woman, too! Was she a common sort? Could you smell alcohol on her breath?" his governess asked, a cunning expression crossing her face. She read a lot of gothic novels and fancied herself knowledgeable about the lower classes.

"No, no alcohol."

Had Miss Foster felt guilty? There was something about the way she had taken the money, the way she spoke, veering from apologetic to aggressive within the blink of an eye that made him think she was conflicted. That what she did—blackmailing him—was out of necessity rather than preference.

Lucy interrupted his thoughts. "What will you do when she comes back, Edward? Blackmailers always come back. You have to get the diary."

Edward stood and paced to the windows, looking out at the cloudy sky. It was going to rain. Wonderful. He'd have to head back in the mud tomorrow. "If a blackmailer could seem...repentant, she did."

His governess snorted. "Your father had a love of low-class women. Made the duchess crazy. Don't go following in his footsteps, you hear me? The woman will return. She's dangerous."

"He was also a gambler and violent as hell." He chuckled grimly, unwilling to show his face for fear it would betray him. "You will think this fanciful, Lucy...but for just a moment, when she told me I was not the true duke, I felt such joy to think that man wasn't my father. That I might not...be like him." He wished he could call the words back. They exposed him, made him weak.

"You are nothing like him."

He turned around, staring her in the eyes. "But the foundation is there. He is my father. It is simply my mother who is not related to me by blood. Is it any wonder her constitution is so fragile?"

Lucy waved at him dismissively. "Do not make excuses for her. There are two options in life: To give in or to fight. Your mother has spent her entire life giving in. Your father did too. Giving in, being weak, that is easy. But that is not _you_."

She leaned forward, as though urging him to believe her. "You are a good man. You are not your father. And this information changes nothing. Now, I want you to promise me that if this tart returns you won't give her any more money but will do the right thing."

His voice was bland. "By which, you mean I should get her hung outside of Newgate Prison?"

"Well, of course."

Everything he knew about himself was a lie. The Duchess was not his mother. Was his birth mother even alive? Should he make an effort to find her? Make sure she was provided for? He felt a desperate need to escape and be alone. He needed time to think through the momentous events of the day. If he sat here for a moment longer he would go mad.

Lucy watched him, expectantly.

He stood next to the chair, desperate to leave. If ever there were a time to be rude, to get up and walk out, this was it. Lucy wouldn't judge him for excusing himself. For fleeing. He sat down on the edge of the seat. The need to stay and focus making him feel ill. He needed air, to go outside. There was the faintest sound of ringing in his ears. If people found out he was illegitimate, the title and estate would pass to someone else. His mother would be kicked out, his sisters penniless and unable to make decent marriages. It was impossible to sit here and pretend that everything was fine and exactly the same as it had been this morning. He simply couldn't do it. Edward forced a smile and settled back in the chair—a parody of comfort. "Now tell me, Lucy. How are your roses?"

# Chapter 8

Helen went to the Savoy, booked a room, and paced the small space while she waited for a bathtub to be brought up to her. Cleaning herself with a bowl, water, soap, and a cloth just wasn't gonna cut it. The room was small and not nearly as grand as she'd hoped it would be. And there was a chamber pot. She was now in a time she would be expected to crap in a bowl. It put things in perspective. Not that she was getting used to being in another time, but she supposed she had a certain level of acceptance. Hell, she could now go a few minutes without thinking about how she had left everything behind. But then something like this would happen—portable poop that would be chucked out the window—and she'd realize how alien this time period was. And how alone she was.

The tub was made of tin, and servant after servant came in carrying buckets of steaming hot water. Helen scrubbed her skin and washed her hair, the mud from her journey sloughing off and a sense of...something came over her. A peculiar variety of emotions from relief at having survived, joy at having the money, but there was more, and those emotions were the ones she couldn't put a name to.

She could still see the look of fury and disgust on the Duke's face as she blackmailed him. Helen didn't like being a bad person. Even if it were for a good cause. She rubbed her skin harder, as if the guilt of blackmail was something she could wash off as well. Tears filled her eyes, and she covered her face with the washcloth, the heavy scent of flowered soap invading her nostrils. It wasn't just the blackmail, and the dirt that left her.

It was as though she were scrubbing off the remains of her entire life.

If Mary were thinking of her right now, Mary was thinking that she was dead. Helen was someone who people thought of in the past tense. She'd say, "I miss Helen; that bitch knew how to drink a pint of beer." Or "My friend Helen used to love to dance and watch sappy romantic movies."

Helen stayed in the tub until the water went cold and her eyes drooped. She wasn't just physically tired, but emotionally tired. She dried herself with a crappy piece of linen and fell naked into bed, snuggling deep under the covers, before falling into a deep sleep.

# Chapter 9

She awoke to knocking. The room was bright, sunlight seeping in from between the curtains. Helen looked around the room as if clothing might have magically appeared in the night.

"Who is it?"

There was a pause, followed by a rustling sound. "I am from Madam Dumas, to take your measurements, madam."

"Are you alone?" She could just imagine the heart attack she'd give some guy if she opened the door only in a towel. Or a boner.

Another pause. "Yes, madam."

Helen wrapped herself in the still damp towel and opened the door; a thin young woman with mousy brown hair and large eyes looked back at her. "Come in, please."

The seamstress entered the room with a large black bag.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what they told you. But I don't have anything to wear. My clothes—" _Were stolen? All of them?_ Helen wasn't sure what to say.

The woman nodded sharply as if she dressed clothes-less women all the time, and opened her bag, pulling out a thin, white linen shift. "Put this on. Then I will measure you." While the woman set her bag down on the bed and began to pull out her measuring tape and other things that she would need, Helen dropped the towel and put the shift on. Her stomach growled.

The woman came at her with professional determination, measuring her and marking it all down on paper. After several long minutes, she stepped back and looked at Helen's face critically. "We have some dresses that are already made and would fit you nicely. Your complexion is unfashionably dark, but your skin is excellent. I'm thinking bold colors would suit you. And your eyes are very green, which we can bring out with the right colors."

A ticket-porter, a man who ran messages and packages around London, was sent to the dress shop with instructions on what clothes should be sent over. Lunch was sent to her room while they waited. She pulled off the covers with a sense of fear. Half expecting something revolting like jellied eels, or haggis. But all she found was a nice soup and cold-cuts with cheese and bread as well as some fruit. She hoped that the food would help her regain her strength. Adding it up, Helen thought she'd slept for almost a full 24 hours. And she was still tired.

The clothes arrived within the hour; swaths of color and beautiful fabrics piled high on Helen's bed. The following two hours could only be described as a bizarre exercise in torture. She had expected the corset to be unbelievably uncomfortable. But she hadn't realized how hard it would be to sit down, then get back up.

The modiste pulled at her, ordered her arms up, legs up, turned her all around and in the end, Helen stood looking at herself in the mirror, shocked by her transformation. She was clad in an emerald-green walking dress that was the most beautiful gown Helen had ever worn. Screw that, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. And she was wearing it. Her waist was unbelievably small and her bosom shockingly large.

It was totally irrelevant to her purpose, but damn she looked good. All women should get to dress like this, she thought. Minus the corset. The rest of Helen's clothing would be delivered over the next few days once alterations were made. Helen paid the modiste in cash, giving her a healthy tip which made the woman's eyes water in gratitude. Helen checked the numbers. A pound. She'd only given her a pound, but from the way she reacted one would think it was a hundred-dollar bill.

And then it was time to go to the auction house.

As Helen made her way there, she ran through the details in her mind. The auction would take place in three days, and the plans would be sold for 200 pounds. Although she feared the bidding might go higher now that she was involved.

Whitby and Sons Auction House was an uninspiring building near Russell Square. The front room looked like a hotel lobby and the man who came to greet her eyed her speculatively. She could see him trying to make a calculation of her wealth as she came in. His eyes narrowed. "Can I help you, madam?" His English accent had a weird French twist to it. As if he were either French and pretending to be English or English and pretending to be French.

"I'm interested in an auction you'll be having in a few days. Blueprints, for Roland Black's gun modifications." _I'm actually here, doing this. I'm changing the future at this very moment._

He looked down his nose at her. "I'll check. When is the auction scheduled?"

"This Thursday."

He scowled down at his paperwork.

"I show that item as having been removed."

"What does that mean?"

"It means there will not be an auction."

Wait. That wasn't right. Helen was speechless for a second, her mouth open. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" She'd heard him wrong, that was all.

"I said Mr. Black has nothing to be auctioned. He withdrew the plans."

She felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. "That's impossible. He _can't_ take them back. That's not how it happens." He shrugged and looked at the door longingly as if he wished she would leave.

Helen took a step closer, her skirts pressing up against the counter. "Did he say why?"

"No, madam."

"Is he going to have someone else sell them?"

He sniffed. "We are the premier auction house in London. I assure you, he would give the plans to no one else if he were seeking to sell them."

Helen doubted that they were the best auction house around, but that was the least of her problems.

"But I _have_ to buy them," she said stupidly. "I came all this way. A _really_ long way."

He turned his back on her, walking back to his desk. A million thoughts raced through Helen's mind, sweat breaking out on her forehead as she tried to make sense of what he was telling her.

"Are you lying to me?" she asked, hearing a tiny amount of panic in her voice.

He scowled at her darkly.

"I'm not trying to offend you. But I had really expected him to sell the plans. I don't understand why he'd change his mind." What did this mean? Had history changed already? Helen took a deep breath. She hadn't failed yet. As long as she got the plans and destroyed them, the mission would be a success.

Helen smiled disarmingly. "I would really like to contact Mr. Black, see if the plans are available for purchase."

"I'm unable to disclose that information."

Inspiration came to her and she opened her reticule, pulling out a pound. "For your help," she said, holding it out to him as though she were waiting for him to kiss her hand.

He took the money and looked around shiftily. "Mr. Black withdrew the plans but made no reason for the disclosure. Mr. Whitby himself spoke to Mr. Black. I do not know his address, but Mr. Whitby said he suspected Mr. Black had found a _private_ buyer," he said the last part as if Mr. Black had contracted a deadly disease.

"Why would he do that? Wouldn't he get more money by an auction house? Bids and competition would drive the price up." Helen licked her lips and pulled out another coin. "Was there anyone else who was interested in the plans?"

"Baron Colchester was quite intrigued. It is my personal belief that he sold the plans to the Baron."

"Colchester," she repeated slowly. Helen had no idea who that was.

The man nodded. "The Baron is hosting a party for Mr. Black this evening. It is quite a coup for the American. To be introduced to society by the Baron is a great honor."

Helen pursed her lips, thinking rapidly. "So Mr. Black may have sold the plans to Baron Colchester in order to get an introduction to high society?"

He snorted. "Not good _ton_. But people with money and titles."

Helen wasn't sure what the difference was between good _ton_ and other _ton_. Bad _ton_? The ton were the fashionable people, royalty and the rich people of London society.

Helen left in a daze, walking blindly as she tried to decide what the hell she was supposed to do next. Her mission was to get the plans so that they did not fall into German hands. Now they were gone. But why? She'd been told exactly when they sold and how much for. _This changes the timeline._ No doubt about it. Things were different. Helen's breath came faster as she aimlessly walked down the street. What did that mean that he had changed the timeline? Helen decided to go back again tomorrow, and the next day, every day until the plans were supposed to be sold, just in case he came back and they were sold after all.

But what if he didn't? She had to find Roland Black. Find him and get the plans before he sold them to someone else. She had to go to that party tonight. Her stomach flip-flopped. There was only one person who could get her into that party. And he was going to be pissed.

His anger, weighed against millions of people's lives, really isn't very important.

Helen snapped out of her daze the moment the decision was made. Everything was still on the verge of disaster, but at least she had a plan for what to do next. She looked around her at the tiny cobblestoned streets and people selling things. Where the hell was she? She'd been so distracted when she left the auction house she hadn't been paying any attention. Her gaze caught on a cartoon drawing of a woman carrying a parasol with several lords following along behind her.

Lots of shops had tabloid cartoons detailing what the rich got up to, making fun of them for one thing or another. Most people couldn't read, so the only way to convey gossip or current events was in a drawing. But this one made Helen pause. The woman in the drawing wore an absurdly large wig, her bosom large and prominent enough to knock a man out. The look on her face was...knowing. Like the Victorian equivalent to slutty. But the strangest part of the picture, and what caught Helen's attention was her gown.

All along the hem were symbols, the Wolfsangel, over and over again making a border. It looked like a Z put on its side, and Helen had seen it before; a symbol that the Third Reich had adopted for their own. Not as popular as the swastika, but prominent, as she'd seen it on uniforms and propaganda. Helen went into the apothecary, looking around and trying to act as if she were interested in herbs and medicines undoubtedly laced with arsenic and other toxic substances. The smell was overpowering, the dueling scents of spices and flowers making her want to sneeze. There was one man at the counter, and he was having an intense conversation in Italian with an old man. The proprietor turned around, giving her his back as he scanned his rows of bottles looking for something and Helen reached out, taking the cartoon down from the window and heading back out the door, walking quickly in case he noticed and came after her.

Great. She'd lost the plans, gained a weird cartoon, and her next stop was the devilishly handsome and undoubtedly very grumpy Duke. Or at least he would be grumpy once he saw her.

# Chapter 10

Helen went back to the Duke's residence, the brass knocker making a deep, slightly doomed sound. She couldn't help but bounce up and down on her feet, her body filled with nervous energy. The same butler opened the door, wincing when he saw Helen on the stoop. She'd kind of hoped he wouldn't recognize her. Her dress was very elegant, the color a lovely green which went well with her darker skin and made her eyes bright. Even if Helen was quite a bit darker than the other women she'd seen. A lifetime of wearing hats versus a lifetime of training outdoors.

"I'm here to see the Duke...Please."

He opened the door, making a stunted little gesture that could have meant 'come in' or might have meant, 'stay away thing of evil'. She stepped inside the house, the smell of lemon and baking bread making her mouth water.

"I'll inquire," he said gravely. Even though he didn't say it, it was clear he disapproved of her. Showing up without an invitation in an unmarried gentleman's family home was bad manners, to say the least. But it wasn't like she had a calling card, and she was persona non grata no matter what time she arrived.

He shut the front door and strode away, leaving her alone in the entryway. Helen heard light footsteps and turned to the stairwell. A young woman stood there, and Helen was pretty sure it was the same girl she'd seen dash away when she'd first shown up two days ago. She came down the stairs slowly, studying Helen thoroughly. It wasn't exactly mean, but it was curious. Her hair was light brown, her complexion white as porcelain. "Is that my cloak?" the girl asked in a surprisingly sweet voice.

"Oh!" Helen felt herself blushing. "Yes. And thank you. I had need of it....but, you can have it back. So, here," she said, fumbling with the clasp. Should she give it back? Amelia was watching her with a small, fascinated smile.

"You can keep it if you need it. I have another."

Helen got the clasp undone and handed her the cloak, noting Amelia's perfect hands. They were pale and milky-white, the nails on each finger smooth ovals. Never in her life had she used those hands for anything more dangerous than sewing. _Weird._ "No, I can get one. Thank you."

Amelia took the cloak and absently threw it on a chair a few steps away. She probably didn't pick anything up herself, but had a servant do everything for her. "Are you from London?" she asked, her tone and expression making it clear that she was burning with curiosity.

"No. I'm from America."

"The Colonies! And where exactly do you live?"

The colonies, how droll, Helen thought peevishly. America had been independent for over a century. "California."

Her eyes became saucers. Helen thought about how arduous the journey would have been in 1850. Maybe it did require a look of wide-eyed incredulity.

"Did it take an awfully long time?" She took a step closer, as though she'd get more information by osmosis.

"It felt like a hundred years. Longer," Helen said, slightly amused by her feeble joke.

"Amelia," the Duke said from behind her, his dark voice preceding him.

Amelia took a step back, gave Helen an apologetic smile and turned towards her brother. She stopped beside him and leaned close, "Edward," she said gravely, in the same reproachful tone of voice he had used on her. It was playful, as if she were giving him a bad time for being so gruff. "Do be careful or your face will freeze that way," she said, playfully. But he ignored her. The full weight of his attention on Helen. As if he didn't dare take his eyes off her, even to look at his sister.

His expression was murderous. He was standing up straight, his clothes impeccable and tailored to his muscular form so that it highlighted every prominent muscle. His trousers were charcoal gray and expensive wool, his vest a deep sapphire blue, fairly muted compared to some of the eye-watering patterns she'd seen men on the streets wearing and in the shops she had passed. He was clean-shaven, dark and handsome, the carefully checked anger sending a ripple of awareness down her body.

He made a sharp gesture towards his study as if she were a naughty dog who'd peed on the rug. She followed behind him, throwing Amelia a tiny goodbye smile, before disappearing back into the Duke's office with him. Helen repressed the desire to cross her arms over her chest defensively. He waited next to the door so Helen had to pass by him, nothing more than a few inches separating them. Her muscles locked as she passed him, gripped by a strange expectant tension. She wouldn't have turned her head to look at him if her life had depended upon it. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, and Helen took a shuddering breath.

"This must be the quickest return visit a blackmailer has ever made. What did you do, lose it all on the way home?" His voice was low, almost gravelly.

She turned around, pleased to see he'd given her some distance after all. Her stomach flipped over. "No. The money is safe, thank you. I don't need more money." She moved away from him, to the middle of the room, wanting to put more space between them. He didn't appear to be relieved at the news that she didn't want more money, but stayed stiff and coiled, like a rattlesnake waiting to strike.

Helen cleared her throat. This was a crappy idea. _Is this really the only option?_ "I'm afraid I'll require a bit more from you, though." He made a huffing noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl.

"Not money!" she said, when he took a step towards her. "Um. First of all, who is this?" She opened her reticule and withdrew the cartoon she'd stolen from the shop. Helen smoothed it out and held it out towards him.

His dark eyes lowered to the paper, and he took it from her with a sigh, giving the impression that he had never been so bored, yet infuriated in his entire life. It was an odd but surprisingly intriguing display. Helen wondered if it was an affectation. He was a calm presence before her, and while the quietness of his movements supported that façade, the look in his eyes or the way he held himself... _something_ Helen couldn't identify made her think that every cool look and calm gesture was a lie. That the man underneath the polish and severity was someone quite different. _Nah._

Helen watched his face as he looked at the picture for several long seconds. He was two years older than her, the faintest hint of lines near his eyes giving him a slightly weathered look which was terribly attractive. There was the slightest twitch near his right cheekbone as a muscle jumped. He looked up from the picture, his gaze collided with hers, and she blushed, sure he'd caught her staring at him.

Helen rushed in with questions. "Do you know who she is? Who are the men behind her? What is the purpose of the symbols on her dress?"

"Surely you did not come all this way for gossip."

"Who is she?" Helen repeated.

He seemed to reach some internal conclusion, and after a few tense moments, he answered her. "Her name is Felicity Wells and she's Baron Colchester's mistress."

And there was that name again. Baron Colchester. The same man who was interested in Black's design. "Mistress? Why is she in the broadsheets with these men?"

"Ah." He cleared his throat. "Ms. Wells...is an entrepreneur."

For the life of her Helen couldn't decode what he was saying. "What kind of business does she have?"

"This is not for delicate sensibilities. A lady wouldn't pursue it," he said repressively.

"I don't have delicate sensibilities."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really," he said blandly.

"Just pretend I'm one of the guys. A dude just like you—"

"A _duke_. Why on earth would I pretend you were a duke?"

Helen almost laughed. Guess they didn't use the word dude in Victorian England. "What I meant was, treat me like a man. Tell me what you'd tell another...duke. You keep saying things, and for the life of me, I can't riddle them out. I know we're speaking the same language, but it somehow is getting lost in translation." As she spoke, his expression became stonier. As if she were insulting him. She tried another approach. "How about this? The sooner you speak in words I understand, the sooner I will leave."

He blinked, a long slow blink, and she thought even his eyelashes were quivering in irritation. "Speak coarsely and pretend you are a man," he muttered. He exhaled slowly. "She is a demi-rep who runs a brothel as well as a gaming establishment."

"Oh!" Helen smiled, pleased to have it make sense. A hint of red appeared on his cheeks as though he was mortified on her behalf. "And why does she have the symbol?"

"As to why the woman is wearing that symbol, it's probably because of a new...group that is quite popular at the moment."

"What group?"

"I don't know much about it. Several lords have started an occult group based upon ancient runes and cult-like practices."

"Like the druids?"

"Yes."

"Are you a member?" she asked bluntly.

He looked at her long and hard for a moment, as though trying to read her mind. "No, I am not. I've been invited, obviously. But I haven't attended any of their meetings."

"Why not? And why do you say you were 'obviously' invited?"

"There are rumors that the club is quite...debauched. And I say 'obviously,' because I'm invited everywhere. The joining fee is quite steep." He walked away from her, hands clasped behind his back as he went to his desk and sat down behind it. As if he needed distance between them.

"Can you find out what they do there?"

A hint of anger crept into his words. "I don't want to find out." He leaned forward. "I don't care to have anything to do with them." This time Helen was positive there was a growl at the end of that sentence. "Being rich and titled brings a lot of privileges as well as opportunities to behave in a reprehensible manner and get away with it. This group's members are some of the vilest men in London."

Helen sat down in a chair opposite him. "So this Baron Colchester must be pretty shady then. With his Madam mistress and wanting to buy...stuff," she said, stopping abruptly. She'd almost said too much.

Helen supposed it was probably time to get on with things. She leaned forward. "As for the other reason I'm here. I require an introduction."

Long moments passed, and she had the distinct impression that he was swearing at her and calling her vile names in his head. "To whom and why?" he finally said.

"I can't tell you why. But who is easy. Roland Black."

His brow furrowed and he shook his head in surprise. "I do not know the name."

"He's a gun maker from America. He used to work for Samuel Colt. Colt fired him for wanting to improve his gun design. He's come to England hoping to sell off his designs and the weapons he invented while he worked for Colt."

"I don't know him," the Duke said, as though that was an end to the matter.

"You can know anyone you want to, you're a duke."

"And those I don't want to as well."

Helen ignored the jab and plunged ahead.

"All I want to do is talk to him, and as soon as he gets me what I need, you're done. I swear."

"I believe that's what you told me two days ago," he said, a hard smile forming on his lips.

"After I see Black—assuming he gets me what I need—I'll give you the diary. I swear! I know my word means nothing, but once you _have_ the diary, I'm not a threat to you. This will be over." Her voice wavered, which seemed to sharpen his focus. Like a lion seeing a weak deer stumble.

He scrubbed his hand over his jaw and looked away, breaking his intense scrutiny. If she hadn't been wearing the damned corset, she would've sagged in relief. He was too intense. And he confused her when he stared at her that way. "Colchester is on the fringe of acceptable society. Any event he is hosting is not suitable for good ton."

Abruptly, he laughed. More like a chuckle, but the sound disturbed her on several levels. "I cannot believe I'm being blackmailed by someone so utterly bizarre."

"Hey!"

His gaze snapped to hers. "Do you realize you are unlike any female I have ever met?" He shoved away from the desk, standing and pacing away from her.

For a moment, the words stung, the way he said them making it clear that wasn't a good thing. _I'm here to save the fucking world, I don't need to impress you._

"The States may be different, but surely they're not _that_ barbaric. It is almost as though you have no concept of how society works. Of its..." he made a gesture, as though to call the right word forward, "complexities. I should not even be here right now. I returned from my estate an hour ago. This is not a time when people call upon each other. But here you are, cleaned up, perfection in a jaunty hat bought with _my_ money, and you want _more_." He was almost shouting at her.

Her hand reached up to touch the hat. It was jaunty, wasn't it. Perfection? What did he mean by that? He thought she was perfection? Or she was trying to look like perfection?

"No," he said low and vehemently. She could also feel his born and bred superiority reasserting itself. Helen knew she had to remind him who was in charge.

She stood up, put her hands on the table as she leaned towards him. "This is bullshit." His eyes widened at her coarse words, and he froze midstride, looking at her as though she'd just said she liked to have puppies for breakfast. Oh yeah? She had more where that came from. "I have that _fucking_ diary, and I can _ruin_ you. If you don't do what I want, I'll turf your family into the streets! And guess what? They speak even more crudely than I do. What kind of life would Amelia have: object of scandal and suddenly a pauper? What about your mother with her constant illnesses? She'd probably have a heart attack. How would they fare if all of this was stripped away from them? Just because you didn't want to do this one little thing."

His nostrils flared in anger, his lips becoming a thin white line. Helen wished she'd left out the bit about the heart attack. That seemed a bit low. "You don't have to _like_ me. All you need to know is that I'm enough of a badass motherfucker to ruin you and not give a crap that it happens." She stood up tall, moving slowly around the desk towards him like the grim reaper ready to collect. "I know all your dirty secrets, and I know _you._ " She was breathing hard, and she was pretty sure she hadn't needed to tell him she was a badass motherfucker. But it had felt pretty damn good to say.

"You do not know me," he whispered furiously, as though the slightest increase in volume would make him snap. His cheekbones stood out in harsh relief. He stayed rooted to the spot as she advanced upon him, refusing to give ground.

She moved in closer to him, and he let her, watched her with glittering intensity, several feet still between them. "I know you'll do what I want you to do because what I want costs you _nothing,_ and not helping me would cost you _everything_."

For a moment there was complete silence, and she was surprised she couldn't hear echoes of their shouting match reverberating around the room. He moved towards her, and she shifted on her feet, raising her arm defensively, automatically reacting as though he was about to attack.

He froze, his head jerking back as if she'd slapped him. His eyes narrowed. "You expect me to hit you?" The words were oddly flat, half statement, half question.

"Is that a threat?" she asked. He dropped his gaze and walked past her, leaving four or five feet between them. He stopped at a sideboard that contained alcohol and tumblers. She heard the faint glug-glug sound of liquid going into a glass, but she could only see his broad back.

"No. 'I will see you caught and hung' _, that_ is a threat. Would you like a drink?" he asked, not bothering to look at her as he made one for himself.

"Um," she had visions of a poisoned decanter. "Yes, please. I'll have what you're having."

He cast her a brief, appraising glance. "I'm having whiskey," he said, in a tone that implied she didn't want what he was having.

"I like whiskey." _I don't know shit about whiskey._

"Of course you like whiskey," he said, chuckling unhappily.

There was a pause while he poured them drinks, a moment where the conversation and antagonism stopped. She had the sense that it was intentional, that he was using these few moments to get himself together and diffuse the tension between them.

Helen's body was humming, her breathing a little fast, her heart rate elevated. She wasn't sure if she needed a good fight or a good shag, but the odds of getting either were zilch. The Duke was a beautiful man; even more attractive than his icy control was him in a red-hot passion. What would it be like to have him act without thinking through the consequences? An image of him stalking over to her, pushing her against the wall and taking her furiously, was distracting.

He was suddenly in front of her, interrupting her daydream and handing her a drink. _That is the kind of distracted bullshit that gets people killed._

Helen got back to business. "Here is the deal. You are to pretend that I am an American heiress—"

"Flush with my money."

Helen rolled her eyes and let that slide. "And you are—"

He stopped with the drink halfway to his mouth, as though he'd just put the pieces together. His words were flat with conviction, the syllables like cut diamonds. "I am not going to pretend that I'm courting you. You must be out of your mind to think anyone would believe that. It doesn't matter how beautiful you are, no one would believe it, and more importantly, my fiancée would castrate me."

"That's...blunt."

"I know how much you appreciate colorful language," he said. "I'll do you the courtesy of speaking in terms you understand. People _would_ believe you were my mistress. But they _won't_ believe I'd marry you."

Helen had never expected to be the marrying kind, but no one had ever thrown it in her face. She huffed out a breath. "Fine. That's all I want."

He scowled and took the drink he'd forgone a moment before. "Now tell me what you want with Roland Black. Is he a bastard too?"

"Very funny. I just need an introduction...and an uninterrupted meeting with him."

He looked at her oddly. "What are you going to do, kill him?"

"No!" Helen said, surprised at the question.

"Then what do you want with him?" He took a step closer to her, and Helen narrowed her eyes. A 'back-it-up-buddy' look on her face.

"It's none of your business." She put her glass down on a small side table near the door. He stopped moving. Helen reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, setting it down on the table too. "Here is the information about the ball and where we will meet and what time."

She had a hand on the door knob.

"Just so we are clear. You are giving me the diary at the end of the night?"

Helen let him see the sincerity in her eyes, their gazes locking. Trust me, her expression said, I won't let you down. "I swear."

He nodded sharply, setting the half-filled glass down with a loud thunk. Amber liquid splashed onto his desk.

And then, somehow, Helen found herself out the door and in the street, walking towards her hotel. Shakiness overcame her with each step, almost feeling like the beginning of a fever, except that it was emotional. She'd lied to him, was using him, and he _hated_ her. She didn't like him and his judgment. Or that she was here doing something good, and he thought she was evil.

Some part of her wished she could tell him she wasn't a bad person. _I told him I'd give him the diary. Which I don't have and can't get._ Even though she knew it was for the greater good, she didn't like lying to him. And she couldn't imagine how angry he was going to be when she ditched him and didn't give him the diary. But it would sever the connection between them. She'd see him once more, get the plans and go about her life while he went about his. It was as simple as that.

Her pace quickened; she had a ball gown to buy.

# Chapter 11

Edward stood in his study, the sound of the front door closing still echoing in his ears. Was it only days ago that his life was...perfect? He grimaced. Perfect wasn't the right word to describe his life. It implied a certain calmness, even happiness with one's life. But he would never go so far as to say he was unhappy either. Maybe the correct word was 'orderly'. Was it only mere days ago his life was orderly?

His whole life had structure. All expectations of him were known. Every relationship was identifiable; he had peers and those beneath him. There were very few people above him. He had his mother and family, and soon he would have a wife. He understood all those relationships, and none of them were supposed to change. Those were the foundations of his life.

Now he was a bastard. The woman he'd grown up thinking was his mother—wasn't. Everything he had taken for granted: his life, his home, his place in the world, was all in jeopardy.

Because of her. Who the hell was she? He'd been stupid to believe that the blackmail would end. No matter how regretful she seemed or how much she promised this was the last time, he couldn't believe her. It would be stupid to believe her.

And yet, rather oddly, part of him wanted to. Perhaps it was because she was as easy to read as a child. She had no mask to cover her feelings. If he had to guess, he would say that she did regret what she was doing, that if she could make this the final time she took things from him, she would.

But he also sensed a resolve within her, a steel hardness that she would back up with violence. He'd seen the way she prepared herself when he advanced towards her. She hadn't even thought about it, her instinct was to protect herself. There had been no fear, no hesitation. In her face, he had seen confidence. In her stance and the way she held herself, he'd seen knowledge.

She knew how to fight.

What sort of life had this woman lived that her instinct was that if a man was coming closer to her, he meant to do her harm?

What was I going to do when I reached her?

He wouldn't have hit her, that was for damned sure. He wasn't that man. No matter the provocation. Not like his father was. Any excuse to beat some sense into someone. Especially someone who stepped out of line.

Everything about her was contrary to anything he had ever known. Her skin was perfect, her hair gleamed. Everything about her was different. Even her movements were unlike other women. The purpose in her stride and the directness of her gaze screamed her boldness. Her feelings were obvious. She did not try to hide them. Or if she did, she did a terrible job at it.

Two days ago she'd been a mess, and even then he'd known she was extraordinarily attractive. But now, clean and dressed, styled and confident...Edward had never seen a more beautiful woman. Everything about her was alive and exotic. As though he'd spent his life surrounded by roses, and she was an orchid.

She was a beautiful, shocking and morally bankrupt creature, and—he ran his hands through his hair, instantly regretting it—she wanted him.

She looked at him as though he were equally exotic, which was enough to make him laugh out loud. Rather bizarrely, she looked at him as though she had no concept of who he was. The title, the money, the history of his family. Even his place in the world. He could almost see her attempting to reason out just how important he was.

And some base part of him responded to her. To the mix of confidence and confusion that clung to her. When he had moved closer to her, it hadn't been to hurt her. He had wanted to tame her. He had been perilously close to holding her still with his hands and his body.

Surely, he would have stopped himself. Right? There was no way he would have cradled her face in his hands and forced her to look at him. He would not in a million years drag her body against his and make her be honest with him.

He could barely focus on her words when she spoke to him, the sound of his pounding blood, the fury of emotion she unleashed in him came close to overriding every self-preserving thought.

She is destruction.

Being near her inflamed him. As if he were a piece of paper carried along with the wind, and she was the devil with a match. He wasn't paper. He wasn't weightless. He was rock and mortar, a pillar of English society. People's lives depended upon him. _She will ruin me, and she will laugh. She will destroy my family, and she won't give a damn._

And yet he wanted her.

She made him hate himself. Hate his base self that became distracted from his duty and responsibilities, and thought only of lifting her skirts and seeing the rest of her legs before he captured her with his body, making her cease the detonation of his world by being inside of her.

Edward blinked, startled to see that he was halfway to his club. He'd left the house without a coat or a hat. He'd told no one he was leaving. His body was coiled and taut; he was half-hard just walking down the damned street.

This was unacceptable. He'd go to his club, work out his frustrations, and then he'd go back to being the man he was: Purposeful. Restrained. Even cold.

The antithesis of her.

Why the hell did she want to meet a gun-maker? He stopped abruptly, the sea of humanity parting to give him space, people flowing around him as if he were a boulder in the river. People did not touch a duke. He should have sent his businessman to get information on Roland Black before he left the house. He'd send a note when he reached his club.

Edward had given her a lot of money, and now she wanted weapons. Everything clicked together with a horrible rightness. Her cause was violent. The whole of Europe was either engaged in a revolution, or waiting for one to start. And she was no stranger to violence. Violence did not frighten her. If anything, it excited her.

She would not flinch from pain or harm. Maybe she even plotted death.

In his mind, he laid the facts on the table, like turning over cards in a game of chance. She was willing to do illegal things, i.e. blackmail. She was familiar with violence and was seeking out weapons. She had no loyalty to England. She was resolved to her course of action.

That was the sticking point.

Yes, she was resolved, but why? Was she being forced into this? Was that why she was used to men hurting her? If he took her to Roland Black and she secured a shipment of arms, which resulted in death, wasn't he complicit in that? Did that make him a murderer as well, simply because he was willing to protect his place in the world at the expense of lives? Edward would not be responsible for the death of others.

But he could not destroy his family, either. Thus far, he hadn't done more than give in. She wanted money, so he gave it. She needed to go to a ball, so he was taking her. He couldn't let her call the shots. She had weaknesses; he just had to use them.

Someone bumped into him, squeaking out a stammered apology. Edward couldn't stand still any longer—not on this sidewalk, and not for her blackmail—he had to do something to stop her.

# Chapter 12

As soon as Edward's carriage rolled up, Helen got out of the hackney and paid the driver, scanning her surroundings as she crossed the street. In her note, she'd told Edward to pick her up at the west entrance of Green Park, and that they would make the journey to the ball together.

The family crest on his carriage was covered, presumably so that no one could gossip about his whereabouts or whom he'd been seen with. The driver opened the carriage as she approached, and Helen's heart thumped nervously in her chest as she entered the closed space.

Helen sat down, smoothing her skirts, partially out of nervousness, but also because she loved the feeling of the fabric. She looked like a princess. A princess who could kill people, but close enough.

Helen had gone back to the seamstress, throwing the woman into a tizzy when she told her she needed a ball gown fit for a mistress. The neckline was absolutely plunging. Her breasts were lifted, molded and shaped into perfection, her shoulders bare. Her stockings were white, which struck Helen as surprisingly shocking. The ones she wore during the day were black and serviceable. These were stockings that were meant to be removed.

"I confess that I had hoped you would change your mind," he said softly in the dark. Some of the tension eased out of her, the tone of his voice indicating that he had calmed down since that afternoon.

"Good evening to you, too," she said, careful to keep the sting out of her voice.

The coachman shut the door, the carriage swaying gently as he got back up on the box. She thought she could feel the Duke looking at her in the dark. "I don't want to give you anything of the family's for obvious reasons, but I thought we might go to a jeweler and see if we could find something appropriate for tonight."

Helen froze. "You want to give me jewelry? Why?" Her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, and she could see him, his face cast in darkness, sharpening his features and giving him a roguish, even dangerous cast. She shivered.

He smiled coldly. His disdain for her obvious. "If I'm presenting you to the world as my mistress, you should at least look expensive. I couldn't send you a dress seeing as I have no idea where you live. But if the jewels are large enough, no one will notice what you're wearing."

He bought his mistresses dresses? Did all men do that? "Why do I feel like you're leading me into a trap?"

He raised a brow at her. A slight shake of his head. "I don't know. Perhaps because you are suspicious by nature, or because you have a guilty conscience."

She wanted to give him the finger. "If you betray me, you lose everything."

"So you've said."

Helen took another breath, the scent of him lightly intoxicating. It was spicy, warm and expensive.

"Surely you know I wouldn't risk my family's future."

"No, you wouldn't," she said, firmly. As if her conviction could convince him. "You're a good man, Edward."

There was silence for a long moment. "Do you know you've said something similar to me already? You _know_ what kind of man I am," he said, drawing out each word, a hint of steel edging into the vowels. "I can't tell if you mean it to be offensive, or if it's some strange compliment. And don't call me Edward."

Had she called him Edward? Helen blamed the dark intimacy of the carriage. "Does it help to know that I meant it as a compliment?"

He said nothing.

The carriage came to a stop and Edward stepped out, offering her a gloved hand. She could feel the heat of his fingers through their gloves, his grip firm but not too hard, and she blushed, thankful for the dark so that he wouldn't see her ridiculous reaction. Having him help her down from the carriage, having to watch every step she took and lift her skirts out of the way cemented the I'm-a–blackmailing-princess feeling. She felt feminine in a way she never had before.

The shop was small but elegant, and the owner was waiting for them, exclaiming his pleasure at the Duke of Somervale's presence. After several protracted compliments, the Duke interrupted him. "We're looking for a necklace."

The man swallowed, his head jerking down in agreement. "Very good, Your Grace. What type of stones did you have in mind?"

Edward turned to her and smiled, a brief flash of even white teeth. He made eye contact with her, maintaining it as he closed the distance between them. Helen didn't know what to do besides stay still. She stopped breathing as he entered her personal space, one hand making a fist. If he were any other man, she would think he was being flirtatious.

Nah.

When he stopped before her, he was so close that he had to look down to see her face. He raised his hands slowly, touching her neck lightly, his hands brushing the thick velvet of her cloak as he undid the clasp. _Okay, this is definitely confusing._

"You are looking at me very fiercely," he said, and she took a shallow breath, concerned that anything that she did at this point would give away just how attractive she thought he was. If the eyes were the window to the soul, she was worried he would see the pornographic film going on inside of her.

She broke contact, looked to the side at the shopkeeper as if seeking help from the Duke's magnetic attraction, but he was studiously examining the corner, looking at absolutely nothing as he gave them a pretend privacy. The nearness of him seared her, and she looked at his clean-shaven neck, her eyes drawn to the faint smallpox scars below his ear that disappeared into his dark hair at the nape of his neck.

The scars reminded her of his mortality, and she shivered as if death's own hand were touching her on the back, giving her a warning that the end was closing in. Edward was so stern, so imposing it seemed impossible that he was vulnerable to anything. Wouldn't he just give death a glare and scare him away? _You know the date of his death. Death comes for everyone. Even the high-and-mighty._ Eighty-five. That's the age he lived to. Decades yet. He married and had three children.

_Three._ Helen took a step back.

"Come now, this isn't the end of the world," he said, in a lover's tone. He'd misunderstood her sudden tension. Sure she was a little flustered by his attention, but she wouldn't back away from it. She'd be all for a sexy break to the animosities. NO, the problem was that she knew what his life was to be, and she had no part in it. "You're mine. I've bought you. That is what it means to be a mistress."

She bit the inside of her lip, her body near tingling, wanting the rough press of his hard body against hers, even as she thought about the fact that he'd be married. Victorian women and husbands didn't love each other, did they? Weren't wives expected to give an heir and a spare, and then they could sleep around as much as they wanted to?

And men were supposed to be worse, keeping mistresses, chasing actresses and debauching maids. _Not him._ He stepped back from her, holding the cloak out to the jeweler who dashed forward to take it from him. Edward's gaze met hers, mocking and scornful. _You'll regret demanding this of me,_ his expression said.

What was the deal here?

Edward took a step back from her as if she were a work of art that he wanted to see in total rather than up close. He crossed his arms and stared at her bluntly, the quality of his attention definitely different than what she was used to. He wasn't looking at her with animosity; he was examining her as a woman.

And he was doing it slowly.

She felt herself blushing as he took his time. As if he actually had bought her, and he was going to get his money's worth. "Sapphires," he said, "and diamonds."

She had the distinct impression that he was imagining her with _only_ the jewelry on. His gaze met hers and she looked away, irritated at herself for doing it. Was it cowardice to look away from him? Wasn't this just another confrontation?

But she could feel her body responding to him, betraying her. She wanted him, God help her. And the only thing that had made it bearable was the fact that he hated her and looked at her as if she were repulsive.

Now he was looking at her as if he were going to ravish her. Strip her down and eat her whole, so yeah, it was time to look away. The jeweler brought out a heavy piece, several sapphires, pearls and diamonds twined together into a choker.

The Duke dismissed it immediately, even before it was out of the case. Not even using words, but the flick of a hand. "I want to see her neck." The urge to make this farce stop was becoming overwhelming. "Something that settles lower, I think." His gaze moved down her chest, blatantly staring at the tops of her breasts that were on display in her low-cut gown. She took a deep, shuddering breath, hyperaware of how her breasts pushed against the material.

The jeweler disappeared into the back room. The Duke looked away from her, gaze fixed out the window, jaw suddenly hard, and she wondered idly if he was affected by her at all. Was this simply to humiliate her? He was probably one of the greatest catches in the land. Gorgeous and rich. Every woman desired him.

That's kind of depressing.

The jeweler came back with a deceptively simple necklace. A giant sapphire surrounded by diamonds that winked in the light. Whatever the cost was, it was a fortune. It had to be. The Duke cast the jeweler a look from under his lashes, and the man disappeared into the back room again, leaving them alone. He picked up the necklace and moved in close to her.

"Turn around," he ordered and she did, presenting him with her back and wishing desperately this was some prelude to kinky sex. She could _feel_ him at her back. He put the necklace on her, the weight of it surprisingly heavy. The sapphire settled between her breasts, drawing the eye. She turned back around, one hand on the necklace touching the stones, feeling their hard brilliance. He leaned towards her, speaking gently in her ear, the low rumble of his voice vibrating through her, settling in her core and making her close her eyes.

"Do you want this necklace? It can be yours. Just walk away. Take this and go." The warmth of his breath tickled her ear.

Her eyes opened. Oh. Duh. Every sexy thought vanished, and she felt like a moron. Yes, this was business. He didn't want her. Why would he? She was blackmailing him and was little better than a heathen.

"I have money in the carriage. I can take you to Dover. You can be in France by tomorrow. There are ships leaving for America all the time. You can start again, live a different life, and escape whoever is making you do this."

He'd caught her off guard. She couldn't do more than shake her head in denial, blinking rapidly in confusion, not wanting the sudden rush of tears to be noticeable. It was PMS, right?

His tone was soft but relentless. "I will be armed tonight. Do you have any idea how incredible that is to me? That you seem so dangerous and unpredictable that I am going to carry a gun into a ball, in case I must protect a man from you."

"I'm not going to hurt him," she said weakly.

He leaned back so she could look up into his dark eyes. His smile was sad. "I can't afford to believe you. I'm giving you a way out of this."

"You don't understand," she said, words thick. She looked away from his intense regard, as though he'd see her secrets on her face.

She felt him tense, just slightly, and he exhaled a deep sigh that was somehow sensual, and she tried not to sway forward or do something that would give away her I-want-to-hump-your-bones-even-though-you-hate-me confusion.

"If you're not doing this against your will, then I think you must be a spy or an assassin. Or something..." A slight shake of his head. "I think there is a word for you, and I don't know it. Tell me what it is," frustration made his words deeper.

Patient and still, he waited, as though he knew that if he just gave her enough time, she would tell him her secrets. The stupid part was that the idea of telling him did pass through her mind. _'Actually I'm from the future.'_

That wasn't going to work.

He took a step back, rested a hand on the glass case, drumming his fingers briefly.

"Nothing about you is right. You are not common, yet you have nothing but the money I gave you. You are clearly educated, but have no background to attain that knowledge. I have met Americans, and do you know what I have discovered about them?"

She shook her head, unable to speak, as though her own words might come flooding out. He touched her chin, forcing her to look at him, the smell of his cologne sitting heavily in her lungs.

"They are so worried about being _different_ that they try the hardest to fit in. Every rule, every gesture is proper. But not you. You don't have the faintest clue about etiquette or manners."

_I only had two weeks._ Maps, studying the events that would come to pass, all that had been more important than etiquette. Helen reached up to the necklace, her fingers curiously numb as she fumbled with the clasp.

"Don't," her voice shook and she took a breath before continuing. "You don't know me or what I am capable of. You can't be the hero and save the day. You can't talk me out of this. Keep your damn jewelry and just do what you're told."

She went to the shop door, yanking it open and surprising the coachman. He jumped to attention, opening the carriage door, her skirts swishing angrily as she fled. Helen waited in the dark interior, using every second to fortify herself and remind her of her purpose.

The future depended on her. She wouldn't be remembered as the woman who fucked it up because a guy got in the way. She would get the job done, and she would disappear. The plans were an unknown. She had to make sure Black gave them to her tonight. If that meant she had to torture it out of him, she would. She couldn't be looking for alternatives or easier ways to get the job done, just so she could impress some stuffy jerk who was engaged.

Helen _knew_ the future. He'd condescended to treating her like a mistress, one step above a whore, and she'd gotten her panties in a damp twist over it.

Gooseflesh rose on her arms. She should've gotten her cloak before storming out. The carriage door opened, and the Duke handed her the cloak as he climbed in, ducking his head so he didn't bang it as he stepped into the vehicle.

The carriage set off, the sound of the horses' hooves and outside traffic incapable of breaking up the heavy silence between them. He leaned forward, offering her a black rectangular case. "In case you change your mind," he said.

"I won't. I don't want it."

"You've already taken five thousand pounds from me; I can't imagine you're going to quibble over a thousand more. Put it on. Give it back to me at the end of the night if you don't want it. I want to speak to you about this event," he said, sounding very serious.

"Good idea. Let me tell you the plan."

"I'm dreading it already," he murmured.

She let that slide. "My plan is to get in there, find Black, speak to him and then leave. How's that?"

"Frighteningly simplistic," he said and crossed his legs.

She scowled.

"I'm going to be blunt with you. I am not a man who engages in casual lusts. And I hold the reputation of my fiancée in high regard. I don't want the world gossiping that I have taken a paramour months before our wedding."

Helen gulped.

"You are an actress. We had a liaison several years back, and now you're here looking for a protector. If anyone asks, I'm here with you as an old friend who wants to make sure you make a good connection. You are not _my_ mistress. Is that clear?"

"Your solution is to tell them that I'm a hooker on the prowl?" she asked, indignantly. "Do you have the word hooker?"

Now he scowled, his expression slightly sinister in the dark. "Is it a worse word than 'blackmailer'? You are a courtesan. It explains why we're here. Why I know so very little about your recent past, and it also leaves me my reputation. "

Helen couldn't think of a good reason to protest. "All right. We will do it your way."

In another few minutes, they arrived.

Helen's stomach flip-flopped.

Please don't screw this up.

# Chapter 13

Edward helped her down from the carriage and led them in. As they entered the room, she felt as if everyone turned to look at them, a mixture of surprise and curiosity on everyone's face. It was rather odd to think that everyone in this room was probably married to someone else, and that all the women were mistresses. But that's what it meant to go to an event for the demimonde. The room was overly-warm from the multitude of candles used to light up the room. The smell of perfume cloying, and the noise hit her like an invisible wall, everyone talking loudly and laughing, their voices bouncing off the polished floor.

There were too many damn people in one room.

Edward extended his arm, and she held onto him as he began to move through the crowd.

The women were pale, some to the extent of being sallow, and they all looked at her with flinty interest. That they saw her as blatantly inferior was obvious. And yet the men all looked at her as if they were imagining her doing perverse things. A majority of the men were older, a slightly dissipated look to them, their cheeks florid and their laugh desperate.

But one man stood out, appearing so healthy and handsome, broad-shouldered and dashing that Helen blinked twice. His thick blond hair was parted in the middle, and he was significantly taller than most men in the room. _He looks like a damned Aryan poster boy._

And then she saw Roland Black.

She'd seen a very dour-looking photograph of him before she left. An ordinary man in his early forties, he didn't necessarily look like someone who'd created a weapon that changed the world. He had spent a lot of time on boats, and his skin had a weathered quality to it. His hair was gray, his figure trim, and he was talking very earnestly to a man with a portly belly and a huge monocle. She caught the word deer and deduced they were talking about hunting.

"That's him," she said.

"The atrocious waistcoat gives him away. Americans," he said the word as if it was a fatal disease. Helen squashed a smile. His waistcoat _was_ rather striking. China was newly open to trade, and it was now fashionable to wear Chinese silks. A brilliant red with multi-colored birds cavorting about like crazy.

Edward led them up to Mr. Black who had begun laughing at something the other man said. Edward introduced himself to Mr. Black, who exclaimed in a very American way that it was a great honor to meet such a distinguished peer of the realm.

"And this is Miss Foster, a fellow American," Edward said, and Helen curtsied very low, so low that all the men could get a good look at her bosom. After all, it couldn't hurt. She smiled at Mr. Black and he blinked as if dazzled.

"It is a great honor to meet you, sir. My father is a gun enthusiast and speaks quite highly of you."

Roland Black appeared startled.

The Duke interjected, "I know it's most uncivilized for a young lady to discuss guns—"

Helen cut him off, trying to throw him a look that told him not to help her. "Yes, but where I grew up, in California, it was best to be uncivilized rather than starve or be attacked by savages."

"Good God, my girl! Did you grow up on the frontier then?"

Helen nodded, smiling blandly.

"And made it all the way to England. Good for you!" Mr. Black sighed dramatically. "You must be very careful in London. It is both an exciting and a frightening place."

"Surely it cannot be that bad if you are here?" the Duke said.

Mr. Black blinked and crossed his arms. "I wanted to see it for myself. There has never been a city so large; so many people crammed into such a space. And I won't stay long. I don't know how you Londoners do it. And I, like many others, find myself wondering how long it will last."

A harsh smile crossed the Duke's face. Almost disdainful. "You think she won't make it then? That our city is a grand experiment doomed to fail?"

"How can it last? So many people and animals, professions and classes all forced together. The diseases and amorality. London is worse than Babylon, and when she goes, I want to say I was here."

The Duke stood ramrod straight, and Helen could feel his anger just below the surface. "You are wrong. This is the beginning. The whole world is changing, on the cusp of being remade, and it isn't something to be frightened of, but proud of. The things we can do now, the treatments that we have to save people, people can be fed and can create a new life for themselves; they are no longer trapped in the countryside."

Roland Black shook his head sharply, "I'm sorry, Your Grace, but you're wrong. People die at an incredible rate now, from sickness and plague—entire city-blocks might be filled with corpses over-night. When someone dies, they get thrown into the street, discarded like filth. Everywhere I go the smell is overwhelming. The miasma thick and lethal. I grew up where the air was pure, where water was as clear as rain, where death was treated like a tragedy not like something one threw out with the chamber pot."

The Duke spoke through gritted teeth. "If you dislike our fair city so much, please feel free to leave."

Helen could see her opportunity slipping away.

"Mr. Black, I am very interested in you, and your designs."

He looked at Helen with unblinking eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You made changes to Colt's designs for the Peacemaker, and he dismissed you. But I would be most interested to hear what you've been working on lately."

Helen watched him closely, trying to read the expressions that were flickering across his face. Saying it aloud made it real; she had the strange fear that everyone would suddenly pause and look at her, aware of her plans to change the world, the course of things to come.

"How do you know about my plans?" He licked his lips nervously while people continued to chat and drink, ignorant to the momentous conversation. What the hell was he nervous about?

"I didn't know it was a secret," she smiled, wanting to put him at ease and feeling like a moron for approaching the subject so clumsily.

"Not a secret, but your interest is very...unusual."

"Because I'm a woman? Or because I'm another interested party?"

He looked at the Duke as if asking for help. The Duke was studiously looking around for a glass of champagne, ignoring them both completely.

"Why don't we go somewhere quieter, Mr. Black. I'd be happy to tell you how I know of your invention." Mr. Black blanched, visibly shocked. Edward snagged a flute of champagne, taking a hefty swallow before turning back to them. He clapped Mr. Black on the shoulder good-naturedly. "Let me reassure you, that although she says 'let's go somewhere quiet', she is actually saying she would like to have a conversation with you, not any other interpretation you might come up with. Especially considering where we are...amongst this gathering of agreeable women."

He gestured towards the back of the room with his glass, and although Mr. Black did not appear reassured, he followed the Duke's lead.

She wanted to elbow Edward in the ribs. But she also felt like an idiot. Of course she wasn't propositioning Mr. Black for sex! He was old! And what did he mean 'agreeable women'? Was he calling her easy? Once again, he managed to be insulting without saying a damned thing clearly.

They made their way through the crowd, stepping into a hallway and finding an empty sitting room. There was a fire going and the lamps lit, as if the room were just waiting for guests.

"Why did you decide not to put the plans up for auction?" she asked, as soon as the door was closed.

"Is that how you learned about my design? The auction house?"

"Like I said, my father is interested. I'd heard they would be sold at auction. I would very much like to buy them."

He made an empty-handed gesture. "I'm afraid I've already sold them, Miss Foster. That's why I didn't go through with the auction."

"Who did you sell them to?" she asked, stomach plummeting like a plane falling out of the sky.

"Baron Colchester bought it; he's part of a philanthropic group."

"Part of his efforts to help people include buying weapon designs?" Helen asked harshly.

He shrugged. "Why not? You would like me to believe you want the plans for your father. Although what use he might have for them out on the prairie, I cannot imagine. The plans are useless, a good idea, and maybe someday someone would be able to make good on them, but now...we just don't have the skill."

"Whatever they are paying you, I can pay you more."

The Duke had been a large silent presence, standing in the corner of the room. But when she offered Mr. Black more money, he straightened and took a step closer.

Mr. Black appeared genuinely apologetic. "I'm sorry. It's done. It took a while for the money to arrive from overseas, but I gave them to him yesterday."

"How much did he pay you?"

"1500 pounds. The Baron is here tonight. If you would like to meet him, I would be happy to arrange that. You two might hit it off. Strangers in a strange land. He sounds more German than Prince Albert."

As if Helen had time to meet him. No, she'd be better off keeping her interest a secret, and then stealing the plans from Colchester.

"What could the plans do," Edward asked, "if someone could make them work?"

Mr. Black frowned. "It's a cannon, but it would be very fast and light with the ability to revolve at an unbelievable speed."

"Would it be used by the military then? The army or the navy?"

Mr. Black nodded.

She took a step towards Mr. Black, offering her hand, desperate to stop Edward from asking more questions and coming to his own conclusions. She could practically see him thinking, reaching conclusions about what her plans might be. "Thank you so much for meeting with me. It really is an honor to meet you." After a brief moment of hesitation, he took her hand, and Helen tightened her grip, shoving electricity into him, feeling it flow down her arms like hot acid cascading down her skin. The pain of using her skill was intense, and always left her drained. She hated doing it.

He shuddered at the contact, his body going into spasms as he tried to pull away from her. A hoarse gurgle came from his throat, and Helen locked her knees so she didn't fall down, watching as his eyes rolled back into his head. She overloaded his synapses, creating a short-term memory loss. When he woke up, he'd have no memory of the last several hours.

"What are you doing to him?" the Duke asked, urgency making his voice loud. Using energy this way made Helen hot, raised her body temperature to about 120 degrees. In the right light, one could see it shimmering off her, like heat off pavement.

"Stop," he said, voice near a growl as he came close.

"Almost...done. He...fine," she said, unable to make her mouth coordinate the sentence when all of her energy was focused on Black.

The Duke reached out to touch her, and she tried to move away, unable to manage more than a step. Mr. Black fell, toppling to the ground and Helen followed him, not wanting to break the contact yet. She didn't have the strength to catch herself, crashing to the floor with him, the connection severing. Was it enough?

The Duke touched her then, placing his hand on her exposed arm. The power was dissipating, but he swore when he touched her, probably getting a fierce zap at the contact. "We have to go now...." Damn, thinking was hard. "He won't remember...this," Helen said thickly.

She felt sick, lightheaded and clammy, her body hot but covered in a cold sweat. Her stomach heaved and she retched, shaking hard. This wasn't right. She should be able to do this ten times over, fry the Duke next and make him forget all this, still with the energy to break into Colchester's house. Spots swam in front of her eyes.

Edward's voice was close, but she couldn't hear what he said. Her ears were ringing, and she realized her eyes were closed. She opened them, surprised to see that Edward was sitting right next to her.

_This is bad_.

He touched her face, the feel of his evening gloves against her skin soft and strange. He'd put gloves on. Smart man. "You're very smart," she mumbled.

"Oh, I doubt that," he said, the words hard and clipped.

And then the world went gray around the edges, the ringing turning shrill. She needed to get those plans. She couldn't be weak right now.

And then she lost consciousness.

# Chapter 14

Edward stared stupidly at the sight before him. He touched Helen's forehead, shocked at how hot she was. She was burning up, worse than a fever. He called her name, but she didn't respond in any way. He squeezed her hand and then tapped her lightly on the face. "Wake up, you blackmailing little fool."

Nothing. But she was alive. In any other situation, with any other woman, the assumption would be that she'd fainted, or worse, been struck by an illness so violent that it gave her a fever and caused her to lose consciousness within moments.

Don't be obtuse.

And this was no ordinary woman. This was the bane of his existence. He'd seen...something, although he wasn't sure he had any rational explanation. As he crouched beside the two unconscious bodies, he replayed the last few moments in his mind. His blackmailer had gotten the information she wanted. She'd touched Black on purpose, and her touch harmed him. And when Edward touched her, her skin had been hot and sent a flash of painful heat through him. _She'd knocked Roland Black unconscious._

He heard laughter outside the door and leaped up, dashing over and turning the lock just before someone tried the handle. After a few moments, they moved on, Edward's heart hammering in his chest.

He couldn't imagine what people would say if they walked in at this exact moment—him standing over two bodies. "Wait a moment," he muttered to himself as the answer came to him. Why the hell was he locking himself in here with them? He had a legitimate option of opening the door and walking away. If he were lucky, Black would say Helen had attacked him, and Black would send her to Newgate for attempted murder, solving his problem for him. Good riddance to her.

He went back over to Black, eyeing him thoroughly to make sure he was, in fact, still alive and then grabbed him under the arms, dragging him to the couch. The man weighed a ton. He placed Black upright on the couch.

Now he could leave. So why the hell was he just standing there, staring at his blackmailer's pert features? What if he left her here and she came to harm when Black woke up? He couldn't leave an unconscious woman. He had the peculiar urge to laugh. Was he actually going to go out of his way to help his blackmailer? He was certifiable.

He looked at the window, wondering if he could get himself and Helen out of here. Edward opened the window and peered out, the street and a long line of carriages visible a few hundred yards away. They were on the ground floor.

Edward bent down, going to one knee so he could scoop her up into his arms. And he froze. This was the moment of decision. This action was irrevocable. A way out was before him, and he was going to rescue her.

Do be smarter than this.

But he wanted answers. If he left her here, he wouldn't get them. And she still had the diary, after all. He had to have that blasted diary. Decision made, he gathered Miss Foster in his arms, surprised she was so...portable. The force of her personality and the strength coursing through her was so magnificent, that he couldn't believe she was actually light enough for him to carry down the street. Getting out the window proved awkward, keeping them both from banging their heads on the window frame proved impossible, and Edward could already feel a knot forming on the side of his head.

She shivered in the cold air, but otherwise gave no indication of waking up as he shifted her and set off across the lawn. He felt as if he were being watched, every sense he had attuned to the possibility of someone interrupting their escape. If he had been forced to describe his emotions at that moment, he would have been unable to. A curious mixture of anger and excitement, confusion and severely misplaced lust. It all conspired to make him feel alive and heightened.

He slowed his pace as he approached the carriages, shifting Helen so that he was carrying her in what he thought might be a slightly more dignified manner. Assuming such a thing was possible. He stood up straight, his expression imperious as he became visible to a waiting coachman.

The coachman's eyes widened in surprise, his gaze flicking from Helen to Edward and back again.

"The Duke of Somervale's carriage. Is it in front of you or behind?"

The man blinked in surprise. His accent was thick. "I'm not sure, sir. I could...go check?"

"I would be grateful," Edward said, "and I would be even more grateful if you didn't say anything about...this."

The man nodded. "I imagine you would, sir." His accent was thick and Northern. He jerked his head towards Helen. "I had a woman like that once. Once she started drinking, there was no stopping her until she was too soused to lift the cup."

The Duke smiled tightly. "Quite."

"She's a beauty. I can see why you'd put up with it. The coachman's gaze lingered on Helen's form, and Edward felt a primal urge to snarl at the man like an animal, stopping himself by sheer force of will.

He turned, blocking the man's gaze, feeling his pulse pound as he reined in his temper.

"It's quite cold out here. I'll just put her in the carriage to wait," Edward said, voice shaking from the effort to remain pleasant. The coachman opened the door, moving out of the way as Edward shifted Helen onto the seat. He put her down as carefully as he could, frowning at how pale she was.

"Here," Edward said, and he pulled out a pound coin. "For your troubles." The man nodded, taking the money eagerly. The coachman took off, weaving between the carriages as he searched for Edward's carriage.

"Bloody hell!" he said, so loudly a horse whinnied in response. He'd covered his coat of arms. It would be impossible for the man to recognize his carriage.

How could he have forgotten? Fury arced through him, and various violent options appeared in his mind. From shouting at the coachman, to driving his fist into the metal carriage, to opening that carriage door and shaking Helen awake. He was so angry he didn't trust himself. And he wasn't even sure who he was angry at. Her, of course. She was responsible for all of this. Taking his money, forcing him to bring her here, to be a party to a crime she committed. But mostly he was furious at himself. For...God, he could barely put it into words. For using him, for rattling his existence and the carefully ordered life he lived. For introducing this excitement and emotion into his life and threatening everything he knew. She was annihilating his life.

He hadn't lost his temper since he was eight years old. Hadn't lashed out and acted like an undisciplined animal since he learned the difference between being a man and being a monster.

Well, since the day his father had broken his mother's arm.

That was the day he'd decided what type of man he was. He remembered it as the clearest, purest moment in his entire life: _my father is a monster, and I won't be like that._ It didn't matter how angry he was, or even how much he had been wronged. There was a way to behave, and that was the end of it. It didn't matter how provoked one was, there were no exceptions. Yes, this situation challenged him. It made him want to lose control and do any number of things. But she'd already stripped away his birth; he'd be damned if he'd let her take his identity too. That was all there was to it. It was as simple as that. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension, and smoothed his hair which he had disheveled during his mad pacing.

After several minutes, the coachman came back, out of breath from running up and down the carriage line. "I found it."

"Did you? I forgot to mention that the crest was covered."

He huffed. "Oh, that's alright. Jimmy and I have met at the pub a time or two."

It shouldn't come as a surprise to him that the coachmen knew each other. Servants gossiped.

"He's stuck at the back. It'll be a minute."

Edward gave the man another coin as they waited for his carriage to get out of line and make its way to them. While they waited, the coachman began to tell him all about Big Sally, his former love who'd loved her gin more than her man.

Edward stared at the lanterns in the driveway as the coachman talked, listening almost despite himself as the details of the coachman and Big Sally's courtship unfolded. His lip twitched, and it felt like the inside of his chest itched. He cleared his throat, felt the peculiar sensation inside his chest increasing. He distinctly heard the words 'slap and tickle'. And that was when he started to laugh.

# Chapter 15

It was dark and cold, and wherever Helen was, it smelled strongly of tobacco. She was sitting in a carriage. How the hell had she gotten here? Where was Edward? She pulled the shade aside, seeing Edward standing next to a coachman. They appeared to be waiting for something.

_The ball._ They were still at the ball, and somehow he'd gotten her out of there and into this carriage.

She needed to get the hell out of here. Helen moved slowly and carefully towards the opposite door, the world tilting around her in a slow rotation. If she were very lucky, she could sneak away and Edward wouldn't see her. The door opened on silent hinges and she stepped down onto the street, bracing herself against the door as the world continued to turn too fast. Helen listened for a moment, surprised when she heard Edward's deep laugh.

She moved quietly away from the carriage, compartmentalizing the pain and trying to separate herself from it. The pain was one thing, the tiredness another. She felt as though every step was complicated, like wading through mud in her ridiculously heavy dress. She came to where the carriages met the street, wrapping along the side of the block and all the way down. Now what?

One of the drivers saw her and whistled. Helen turned to him, blinking in the dark. "Do you need a lift? I'll take you where you need to go."

She looked at the fine carriage suspiciously. Why would he go out of his way to offer to help her? "They'll have to throw my master out, he won't leave a party until he has to. I can take you and be back in a trifle." He winked. "But it's not cheap."

Of course, he wanted money. It was a motive Helen understood. She reached into her pocket, finding some coins. She handed him several, and his eyes went wide. Helen was in no condition to wonder how much she had given him; she wasn't sure she could have added them up even if she'd wanted to, she felt so sick. She'd pay anything to be back in her room, tucked up in bed. "Where to?"

"The Savoy," she said, trying to enunciate. He opened the door and she climbed in, falling asleep almost instantly. Helen jerked awake when the carriage stopped. She blinked and had a moment of severe disorientation, and she didn't even argue when the coachman helped her inside the hotel lobby. Her feet trudged along of their own volition, and somehow she found herself standing in front of her door.

Her hands trembled as she took out her key. She opened the door, shutting it behind her and dimly wondering if she'd paid the coachman. She couldn't remember. The walls were covered in light-blue wallpaper, her bed right in front of her. Only four steps away. She took two and then gave up, falling to the ground and into a deep, dreamless sleep.

****

When she opened her eyes, the sun was up. Light was streaming through the windows, and she could hear activity from the street below. Newsboys shouted the headlines; their words garbled through the glass. Horses neighed, the whole press of humanity happening beneath her window.

Oh God, she was on the floor. Her whole body ached and felt bruised. Her head pounded. It was like a hangover but worse. She shouldn't be this wiped out from using her abilities. _I probably shouldn't have traveled through time either._ She tried to stand, determined to fall asleep in her own bed this time, but her skirts got caught under her and she stumbled. Her skin itched from the corset, and she'd never been so desperate to take a deep breath in her life. But she didn't have the energy to call for a maid to get her out of her clothes.

With a groan, she pulled back the covers and slipped beneath them, her eyes closing instantly. She couldn't stop thinking about how much she wanted to be undressed. How pathetic was it that she couldn't even undress herself? Tears spilled down her cheeks, making the pillow beneath her wet.

Oh shit, was she crying? Crying over wearing an uncomfortable dress? _This is a whole new level of pathetic._ When was the last time she'd cried? Not when she'd found out she was leaving her entire world behind. Not when Mary had given her a fierce hug, her expression so empty that it was clear she already felt like Helen was dead and gone.

The moment she'd left, she'd been dead. Dead for two hundred years. Helen took a deep breath, hating herself for being weak. It was useless to cry over something she couldn't change. "I won't do that," she mumbled, and cleared her mind, aiming for blankness and sleep. She saw Edward's face instead, harsh and handsome, how pissed off he'd looked when she had talked to Black. And then she slept again.

# Chapter 16

It was the click that woke her. Her shoulders tensed and she strained to listen. Her heart raced, and she focused on evening out her breathing. She didn't have time to leap out of bed and hide, her door was already open. She pretended to sleep, opening her eyes the tiniest slit, shocked to see that it was the Duke letting himself into her room.

How the hell had he found her? It was probably that stupid coachman who'd sold her out. If only the Duke had come here six hours later, she would have been gone. She'd known there was a risk that her location had been compromised, but she'd been so sick and tired, she couldn't leave. She pretended to sleep, but thought she could feel him looking at her. He was stealthily quiet as he came into the room. A suitcase was fairly close to the door, and as he sank down on his heels next to it, ready to rifle through her things, he cast her one last glance, ensuring she was asleep.

He undid the clasp and began to pull out her belongings, tossing them onto the floor beside him. Really? How amateurish did he think she was? As if she'd leave the diary in plain sight. Assuming she'd had it. Her lies were becoming complicated.

"I do believe that I'm quite offended," Helen said and sat bolt upright in the bed. The corset pulled her off balance, and she had to use her arms to push herself up into a sitting position. The room spun a little, indicating she was not as fully recuperated as she'd hoped.

He appeared momentarily startled, arm paused in the action of throwing a white petticoat on the ground, and then he dropped the garment, resuming his search as if she weren't there and hadn't spoken.

"You're supposed to ask 'why,'" she prompted.

He paused and sighed heavily, throwing her a dark glance from under his lashes. "Why are you offended?"

"I'm offended that you would think I'd keep something so valuable in such an obvious spot."

His gaze narrowed. "Because you take such great pride in being a thief?" His tone was full of scorn.

She opened her mouth then closed it. "Maybe I do." _Good one, classic response. I'm a moron._

The suitcase was empty now, his hand searching the sides of the bag as though she might have hidden it in the lining. Maybe he wasn't totally hopeless. Actually, he couldn't be; he was here, wasn't he? "How did you find me? What time is it?"

She threw back the covers and stood, staying close to the bed just in case she went all Victorian Lady and fainted again.

He stood, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her warily. "Couldn't get out of your dress?"

She scowled at him. "Of course I can get out of my dress!"

He raised a brow, eyes scanning the room for the diary or places it might be hidden. "Women don't sleep in corsets."

She walked over to the clock on the mantel, putting distance between them. God, she was hungry. "You're an expert on women in corsets, are you?"

He changed the subject. "Try if you would, to imagine my intense irritation when I discovered you'd left the carriage."

Helen snorted indelicately. "I imagine your irritation was just as great as mine when you walked in the door a minute ago." She propped one arm on the mantel, leaning against it heavily. The world slowed down, spinning a little less quickly.

"I've tried to reason with you, bribe you, and even be kind to you, and nothing has worked. I will not leave here without that diary."

She tried to suppress a smirk before turning her back on him and going to the jug of water on the dresser. Helen felt as if she'd been wandering the desert for weeks she was so thirsty.

She didn't hear him move, but suddenly his hand grabbed hers from behind, wrenching her arm up behind her back; one hard push away from dislocating her shoulder. Helen cursed herself for not knowing that he was coming up behind her. It was the exhaustion. It had to be. Should she fight him? Crack her head against his aquiline nose? She relaxed into his grip instead, letting her body press against his and deciding not to fight. Plus, she still felt like crap. She might puke. And if she did, he'd let her go then.

"Where is it?" he growled in her ear.

Helen didn't speak, and he shook her like a rag doll. "Answer me, damn you."

"With my accomplice, no doubt. I certainly wouldn't keep it here," Her heart was beating faster, adrenaline pumping through her, the sleepy fog dissipating. _Thank God._

He chuckled darkly, the masculine strength of it making her breath catch. But despite his villainous words and cheap threats, she knew he wasn't going to torture the information out of her. He was all threat and no carnage.

"You didn't expect me to find you," he said, his voice a low scrape of sound against her ear. She fought not to shiver. He was so angry that heat radiated off him, and his grip got tighter. When this was over, and she was a spinster living in some small village with a hundred cats and bored out of her damned mind, she would think of the Duke and all the naughty things he'd never do to her, and she just knew that him holding her like this would feature in many a fantasy: his front pressed against her back, gripping her securely, his lips next to her ear and his low, almost panting growl vibrating through her.

"Do you want to start with an easier question? Tell me what you did to Roland Black. Why did you faint after you hurt him?" He jerked her arm up an inch, and the pain made her yelp. She gasped. His grip faltered, as though he wanted to let her go, as though it hurt him to hurt her. His adjusted his grip, recommitting to forcing the information from her.

"I didn't do anything!"

"Don't be coy."

The joint where her shoulder met her upper arm was screaming at her. Where she was from, this was like foreplay, but she just knew this was killing him. It wasn't in him to hurt her. It was time to use that to her advantage. "I actually am breakable; perhaps you could be a little more gentle?" she said angrily. Crap, she should've sounded weak like all the other women from this time. Helen let out a whimper.

He shoved her away from him with a snarl and she stumbled forward, catching herself on a small ottoman a few feet away. Her arm was numb from where he'd held it and she tried to shake the feeling out. He was pacing furiously, an odd expression on his face. He stopped abruptly as if a great truth had come to him, then he took two large steps towards her, his expression murderous.

"Damn you for this. I threaten you and get nothing. I hurt you and get nothing. I want that diary, and I want to know what you did to Black, and you're _going_ to tell me," he said, the words hoarse. He had closed the distance between them, and there was something oddly heartbreaking about seeing him up close. He looked tired, his face pale. Had he been up all night looking for her, and thinking about what he would be willing to do when he found her?

It seemed so odd to her that his identity was so tied up in rules. If he hurt her, he would not know himself. That was the struggle that she saw on his face.

And it made him weak.

The Nazis got shit done because they didn't care about right or wrong, they cared about the end result. She was here to get things done. And if she had to examine the cost of her actions, she would do it after the event rather than before. Act first, repent later.

Helen did what she was told. Maybe that kept things simple for her. But it was clear that he didn't move without thinking through the consequences. He didn't act without knowing the outcome. And then he had to take those outcomes and reconcile them with his worldview of himself. It sounded exhausting. And it meant that he'd already lost.

She had to end this. Knock him unconscious and get out of here. He still didn't know how strong she was, that he was about to find out.

"I saved you last night. Got you out of that ball, was taking you to safety, and you left!" The words were near a shout. "You lied to me once again. You promised to give me the diary, and you were never going to."

She shook her head in denial, but feared it wasn't terribly convincing. There was something so appealing about his steadfastness, his unwavering desire to be...honorable. _No it's not, it's pathetic. Get a hold of yourself._

He took a deep breath, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes as though his head hurt. Edward chuckled darkly. "This may seem incomprehensible to you, but I have a reputation as being a cold and frightening man. Debutantes have been known to break out in hives when I speak to them. In the House of Lords, I am a force to be reckoned with." He looked at her face, examining every feature as if the pieces of her soul were words written there, and he could learn her if only he kept reading. He swallowed. "I kept waiting, thinking that would have an impact upon you. That you would realize..." he actually smiled as if he knew how ridiculous what he was saying was, " _who_ I am. But you don't care who I am. You don't feel the need to impress me; you will not bow or scrape. And I'm not a man who can or would beat submission into you."

That's why you lose.

He put his hands on his hips, looking down at the ground, visibly pulling himself together. "But I am a man who is smart." His expression changed, becoming oddly confident.

A prickling fear raised the hair on her arms.

"What did you do?" she whispered.

"I'm meeting Colchester this evening, and I'm going to buy the damned design from him. Whatever he wants, I'll pay it. And then you're going to give me the diary because I will have the one thing you want."

"You can't," she gasped. That wasn't right, he couldn't buy the plans and then blackmail her!

He crossed his arms. "I can. And I can outbid you." He was relentless, banked fury in every line of his body. "Now I'm calling your bluff, do you see? Bring me the diary tonight and you can have your blasted plans." He turned his back on her, walking towards the door. "Come find me tomorrow...any time you like since I know you abhor regular calling hours, and we'll resolve this for good, shall we?"

She licked her lips, felt her heart thundering in her veins. How was this getting fucked up so fast? He couldn't go to Colchester. She couldn't let him.

With a snarl, Helen lunged forward, his eyes widening in surprise as she threw herself at him, taking them both to the ground. He fell back with an oomph, back slamming hard into the wall. "Bloody hell!" he said, almost a shout. He pushed her away but she clung on, wrapping her foot around his ankle and pulling him off balance. He wasn't fighting her, wasn't doing a damned thing to defend himself. They fell forward, the ground rushing up to meet them and Edward shifted, tried to land first and cushion the blow, his body absorbing the impact as they landed on the carpet. He tried to roll her over, wanting to pin her down. Helen locked every muscle she had, setting her balance so that he had no traction. He frowned at her strength. _Thank you, Uncle Sam.._

He made a sound of anger, half between a yell and a growl, then pushed against her with all his strength, overpowering her so that she fell off him, and he rolled on top of her, grabbing her wrists in his hands and pinning her to the ground. He leaned over her, panting, his large hands bruising her wrists as he restrained her.

Helen kicked at him hard, aiming for the family jewels. Her leg was trapped under layers of fabric, her kick gaining no momentum. _God damn these clothes!_ Her breathing was labored, and it was hard to move with the corset biting into her flesh. She couldn't even head-butt him, unable to crunch up and meet his face. She closed her eyes, accessing that part of her that was unnatural, that had been tinkered with by scientists, and that would render him unconscious. It was second nature to her, as easy as breathing, a weapon she relied upon.

She wanted to blast him with her strength, make him feel like he'd hit an electric fence and knock him out, but she was weak. So pathetically weak after using her power last night, and not having any food in her system to help rebuild her strength. She hadn't been the same since she had come back in time, the trip having taken its toll on her strength and abilities.

His gaze widened, and he looked at her wrists in shock, undoubtedly feeling the heat of her power as it slowly began to build. It shouldn't be slow, but a blast, that struck like lightning. This was like someone had turned on the stove and was getting ready to boil a kettle of water for tea. The last thing she heard was him saying, "Oh, for the love of—" then the side of her face exploded with pain as he hit her, the world going dark. Again.

# Chapter 17

Edward sat back, releasing Helen, his hands burning. Had he really hit her and knocked her unconscious? He stood up slowly, breathing heavily, looking down at the woman on the floor in disbelief. She'd been so strong. And she'd burned him. No matter how impossible it seemed, she'd done it. He went to the wash basin, poured cold water from a jug into the porcelain bowl and soaked his hands. A few moments ticked by, his blackmailer still unconscious on the floor. He dried his hands on a clean towel, then went back to her belongings, taking out a scarf and a petticoat and setting them next to her still form. The scarf was a dark-blue silk, heavy and luxurious as it slid through his hands. He shifted her gently—undoubtedly more gently than she deserved—and then tied her hands behind her back.

Could she burn through these too? Was she impervious to fire? _It's impossible. No one could do what she did. And yet she'd done it, so what did that mean? Who was she?_ He ripped the petticoat into strips, looking at her every time the fabric made a tearing sound, knowing she'd wake up soon. At least, he hoped she would. Edward hadn't known how hard to hit her. But he'd seen her face, saw the change that came over her when she realized that he intended to go to Colchester. She'd looked...resolved.

Would she have killed him?

Could she have done it? Here he was having a devil of a time bringing himself to hit her, and yet she might have killed him without a second thought. Looking at her now, so peaceful in sleep, her feminine features relaxed, her dark hair spread out behind her like a cloud, he couldn't imagine that someone so dainty could be so...evil.

Although that word seemed a little excessive.

Perhaps criminal was more accurate.

He tied her feet together and hauled her up off the floor, depositing her into a chair. Her head lolled to the side, her cheek already turning red and beginning to swell.

Edward sat down on the bed, putting his head in his hands as thoughts ricocheted through him. He'd hit her. Shame and anger coursed through him, disgust at himself and her for bringing him to this level. She had left him with no alternative, and even knowing that, he still felt responsible. As if he could have done something else—anything else—besides punch her in the face.

_It's what my father would have done. Long before now._ His father would have throttled her the moment she walked into his library demanding money. Everyone had experienced his father's fury. Casting back to his earliest memories—always a very bad idea—what he remembered was his father shouting—loud enough and angry enough to make the whole world tremble—and his mother weeping.

And after his father died, he'd wanted to tell his mother that she was safe, that he was nothing like his monstrous sire. That fear and pain were things they'd buried with him when they put him in the coldest, darkest ground.

No one would live in fear of Edward's drunken violence as they had his father's.

But he'd never said it aloud. How did one say something so ridiculous?

He had tried to set an example instead, telling his mother through his actions that he wasn't like his father. Now he'd hit a woman.

And what did that make him? He stood, suddenly feeling exhausted, pain like acid filling his chest, and he went back to her things, looking in every drawer, under her pillow, under the bed, anywhere he could think of where she might stash that diary. He didn't find it.

Her head rolled to the side, and her brow creased as she awoke. He stood up, moving to the ottoman before the chair, so close to her that his knees pressed against her skirt.

She didn't open her eyes. He watched her, searching for the smallest sign that she was conscious, then stared at her simply because he could. A guilty pleasure.

Her chest rose and fell as if she were simply sleeping, her breasts pushing against the corset. Edward scrubbed his jaw with his hand, the prickling of his beard irksome. He needed to shave. He needed a bath. He was still wearing yesterday's clothes, and he felt tired to the bone.

The sooner she was out of his life the better.

She made a noise and licked the corner of her mouth, dabbing at a spot of blood where his signet ring had broken her soft skin. Edward realized his hands were shaking. When had that started? He'd made her bleed. He wanted to kiss that spot better, wipe away the hurt with his lips and tongue, get down on his knees and apologize with his hands and body.

_I hurt her._ A rational part of his brain knew he was being ridiculous. Maybe even knew that he had no other choice, perhaps even that there was never going to be any other choice. She was the antithesis of him and how he lived his life. She was temptation, vice and violence; it was as if she were every sin, and he was weak. She lured, and he followed. Wasn't that how he'd gotten into this mess?

The stress and anxiety of being around her, of vacillating between wanting to choke her and wanting to...no, he didn't want anything else from her. He wanted her out of his life. To forget he'd ever seen her. Continue with his deadly boring life and his fiancée who never smiled; his mother who was so cold she made the Arctic look tropical. That was what he wanted. Well, it was what he should want.

Sometimes she stared at him so intensely, her gaze so warm that he had to look away, break that connection between them. She looked at him as if she wanted to devour him; as if she wondered what it would be like if he devoured her in return.

And wasn't it fitting that she was named Helen. In Odysseus, Homer said that Helen circled the Trojan Horse three times, tormenting the men inside by sounding like their lost loves: all that they had left behind. The most beautiful woman; a woman worthy of starting a war. He felt his lips quirk down at the idea. She was beautiful; she was a torture, for him, the way she looked at him, how she made him feel—hot blooded, almost primal. Oh yes, he didn't know whether he wanted to choke her or...or grab her, throw her skirts up and bury himself inside of her; claim her in some barbaric display of savagery.

_I hit her._ The bonus, of course, was that any desire she'd had for him would undoubtedly be gone now. In that moment, he hated himself. Not her. It was easy to blame her and say she provoked him, but this was him. She was Helen of Troy torturing him and exposing his weaknesses.

"That's quite the right hook. Maybe I should get some boxing lessons."

He started at the sound of her voice, lost to his own thoughts as he'd paced the room. She sounded serious. As though, where she came from, she could go into a gentleman's club and have boxing lessons. _Perhaps she'd blackmail the trainer to get those lessons._

"I've tied you securely," he said, his voice too rough. "I'll leave you here, meet with that overgrown German barbarian and then I'll come back, with the plans, and you and I will do the exchange."

Helen jerked against her bonds, which made her breasts tremble. He ripped his gaze away from her. What about castration? It wasn't a pleasant option, but at least he wouldn't ogle her any longer.

"Overgrown German?" she asked.

"Colchester," he said.

She leaned forward, suddenly squinting in thought. "Colchester...blond, muscular guy from last night? He's _German?_ "

"Yes. Didn't you know?"

"Why the hell would I?"

He shrugged. "Good point. Sometimes I'm amazed you know that the sky is blue. You do know the sky is blue, don't you? I'd hate to ruin it for you, but that is one of those basic things people are expected to know. Having manners or abiding the law are a few other obvious things most people know."

She glared at him. This wasn't helpful.

"It was quite a scandal, but through a series of unfortunate deaths, the title passed to a relative in Germany. He's only been in England for a few months."

"What about Ms. Wells? The woman with the dress and the symbols? Is she German too?" Helen asked, pulling against the bonds as if she had somewhere to go and was late. A train out of town perhaps.

He walked over to her, checked the bonds to make sure they were tight before stepping back. "Yes, she's German too."

Helen almost screamed in shock. Just like that, the pieces clicked together. Colchester, the fucker, was from the future too. No, he couldn't be. The implications were disastrous. It meant the Germans were capable of time travel and not only that, they _knew_ what her mission was. Did they know who she was? What she looked like? Or were they just expecting someone to come back in time who would attempt to destroy the plans?

Men and women could go back. They were ahead of the US.

"You are out of options," she heard him say. _Wait_. He was going to go to Colchester to get the plans? Colchester would kill him! Colchester would assume the Duke was working for her side, or maybe even that he was from the future.

Helen stared into his eyes, willing him to see just how sincere and earnest she was. _Yeah, that's going to work._ "You cannot go to Colchester. He's a dangerous man."

"More dangerous than you?" he replied silkily.

She gave a bitter laugh, hollow and desolate. Baron Colchester was a Nazi from the future. "The evil that he has undoubtedly committed...oh yes, he is much more dangerous than me."

"Your treacherousness is all that I am familiar with, so I shall have to take your words with a certain amount of skepticism." He crossed his arms and planted his feet as though he were on a ship, bracing himself.

"No, you don't understand. Did you tell him you want to buy the plans? He will—"

Edward interrupted her, voice hard. "You are still attempting to direct the conversation. You're tied to a chair. You direct nothing."

She shifted on her chair as though trying to get comfortable, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously as if he knew she was testing how secure the ropes were. They were irritatingly secure. She licked her lips and looked around the room. Would the Baron kill him? Did he have orders to leave people alive and change the timeline as little as possible, like she did? "Please, please listen to me..." _You have to untie me. Colchester is dangerous. I'm telling you the truth._ He would not believe a word she said.

She felt a fluttering at the back of her throat, as if she might cry or puke or scream and her body just hadn't made up its mind on what was going to come out. What were her choices? Let him go to Colchester and be killed, which would change the timeline and tank her mission.

Or...or she could tell him the truth, as much as she was able, and hope that her honesty would convince him to untie her. What if he didn't believe her?

Well, if he didn't believe her, he'd go to the Baron, ask to buy the plans, and probably get himself killed. The Baron wouldn't hesitate. But first he would torture Edward until he told him where Helen was. She'd be tied up, helpless, sitting here like a gift when Colchester showed up. She could almost feel, like a ghostly finger touching the center of her forehead, how he'd kill her. The very spot he'd rest the gun before blowing her brains out.

She took a halting breath in. Was her only option to tell him? Really? Fuck. "Where I come from...the Baron and men like him, have been responsible for...terrible things. Honestly, I didn't expect to see him here, and the fact that he is here is...bad." She grimaced at the understatement. "In fact, I thought it was impossible for him to be here."

"And where is that?"

"What?"

"Where is it you come from?" he said slowly, enunciating every word as if she were a simpleton.

"The United States. California." He gave her an expression that somehow said 'stop bullshitting me' without uttering a word. "That part is true...the rest is a little...fantastical. Part of the reason I'm so hesitant to tell you anything is because you won't believe it."

He reached over to her, grabbing her chin in his strong, lean fingers and forcing her to look at him. "And that is my decision as well."

She jerked her head to the side, and he let go of her. "This isn't about me and what I want to tell you or want to keep from you." Her voice trembled, and she pulled as hard as she could against the bonds. "I'll be as honest with you as I can, but you should understand, knowing this information puts you in more danger." She strained forward, voice breaking at the end as she tried to convince him that she spoke the truth. "And if he found out that you knew who he was, or why he was here, he'd kill you in your sleep."

"You are so sure?" he asked quietly, disbelief and doubt etched into his aristocratic features.

"Trust me, he comes from a long line of torturers."

He smiled coldly. "That was the wrong thing to say. I do not trust you." His gaze dropped for a moment, his cheeks hollowing.

_Just tell him_.

The timeline was altered. The Germans had the plans, and she had to stop them _now_. Today. The hard part would be getting him to believe her. And that meant getting him to believe she came from the future. "Okay. Here you go. Next year, your sister will marry Charles Goodkind, a man she's known all her life, but who is currently engaged to another. She's already engaged, but the engagement will end in three months, and after a scandalously short amount of time, your sister will be wed. You dabble in architecture and are much taken with Watt, who invented the steam engine, as well as Singer, who made changes to the sewing machine." Helen thought about continuing, mentioning his interest in epidemiology, and how he went on to fund John Snow, the man who proved cholera was spread through water rather than air. But that might give him a hint to the future. She wouldn't do that unless she had to. His spine was rigid, and he was watching her as if she were a snake, one he was expecting to strike.

"How do you know this?" he asked, voice lethally quiet as he interrupted her.

"The same way I know about your birth; not because someone told me, but because I read it in a book. Your relative discovered the diary in the wall in 1925. And once it was determined that I would come here, you were chosen to blackmail because we knew about your secret."

He recoiled, his dark brows slashing down as he thought through her words. "1925...You're telling me you come from the future?" His tone had no inflection.

"You tell me what I need to do to prove it, and I'll see if I can convince you," Helen said, feeling overexcited. Like this was a game of Russian roulette, and she'd already survived too many rounds.

He went to the window, looking down at the street below, his elbow resting against the window frame. It made his body look lean, emphasized the fact that he had a magnificent ass, and was so irrelevant to what was happening now that if she could have slapped herself, she would have. "Everyone knows the Goodkinds are family friends." _Great, he's going to rationalize everything I've said._

He turned back to her, his face cast in shadow. "What year do you come from?"

She gave a sad smile. "2089."

He gave a disbelieving laugh and turned to the window again, as though he could think better if he didn't see her. "And I assume you have no proof?"

Helen chewed her lip, trying to come up with something. "No. That'd be too easy," she said, trying to make a joke of it. "The only thing that could come through was me."

Wait a minute. She knew something about herself that would convince him. Hopefully. Otherwise, she was going to feel pretty darned embarrassed. "How about a scar?"

He turned back towards her, the sun on his face making his dark, clean hair shine. "Why would a scar make me believe you?"

"Because it was fatal during this time—your time. Now." She hated how flustered she sounded. "The only way someone could have survived is if they came from a time when medicine was far more advanced."

He didn't say anything for a few moments, then changed the subject. "And the Baron is also from the future?"

She nodded.

"And he has the same goal as you, to get the plans for this weapon that Black says cannot be invented?"

"It can be invented—just not right now. I don't know if Colchester has another agenda for being here besides the plans. I'm here for the plans. I was told no one could come through. Just me." Another horrendous realization hit her. "Wait. Did you say he'd been here for _months_?"

Each word was precise; the weight of his gaze so heavy it felt oppressive. "No one...but you. So you are alone?"

And just like that, she lost. She couldn't bring herself to nod in confirmation, but she felt tears gathering at the back of her throat, and she dug her fingernails into her hands hard, willing them away. Willing herself to be stronger than this. She wished he would hit her. Do something really violent so that she could react with anger rather than this female bullshit.

"You are working alone," he repeated.

"The technology is new."

He inclined his head as if he hadn't heard her clearly. "I don't know that word."

"Oh. Technology? Yeah, I bet. It means, um...crap I don't know how to define it." Helen tried to shrug. "How about a type of science for new things. No, that's not right. I think it came about because of industrial creations. So it's like the science of industrial stuff."

His expression changed, as though he were deciding whether or not to jump off a ledge into deep water below. "That is the second time you have said the word industrial."

"Your ability to keep track of what I say is disturbing." In any other circumstance, she would have found his ability to remember their conversations amusing. Potentially hot. It was nice to be remembered.

"Yes, it used to drive my governess mad." He nodded as if he'd reached some conclusion. "Show me your scar."

"Well," she blushed. "You'd have to untie me."

Then he laughed, the jerk. A bitter laugh. "Of course I would."

"Are you going to?"

"No. You'd undoubtedly attack me." He ran his hand through his hair, "And from what you're telling me, you may be a madwoman."

She made a harrumphing noise and jerked on the bonds so hard her hands went numb.

"Where is the scar?" he asked, raking her body as though he might have missed it.

"Under my ribcage. It goes from my ribs across my abdomen to my hip bone on the other side."

He frowned at her. "A mortal wound indeed. How did it occur?"

She had no sense of whether he believed her or not. "It was a shrapnel bomb in a school. Africa."

She could tell by the look on his face that he didn't understand what she meant. It was almost nice to have someone confused by her words for a change.

"It was a device that exploded. A futuristic bomb, but bits of metal and nails went with it. It hit me in the stomach and ripped me open."

"And you survived," he said, not really a question.

She hoped he was thinking about how believable her story sounded.

"I won't untie you, but I want to see the scar."

"Then you're going to have to cut this dress off me," she said, hoping she could embarrass him into letting her go. His eyes narrowed contemplatively. He came towards her, lifted the ottoman before her easily, setting it out of the way so that there was a clear space around her. As if he were actually going to cut her dress off her.

He pulled out a pocket knife, clicking it open, then dropped down to his knees in front of her.

Holy shit. Is he actually going to cut my dress off?

Her stomach performed a slow somersault forward, anxiety mixed with desire and a dash of fear roiling through her. She was tied to a chair. He wanted to see her scar, which was only visible sans corset. And he was going to cut her dress off her. _It will be another fantasy for when you're a cat-lady._

She took a breath but didn't exhale, her heartbeat accelerating as she watched his hand hover near her left side. The large ruby stone in his signet ring winked at her. She'd never thought about men wearing jewelry, but if someone had told her that a man wearing a large antique ring was sexy, she wouldn't have believed them.

She did now.

"Is it here?" he asked, his large hands still poised to touch her. Desire gave the fear a beat down, and she let out a breath as soon as his hand settled below her breast, jerked into action by oxygen deprivation. Their eyes met, his nostrils flared, and he looked at her lips. It was heated, knowing, a blatant sexual perusal. If she were free, she would have kissed him, leaned forward and grabbed him by his damned cravat and crushed her mouth to his. _And that's why bondage is a good thing. It's protecting me from myself._

"It starts there." Helen grimaced when her words came out a whisper. His touch was light, fingers splayed as though he might feel the scar through her silk dress. His nails were trimmed and buffed, his fingers belonging to an artist. The pads of his fingers slid across her torso gently, coming inwards towards her belly button and continuing onwards...and down.

He lifted his hand, only his index finger touching her as he reached her hip. Even through the layers of fabric she thought she could feel that faint touch.

She forced herself to stay still, the feeling of anticipation curiously similar to being in a bunker and waiting for a shell to drop. Every moment was tense with horrendous expectation. His hand drew away from her, and he looked down at the knife curiously, as though he wasn't sure where it had come from. He blinked, his focus sharpening so he was looking at her analytically, his gaze roaming her torso and chest, the hem of her dress then back to the bodice, as he tried to figure out where to part the fabric of her dress.

"Are you sure you don't want to release me? I won't attack you or run. I promise." Unless he let her go, and she jumped his bones. Was a sexy attack exempt from that promise?

He chuckled darkly as if they were discussing something far more intimately amusing. "We are beyond your promises."

_In that case..._ "You could cut it from the bodice downwards. Or start at my feet and slice the fabric up past my ankles," her heart was pounding so loudly and nervously she could barely hear her own words, "up my calves, over my thighs, and then you can rip the fabric open—"

"Stop." He shot her a glare, and she widened her eyes, going for innocence rather than prick tease.

"Hey, I told you to untie me and let me go. This is your fantasy here."

Except for a flattening of his full lips and a tightening of his jaw, he didn't react. She heard her petticoats rustle, felt a slight tug on the hem, and then heard the fabric part. He leaned closer, his head bowed almost over her lap, so she could see his thick hair and the nape of his neck. She could smell him: soap, cologne and him. What his skin would smell like in the morning if she woke up next to him. Damn she wanted him.

The fabric ripped abruptly, the sound loud and somehow deviant. Helen gasped, and he looked up at her, his lips a few inches below hers. Helen made herself hold still, desperately trying not to lean down and kiss him.

She didn't see invitation on his face, no indication that he was as moved to passion as she was. Maybe she had imagined the whole thing. His expression was cold and unyielding.

Edward pulled hard, his strong biceps flexing under his dark coat. The material gave, splitting up to her thighs, cold air on her skin. Helen realized she was panting and tried to stop, tried to pretend that he wasn't making her damp and frustrated as hell.

With a dark glance, he yanked again, the dress opening and exposing the corset she wore under her clothes. Her drawers were thin, and she knew he could see through them to the shadowed vee between her legs. Helen pressed her thighs together, desire pulsing through her core.

The laces of her corset were tied in front, and with the briefest hesitation, he pulled the tie, opening it.

"Lean forward," he demanded, voice low and commanding.

She did, so close that her breasts were almost in his mouth. Her bindings were tight, only a small gap created between her back and the chair as she leaned forward. His fingers slipped around her waist and she felt him pulling deftly at the laces behind her, his fingers trapped against her back. He loosened the corset, the two halves becoming flexible enough so that he could undo the eyehooks in front.

"You seem to know what you're doing," she said, desperately needing to lighten the moment before she did something stupid like proposition him.

His brows rose, and he spoke through gritted teeth. "Which skill are you referring to? My ability to cut a dress off a woman, or remove a corset?"

"Um, well, both. I guess. If you put it that way," she finished lamely.

His pupils were large, his cheeks flushed as he looked directly at her. "I'm a gentleman, not a monk," he said, and then he unsnapped the eyehooks all the way down her chest, the corset falling open. She sagged in pleasure as the garment came free, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes briefly.

"That thing is torture," she said.

"Let me guess, no corsets in the future?"

"No. I'm more of a mini-skirt and jean girl."

"The last half of that sentence was totally incomprehensible."

There was still one layer of clothing separating her body from his gaze and touch. The thin linen shift she wore under the expensive corset, the garment made to keep the corset from her skin so it would stay clean and last longer.

"Hold still." He rested his palm in the hollow of her waist, his fingers on her hip. She thought she felt the faintest press of his fingers, and a vivid image of him gripping her by the hips and yanking her forward, pulling her against his hard body slammed through her mind. Then his touch was gone as he pinched the fabric between his fingers and lifted it away from her skin. He paused then—the knife poised to slit the material and bare her body to him.

Knowledge hit her. He was hesitating. This was what he did. He didn't commit rashly but weighed every option. How many times had he urged her to reconsider, not to act? And now he was thinking again, perhaps reaching the conclusion that cutting off her clothing and seeing her naked was an irrevocable step. His gaze searched hers, looking for something. Hell if she knew what.

"I don't see fear," he said. His dark eyes went down to her lips, down the column of her neck, lingering on her chest, to the straining points of her nipples, which showed just how unafraid she was.

"Nope," she said weakly. "No fear."

He shot her an inscrutable look, then his lips quirked up into a smile, quickly wiped away. Her stomach flip-flopped when she saw him smile.

"Why did you smile?" She couldn't help but ask.

"Nothing. It isn't appropriate for a lady's ears."

"Really? _Now_ you're gonna treat me like a lady?" she said, scornfully.

The smile came back, making him look like a man she didn't know. An Edward that didn't exist. Sexy, playful, a man who laughed. "It occurred to me that this...interlude has to be worth at least a thousand pounds." He set the blade to her shift and she noticed his pulse pounding at his neck.

Helen laughed feebly. "Not a monk," she said, the heat of a blush warming her cheeks.

"And thank God for that," he murmured. Then the fabric separated, her stomach exposed. He stopped near her chest so that her breasts stayed covered. She looked like she was wearing an obscene tank top.

Embarrassment flooded through her, and the most ridiculous hope that he would find her attractive. _Ignoring the massive scar, of course._

Helen watched him taking in the upraised flesh, his eyes tracking from her hip to just below her breast where she was a mass of scar tissue. If she'd been stateside when the attack happened, she might not have had a scar. But she'd been in the middle of nowhere, where clean drinking water and mosquito netting was a luxury.

Just being alive was a success. And that was how she'd always felt about that scar. It was a reminder of just how damn tough and lucky she was. Every once in a while she'd thought about getting it removed, but she'd always decided against it. The scar was part of her identity, and she'd been almost obstinate in her pride over the damned thing.

The type of woman he was used to, a lady, would have had it removed. There was a part of her that wished she didn't have this reminder of how much of an outlander she truly was. Wished she was just as perfect as the weak, pale women he was used to. The scarred skin was paler than the rest of her, stitch marks that looked like little pinprick dots of white visible along the length of it.

He touched her gently, one finger tracing the scar. It was a gentle touch, almost soothing, and again, she wondered what he'd be like in bed. If he'd touch her for hours. If this intensity and fascination with her skin would extend to the rest of her body. She shivered.

"So much damage," he said quietly. "No one could survive that."

"Not in your time, they couldn't."

"How did it not become infected? The wound must have been deep to require so much suturing."

"It did become infected. My intestines were a mess. I was in the hospital for a month. African hospitals...they just don't cut it," she said, grimacing. Had that been a half-assed joke?

He stood up abruptly, going to the bed and pulling off the bedspread, placing it on top of her and covering her nudity. She couldn't help but see the bulge in his trousers, proof of his arousal making her feel a flash of weakening desire.

He wanted her. Edward the proper and perfect still got a boner when he cut off a woman's clothes. Helen looked down, finding the thought amusing and not wanting him to see her face.

Edward sat down on the bed, a small distance away from her, running his hand along his thigh near his knee as though wiping away the feel of her skin. His legs were crossed, evidence of his desire for her hidden away. Helen could practically feel him retreating from her, becoming the self-contained Duke who didn't touch her or find her remotely attractive.

She felt ridiculous strapped to a chair with a shredded gown and a blanket thrown over her like an afterthought. Somehow the blanket put a damper on the whole desire thing. The dress cutting, well, she'd been so turned on that every other feeling, like shame and worry that he wouldn't believe her, was secondary. But, now that he was so distant and sitting so far away from her, as though the whole thing was a horrendous embarrassment and accident, _now_ she felt exposed.

"Okay, so you cut my clothes off, you've seen the goods, are you going to let me go?" she asked, voice sharp.

"I don't think so," he said casually without looking at her, as though she'd asked if it might rain.

"Why the hell not?" Helen pulled against the bonds again.

"I need time to think."

"What is there to think about? I'm gonna lose a limb here. I have no blood flow. You've _got_ to untie me," she said intensely.

His eyes narrowed. "Or what? And let me say that if you scream, I will gag you, then you will have no opportunity to convince me that you are...from the future."

"What else can I do to convince you?"

He held up a hand so that she wouldn't speak and interrupt his thoughts. _Authoritative jackass._

"Explain some of the differences between my time and yours."

"Why?" she asked suspiciously. She shook her head in denial. "Don't you know that's not a good idea? What if you do stuff to change the outcome of things?"

"How so?" he asked, genuine interest in his tone. He crossed his arms and waited. Helen thought about how she knew that messing with the space-time continuum was bad...besides the debriefing she had before she left, she'd have to say that all of her knowledge came from bad sci-fi. Which hadn't been invented yet.

"Well, what if I tell you about some contraption that sounds amazing, and then you go and invent it before it was supposed to be created? You could upset the whole timeline of the world."

After a long pause, he nodded, still watching her closely. "Isn't that your purpose here?"

"Oh. Well. Yeah, so I'm here to change the future. But my change is good. It's worth it. It will save millions of lives."

An expression similar to a grimace crossed his face, and she wondered if he were skeptical about her motives.

She took a deep breath. "Edward, what I am here to do will save millions of lives."

"Millions?" he repeated as if he couldn't comprehend such a thing.

"Yes. Millions."

A few minutes passed before either of them spoke. Well, before he spoke. Helen didn't have much to say beyond 'please let me go' which hadn't gotten her squat.

"If what you say is true, then you rather conveniently change from an amoral criminal to a heroine."

Why did she feel as if he were setting a trap? Helen laughed, the hysteria of it ringing loud and clear. "I'm sorry. It's not funny. Nothing is funny. It's all...a disaster. Yes, despite what you have seen, I am a hero. Heroine. I'm trying to make things better."

He frowned. Helen was surprised by his next question. "Are you...typical of most women in your time?"

That _was_ funny, so she laughed again. He'd clearly been trying to be diplomatic, but it hadn't really worked. The way he said 'typical' conveyed just how outrageous he thought she was. "I suppose I'm a little bit different than most women. But, in my day, women can vote. Women can get a divorce. We hold jobs and own property. Men and women are equal."

His eyebrows rose loftily at that. He covered the lower half of his face with his hand, masking his expression. "You are a soldier, then." He scrutinized her like she was an insect. A praying mantis or one of the weird bugs that one looks at and thinks, 'what the hell is your purpose'?

"Yeah. A soldier." _Defensive much?_

"Your parents approve of this?"

"They're dead."

"I'm sorry."

She had nothing to say to that. The silence became awkward. He cleared his throat. "Colchester is working for this faction you want to stop. The Nazis? And he has the plans, and you must get them and destroy them? Anything else I should know about?"

She spluttered. "You shouldn't know about _any_ of it!"

Both of his dark eyebrows raised. "But I do."

Helen looked at him steadily, willing him to see her as she really was, someone who had a mission to do good. Someone strong and capable. She'd probably never know what she actually saw on his face. "And where does that leave me? And the diary?"

"I told you, I don't have the diary."

"I want it," he said it with cold precision.

Helen shook her head, "I can't give it to you. If you get it now, then this never happens. You can't look for it or even act like it exists. In your lifetime, you are the duke."

"And later?"

"By then, it was ancient history and nobody cared. It probably would have created more of a scandal to strip your family of the title than to leave it alone. Being a duke or even royalty...by my time it's more honorific than anything."

"You're saying my title becomes irrelevant?" She could see that the mere idea shocked him.

"No. There is always a fascination for royalty or people who are...wealthy or deemed better than everybody else. But lords don't shape policy like you do today."

"You cannot get in to see Colchester without me," he said, changing the subject.

"Does he know you want the plans?" she asked, feeling as if her heart stopped as she waited for him to respond.

His expression was fierce. "I simply told him I had a proposition for him."

"So, you didn't mention the plans?" She couldn't help but ask him twice.

"No. I did not."

Tears filled her eyes, "Oh, thank God!" She squeezed her eyes closed, felt the tears slip down her cheeks.

"What happens now?"

She blinked rapidly, wishing she could wipe her face. "You let me go, I get the plans and destroy them...then I move to the country and become a spinster." Well, that had been the plan. But that was before she knew the Germans were here. She would have to take out Colchester and anyone else he was working with. All those cats would just have to wait.

"This is your only task, then? You do not go back to your time?" he asked, tone cold and dispassionate.

"No, I'll stay here." She couldn't read his closed expression. "Where are you meeting the Baron?"

"He's having a party at his house tonight. Part of his debauched club. Ms. Wells and some of her girls will be there." Edward stood, coming towards her and disappearing behind her chair. She felt him loosening the ropes, untying them.

She stood as quickly as she could, shaking the tension out of her arms and moving away from him to the opposite side of the room. "You do understand that you can't help me, right?" Helen asked. "I'm trained in how to do this. All I need you to do is get me into the party."

"I've seen your abilities. But don't forget that you were tied to that chair because of _my_ abilities. Whatever rights you have in the future are irrelevant. You are here now. In my world, and with the restrictions that are placed upon all of us. You are a woman, and you will not get very far without me." He smiled at her, something slightly devilish in it, as though what he were about to say gave him great pleasure. "You, Miss Foster, are stuck with me."

# Chapter 18

Later that night, as Helen got into the carriage opposite Edward, she was surprised to see that he handed her a half mask made of black satin. "This is surprisingly kinky of you. I like it."

"Yes, tying you to the chair was just the start of my depraved desires. In actual fact, the mask is to hide your identity," he said, boredom in every word.

"Does it work?"

"No, but I do suspect that those engaging in vice like to pretend that they are anonymous when they are in the throes of their debauchery."

"Speaking of debauchery. How will this work?"

She saw him shrug in the dark as the carriage rocked along the dark London streets. "You will pretend to be my mistress. A lot of the people there have already seen us together so that won't be a surprise. What will be a surprise is that I'm there at all."

"Not a regular?"

"No. Not a regular."

She cleared her throat, uncertain how to say what she needed to say. "Thank you for doing this. For helping me..." She paused, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with emotion. "For believing me and...everything. It's actually a surprisingly long list of how many things I would need to thank you for. I should just get you a cake or something." She saw him raise that infernal eyebrow at her. She took that as his I-don't-know-what-you're-talking-about-but-I'm-sure-it's-beneath-me expression.

Her stomach flopped like a fish on land as she said the next words. "The other thing about tonight. It's important that they believe we're together."

After a delay, he said, "Go on."

"So, uh...if I have to act like your mistress, that's okay."

There was dead silence in the carriage. The fish in her stomach had died and was about to be vomited up. Her hands were clasped together tightly.

Helen hastened to clarify. "I'm not a virgin. In my time, things are different, and morals are more...relaxed. You know, it's not a big deal is what I'm trying to say."

His lips pursed as though he had something to say and was trying to keep his mouth shut or look for other words. Helen wished _she_ had found other words. She couldn't believe she just said that. She licked her lips.

Edward opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, apparently struck dumb by her statement. "I very strongly doubt that we will need to prove the authenticity of our relationship. But..." He cleared his throat loudly, as though the words were choking him. Helen leaned forward, peering at him in the dark.

"Are you laughing at me?" Helen asked, totally mortified.

There was another moment of silence, and then he did laugh, the sound loud and sincere, so infectious it made her smile too. She reached over to him, slapping him on the knee. "Don't laugh at me! I'm being serious. I can't have my cover blown just because you get all stuffy and decide you can't hold my hand or put an arm around me."

"I will endeavor to remember that. Who knows, perhaps the entrance exam for this club of debauchery is steeper than I had imagined."

Helen scowled at him. He chuckled again, the sound knowing. The carriage began to slow. Her cheeks felt hot. The carriage stopped and Edward got out, waving the footman away so that he could personally help her down. He held her hand snugly, a frisson of awareness pulsing through her at his touch.

She could still see a trace of a smile on his full lips. Helen tried to let go of him, but he kept her hand, wrapping her fingers around his arm so that she stayed next to him. The house in front of them was large, several windows open, the sound of loud voices and laughter billowing out to meet them. But all she could think about was his firm grip on her hand, keeping her by his side.

"Don't worry about tonight. All will be well. Now, two things before we go in," he said, facing her fully. He looked down into her face, his eyes glinting with amusement. But his voice was very serious. "First of all, it will be my great honor to sleep with you in order to save millions of lives, and I will do my best to acquit myself in a manner that would make generations proud." A corner of his mouth twitched.

"Ha."

"I'm very serious. I will do whatever it takes to convince them of our amorous relationship," he said gravely, but then he chuckled.

"Great, what's the second thing?"

His smile was so sincere and open it made her blink. He looked boyish, transformed into a man she didn't know but wanted to. "You should probably call me Edward."

# Chapter 19

They were met at the door by a large man in a mask. A torch was set up next to him, giving the impression that they were entering through a doorway to hell. "Interesting touch," Edward murmured. "Everywhere I go, they use flowers to decorate a party. One doesn't see nearly enough flames," he murmured in that same lazily curious manner that always made her wonder if he were joking or serious. She assumed joking. Edward extended a gloved hand, proffering his invitation to the man at the door. The man nodded, and he stepped inside. Instantly, Helen went on alert, her breath coming faster as the moment to act neared. Edward was leading her through the entryway and towards the party when she stopped him.

"Where would his office be? Upstairs or down?"

"I don't know. With this layout," he looked around the entryway. "Morning room, dining room...I assume it's down the hall."

"Your Grace, welcome to my home. I was thrilled to hear you would be attending this evening," Helen instantly went cold, fear raising gooseflesh all over her body. _He's as German as sauerkraut._

Edward turned around, a bland smile on his face. "Colchester. What can I say, I'm a man of many tastes. I've heard so much about your club, I just couldn't stay away any longer. And please, call me Edward."

Helen threw the Duke a glance. How come the evil Baron got to call him Edward so quickly?

"And who is your lady friend? I don't believe we've met." The Baron's scrutiny was intense as he looked her clothing over, examining her as one would a bear in a tutu. "This is Mrs. Foster."

He smiled coldly. "Ah, the American."

Helen's smile was made of cement. The Duke answered first, laughing casually. "You see, my dear, your beauty precedes you."

"Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Foster."

Helen extended a hand and looked down, trying to appear as demure as possible. The Baron took her gloved hand, giving her knuckles the lightest kiss.

"You must let me show you around and introduce you. Your attendance will be quite the coup. This way," he said, extending a hand in the direction of the noise and people.

"Could you direct me to the ladies' room, first of all? I'll catch up with you."

She saw fury leap in Edward's gaze. "Stay, dear. Just for a moment." He squeezed her hand warningly.

The Baron laughed. "A new relationship indeed if you can't bear to let her out of your sight. Come along, Your Grace. She'll catch up to us."

Helen leaned forward, putting a chaste kiss on Edward's cheek and murmured in his ear, "Keep him busy."

Helen moved down the hallway in the direction he pointed, the heaviness of her dress making her gait unnaturally smooth. She turned back, just catching a glimpse of them as the Baron led Edward into the party. _That's one for my team._ Her heart began to pound in excitement and nerves. She wouldn't have long to search before Edward came looking for her.

She snuck down the hallway, bypassing the ladies' room; the hallway lit up invitingly. The third door was the jackpot. Inside the room, a large desk stood before her, the surface abnormally bare. Helen had hoped that the plans would be there in plain sight—maybe even wrapped with a pretty bow or a sign that said 'this is it!'

The room had a very masculine feel to it, the scent of tobacco lingering in the air. She shut the door quietly behind her. It didn't have a lock. What kind of spy didn't have a lock on their door?

_The one who doesn't keep anything valuable here. Or the one who isn't expecting someone to steal from them._ The top drawers were empty. Empty! Who the hell had empty drawers? Helen's desk had been crammed full of crap. But the bottom had a thick stack of loose papers. She tried to make sense of what she was looking at. They were shipping manifestoes, lists of departure dates and accountings of what was being taken on, a list of passengers and the destination. The one on top was to Germany, and the cargo was listed as explosives. Helen grimaced. The ship was set to leave tomorrow.

Helen folded the paper, putting it in the pocket of her skirt. She quickly rifled through the other pages, not even sure what she was looking for. Rather oddly, none of the other ships went to Europe. Ireland, Scotland, even a few to the Outer Hebrides; islands near Scotland that were only inhabited by some cold sheep. Why would the Baron send cargo there? People living there would have to get food and goods somehow, she supposed.

Suddenly, a scream filled the air, the sound echoing through the walls, and Helen shoved the papers back into the desk and ran for the door, her skirts rustling like a pissed-off snake. The door opened, and Helen skidded to a halt. Edward stood there, face like thunder, his eyes scanning the room. "Do men spank unruly women in your time?"

Helen's mouth opened and closed. She hadn't expected him to say that. "Sounds...interesting. Although you probably don't mean it in a kinky way, do you?"

"Roland Black is dead."

Helen tried to make sense of the words. They seemed clear. But that was impossible. "What did you say?"

He didn't repeat himself, simply waited.

Helen shook her head. "No, he's not. He dies four years from now from syphilis."

"Alas, that information didn't help him."

"How?" she asked.

"His throat was slit. One of the ladies just found him, hence the scream. Everyone is panicking. It's time to leave. Did you get what you were looking for?"

Helen blinked and looked at his face, the earnest question there making her stomach plummet. Roland Black should not be dead. He was supposed to have two children. Now what? Those children would never be born. The timeline had changed again. She licked her lips. "Did the Baron kill him?"

"I don't know. In my personal opinion, it seems like bad taste to kill someone at one's own party," he deadpanned.

"Be serious!"

"I am. He's the obvious suspect. But, he'd be an idiot to kill him here."

A muscle ticked at the corner of his jaw. He took a step closer, his voice lowering dangerously. "Answer my question. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"No," she said, lying to him. It felt as if the shipping information was burning a hole in her pocket. "We have to go. I'll figure out something else once we're free."

Edward grabbed her by the hand, and they headed towards the door. Then he stopped and turned back to her. He looked at her dispassionately. "Take your hair down. Or at least disarrange it quite severely."

"Why?"

"In case anyone wonders what we were doing in here."

"Good idea." Helen reached up, pulling pins out so that her hair fell down around her shoulders. He scowled at her appearance and turned away from her, staring at the door.

"What about you?" she asked. Helen reached out to his cravat, grabbing the material and pulling it free, exposing his neck. The contrast of his perfect and handsome self with the disheveled necktie was vaguely amusing. And unreasonably attractive.

He began to retie the cloth in a simpler style, the fabric creasing at odd points. "I suspect that I will remember this as the most dissatisfying night of debauchery in my entire life," he said. Then he opened the door, pushing her behind him so that he could go out first. Edward stopped abruptly, and Helen bumped into him.

"This is my office," she heard Colchester say. His accent made him easily identifiable. Helen peered around Edward's shoulder, adrenaline coursing through her at the idea of them getting into a fight. She'd kill him. That would have to solve some problems.

"My apologies, every room was...occupied."

The Baron's hard expression roamed over them, hesitating on Helen's disheveled hair. "The party is over, I'm afraid. Perhaps you heard the screaming?" His lips twisted in a parody of a smile.

Edward shifted back, blocking her with his body, as though he wanted to keep her identity a secret or shield her. "Has something happened? I confess I'd just assumed the screams were prompted by the entertainment. One hears such amazing things about Ms. Wells," Edward said.

The Baron tilted his head so that he could see into the room, scanning it, undoubtedly to see if anything were out of place.

"There has been an...incident. Very upsetting. Undoubtedly, you will read all about it in the papers tomorrow. If you wish to avoid being in there yourself, I suggest you leave immediately."

Edward put his arm around Helen, pulling her flush against his coiled body. Her hand landed on his chest, the heat of him radiating through his clothing. "We'll be on our way then."

The babble of excited voices was loud, the sound of weeping women making Helen want to roll her eyes. They hadn't been murdered, why were they so upset?

Helen felt jittery but oddly calm. A weird contradiction. She was glad she had a lead for the plans, but couldn't believe that Black was dead. How could the Germans risk changing the timeline?

"My carriage will be out front," Edward said, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her close as they shuffled out the door, protecting her from bumps and the press of people. _He still thinks he can protect me. He won't stop protecting me, even if it kills him. And it might_. The heavy truth settled in her stomach like a brick.

If the Germans were willing to change the timeline, who was to say they wouldn't kill Edward for helping her? Hell, if the Baron thought Edward was helping the Allies, he might kill him just to prove a point. They spilled out into the night, her breath fogging in front of her from the cold. To Helen, all the coaches looked the same, but Edward pulled her along behind him with purpose, handing her into the third one they passed. Helen blinked in the dark.

Edward settled across from her, his words oddly quiet. "Now what?"

Her voice came out steady. "Now...Nothing. We go home. Well, _I_ go home. That wasn't an invitation or anything..." Helen cleared her throat. His face was cast in shadow, the lamp low. One superior brow rose, displaying all of his irritation in one simple gesture.

"Not an invitation," he repeated slowly. "Do not lie to me. Where are you going now?"

"What makes you think I'm lying?" Awareness shimmered between them, as though they were in the middle of a lightning storm.

"I think you found whatever you were looking for, and that the moment you get rid of me, you're going to go do something foolish. Something one person cannot accomplish on their own."

She shook her head, her hands twisting in her lap. "You can't help me."

"There is no one else to help you. You told me you were here to save millions of lives. You would jeopardize all of that in order to protect mine?" The words were ruthlessly precise, his tone conveying how stupid she was being.

Helen's throat closed up, and she swallowed hard. "I don't know...I genuinely am not sure what to do. You _have_ to do things in the future, and I can't risk you not doing them..." _I can't worry about getting you killed._

He made a tsking sound. "Surely I'm not quite so important to the future."

Helen couldn't swallow past the lump in her throat. "I can't think. Just give me a minute to process everything." Helen looked longingly at the door.

Edward leaned forward, picked up her hands from her lap, sliding his fingers through hers so that they were twined together, the gesture intimate. Tears blurred her vision, making her pissed. _Don't start crying, moron._

He spoke to her quietly, and she couldn't help but listen to each soft word, becoming befuddled by his nearness and the utter confidence he radiated. "There are many advantages to being me. For example, everyone I meet wants to prove how important they are. Everyone has a business venture and wants my money to help them. Did you know that the Baron is heavily invested in shipping? In fact, he has a boat leaving in the morning." He squeezed her fingers gently. "I can stop that boat. A word to the harbormaster and it's done. You need me."

"I'm not going to the docks," Helen said, hearing the lack of conviction.

"The hell you aren't."

She pulled away from him, scooting across the carriage, surprised just how much colder and lonelier it was with the extra inches between them. He knocked on the carriage wall lightly and they lurched into motion.

"Where are we going?"

"Canary Wharf."

He was so fucking high-handed and egotistical. _It's really hot. No, it's not!_ A small kernel of anger bloomed inside of her and she tried to make it grow, shifting her anger at herself to him. "This isn't your problem. Why do you even want to help me?"

He settled back against the black leather seat. The silence was lengthy. "Consider it an apology."

She frowned. "Apology for what?"

He shook his head, saying nothing. He watched her in the dark, and she looked back, the anger evaporating. The moment stretched, became awkward as neither of them looked away. She wanted to climb across the carriage and kiss him. Sit in his lap and have him raise her skirts and sheathe himself in her body. She would never know what it was like to be with him. After tonight, she would never see him again. She couldn't let him involve himself any further with her mission. He went blurry again and Helen blinked rapidly, taking in a deep breath.

"Come here," he said with dark authority, and he reached out a hand towards her.

She couldn't speak. Every muscle in her body locked with indecision. How many times had she wanted to go to bed with him? Crap, she'd thought about it two minutes ago. She saw it in his gaze—heat and desire. He wanted her. All she had to do was take his hand. So why was she hesitating?

_Because I'm falling in love with him, and I can never see him again. No matter what._ And how much worse would the temptation be if she went to him? He dropped his hand and she bit her lip, on the verge of asking him to take what he wanted. So she didn't have to make a move, couldn't say no.

He sighed. "Then let me tell you how sorry I am...I hit you. I can't believe I did it, I can't apologize enough. It must ache. I wanted to kiss it better. To apologize..." He laughed, the sound dark and unhappy. "Undoubtedly the way most men apologize when they hit a woman."

Was _that_ what this was about? His remorse for knocking her out? She'd left him no choice. In fact, she'd hit him first. Surely, he knew that. His face was drawn, as though he were reliving a terrible memory in his mind.

"You hit like a girl. You were lucky. If it weren't for this stupid dress, I'd have kneed you in the family jewels, and you'd be at home icing it for a week."

"I do not hit like a girl," he said, voice a low rumble.

"You do, it was pathetic," Helen said, smiling at him gently. "You held back. You got lucky."

Helen moved, shifting seats so that she was next to him. He turned to face her, and her body leapt in awareness. He looked at her cheek, the mark he'd left there, and she was surprised when his fingers touched her jaw, turning her head slightly. He leaned in, the warm heat of his skin invading her body and making her feel drunk as if champagne bubbles were fizzling up her body. His lips were warm and dry, the faintest press of them against her swollen cheek. Apology and remorse radiated from him.

His lips moved down her face slowly, lightly placing kisses upon every inch of her jaw as he reached her mouth. The first kiss was chaste and light. The next had the barest touch of his tongue to the seam of her lips. Helen opened her mouth willingly, turning her head so that he could kiss her deeply. With a feral sound, he reached for her, pulling her onto his lap and kissing her hard. She kissed him harder, desperate to feel him long after this night was over. She could taste the alcohol he'd drunk as his tongue slid along hers. Her legs were trapped under her skirts, and she broke the kiss, the sound of his heavy breathing making her nipples press hard against her corset.

"Let me," he said, and he reached beneath her dress, shifting the fabric from under her, his hands brushing her calves and then her thighs. He slouched down in his seat slightly, a wicked glint in his eyes. He gripped her thighs, pulling her forward and settling her over him. The hard press of his erection against her core made her arch forward, his lips finding hers as he kissed her hungrily.

Helen gasped into his mouth and kissed him back, finally sinking her hands into his hair, taking an unreasonable amount of pleasure in disheveling the dark locks. He pressed against her, adjusting his hips so that his cock bumped her clitoris. Her eyes flew open at the snap of pleasure.

Their gazes locked and Helen breathed deep, wanting to take every piece of him into her that she could, not just his cock but his breath, his heartbeat, every inch of him.

"Not a monk," she whispered and bit his lower lip.

"No," he growled as he cupped her face in his hands. "And I'm beginning to feel peculiarly emasculated every time you mention it." A heavy hand settled on her hip, pressing her damp heat against him." Her eyes closed in pleasure. "Jesus, I want to be inside you. You make me crazy. Do you understand that?" His hand sank into her hair, holding her still as if he would possess her by sheer force of will. He plundered her mouth, and she wished he was inside of her, the fabric between them a torture. Helen reached between them, her hands lost in the fabric of her damned dress as she fumbled for the opening of his trousers with desperate urgency.

He grabbed her hand in his, his grip tight but trembling in need. "I'm not doing this here," he said, the words almost a growl. She didn't know what expression he saw on her face, but he grimaced in response.

"Are you sure? It won't take long."

"Never have truer words been spoken," he joked.

Helen kissed him, rubbing against him sinuously, hoping to change his mind. His hands settled on her hips, stilling her. "I don't do things like this. I'm not going to treat you like a whore and defile you in a carriage."

"I think you can only be defiled once. I've been defiled. A carriage suits me—"

He shifted her backwards by the hips, moving her back a crucial few inches, so she rested on his upper thighs. He winced. "I want to have a discussion about provisions first."

"Is that a fancy term for some sort of deviant sex act?"

His brows slashed down, but he didn't speak until she met his searching gaze. "If you get with child, I want you to be taken care of. I'll provide for both you and the babe." He seemed so sincere that Helen felt like an ass. Having a child out of wedlock, not having the protection of a father's name, was social suicide in Victorian times. Birth control was unreliable at best. But, talking about it was a bit of a buzz kill for lots of reasons.

"You want me to be your mistress?"

"Yes."

_Not a wife._ She knew how society worked; it shouldn't upset her that she was firmly in the mistress category, but it was clear it didn't even occur to him that he might marry her. He would fuck her, and if she had a child he would take care of it. That was what he was offering. _You're not having children. You're not seeing him after this. It doesn't matter!_

She pasted a smile on her face and moved off him, back to the opposite seat. "You're right. This isn't the place. We'll talk about everything later."

He scrubbed his jaw with his hand. "Do you ever make a decision and know, instantly, that it was a mistake?"

"You really know how to make a girl feel special," she said.

"That was the goal," he said, sincerity and a hint of vulnerability in his tone. "But I don't think that my offer had quite the effect I expected."

"What did you expect?"

He crossed his arms over his chest loosely. "That you would be flattered."

Helen laughed. "I'd be flattered that you would offer to make me a whore?"

"No, you would be flattered to know that one of the most powerful men in the land is so enthralled with you that he would risk shaming his fiancée a few months before his wedding. You would go from being no one to someone."

"I would go from being somebody that nobody knew, to being your personal prostitute."

"Good God! What do you want? Marriage?"

He sounded so horrified she couldn't help but throw him a glare. "I barely know you, of course I don't want to marry you. But it's no one's fantasy to be a man's dirty secret. To be his weakness and someone he'd skulk around with only in the dark. But you know what, it doesn't matter. There is nothing between us. After this—"

After this I'll never see you again.

The carriage was stopped. Edward swore. "This conversation is not over. I'm going to find the harbormaster. You're going to stay in the carriage. Once the departure is delayed, we can consider the options. We'll get your blasted plans, and then we'll finish this discussion."

"You want me to stay in the carriage?" she asked with disbelief.

"This is my mission."

He adjusted his cravat and the cuffs of his shirt. "You'll get nowhere without me. Stay here," he commanded. As if she were a dog.

Edward got out, giving her a 'stay put' glare, and told the coachman to keep an eye on her. "She'll sneak away given half a chance. Whatever you do, don't leave her alone."

Helen peered out of the carriage, watching as Edward walked towards a shabby house near the docks. The thick decaying smell of dead fish and water invaded her nostrils. Helen smiled at the coachman. The coachman squinted back at her suspiciously.

Within two minutes, he was unconscious; his hulking form sprawled on the carriage floor.

Helen looked around at the bustling docks. Even at night there were people everywhere. The logistics of what she was about to do were a little intimidating. She would have to get different clothes since a woman couldn't just wander onto a ship. Then she would have to sneak on board, then—

"A Victorian lady would never be here, and she especially wouldn't be here in the dead of night." Colchester said, his words heavily accented. Something hard poked Helen in the back. "Don't move or I will kill you."

"Sauerkraut," Helen said with a scowl. "Shouldn't you be at your home cleaning up Roland Black's blood and waiting for the police?"

"Walk." The gun pressed hard against her.

Helen jerked into motion, calmly walking towards the ships. Baron Colchester took her right elbow, holding her in a vice-like grip with one hand, while the other was steady on the gun digging into her side. A belly wound was fatal here. No doubt about it.

"You killed Roland Black! What the hell were you thinking? I thought we weren't supposed to mess with the timeline. Colchester kept walking, forcing her closer to the ships.

"I didn't want to kill him."

Helen stopped abruptly, the hard metal digging into her corseted waist. "It doesn't matter that you didn't _want_ to do it. You _did_ do it."

"The Allies cannot have the plans. I took steps to ensure that didn't happen. I'm simply following orders. Onto the boat," he said, his German accent making each word sound harsh.

Helen stalled before the boat ramp, keenly aware that when she was on that ship—she was fucked.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"I'm going to take you to Germany. To my superiors; who will have many questions for you. Now get on the boat." He shoved her forward. She walked up the ramp, uncertain what to do. If she screamed, would he kill her and leave with the plans? The only thing that mattered was stopping Colchester from taking the plans out of the country.

"Tie her up," he told one of the sailors as they stepped onto the boat. The sailor nodded sharply and dashed off, coming back with a length of rope that he wound around Helen's wrists. And the bastard tied a mean knot.

"Do you really think you can get away with this? Taking the plans out of the country, changing history?" _You sound like you're in a bad movie._

"Do you want to see them?" he asked with a wolfish smile.

"The plans?"

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. "This is it. The future of the world is right here." He smiled smugly and even opened the envelope, pulling out the pages and showing her the schematics. Drawings and mathematical formulas, detailed instructions in almost illegible handwriting covered every page. He looked at the pages fondly, touched them almost reverently.

"Why are you showing them to me?"

"Because this is the reason you will die, and the means of our triumph. Here on these pages. It is a phenomenal thing to hold history in one's hand. Who, but you and I can appreciate the importance of these papers? Every German boy is taught that there was only one great war and a period of intermission. Those years between World War I and World War II were a break; a chance the Allies used to their advantage to keep the Germans weak. We will change history so that there will never be World War II. The Germans will crush Europe and end the first world war in victory, changing the landscape of time forever." Helen felt sick. The sheer audacity of the plan was mind-boggling. If the Germans were able to start World War I with superior weapons and conquer Europe quickly, the US wouldn't get involved.

The Germans could solidify their hold on Europe, and set out to take over the rest of the world. This boat couldn't make it to Germany. She had to destroy it. Even if she were on it too. _Crap._

"Where do you want her?" the sailor asked, looking her up and down as if she were food, and he'd been on a diet forever. He stank to high heaven, and Helen tried not to gag. Colchester folded the pages up and put them back in the envelope, tucking it inside of his jacket and patting it gently. "Keep her on deck where we can keep an eye on her. I will take no chances."

The sailor gave her bound wrists a tug, leading her to the rail and out of the way of the busy crew. Commands were being called, the ship was beginning to move, and Helen tried to squash the frantic wish that this was a nightmare rather than reality.

"Stay here and be quiet. You move so much as an inch, and you'll regret it. There are over fifty men on this ship. And they will all want their turn."

An added dollop of fear made Helen's mouth go dry. It felt as if her heart was in her throat, like she might throw it up at any moment. Her head was pounding with nerves as she sat down next to one of several barrels. The smell of alcohol hit her.

"What's this?" she asked the sailor.

"Gin. You be good, and you might even get a drop or two."

Helen nodded and tried to look afraid. She probably just looked depressed. Helen could see the shore getting farther and farther away, becoming blurry through the incoming fog. The sailor left, the Baron watching her like a hawk from twenty feet away. Time crawled by, stress making her want to scream. A man came up to the Baron, asking him questions, and the Baron finally turned and walked away, giving Helen the opportunity she needed.

The moment he was out of sight, Helen shifted around slightly, making it look as if she were trying to get comfortable on her seat of canvas, moving it closer to the flammable barrel. When the cloth was bunched up against the barrel, she closed her eyes, bringing forth her power, feeling the heat slide up from her core and into her arms like molten lava. It poured into her fingertips and onto the canvas, the smell of smoke instantly rising. She used all of her energy, exerting herself as if it were the last ten yards of a sprint, opening herself wide and pouring all of her strength into making the canvas burn. A single flame suddenly appeared on the canvas, and Helen moved away, watching as the dry material was quickly consumed; the fire growing rapidly. It licked at the edges of the barrel and erupted. Pandemonium broke out, sailors shouting as they rushed towards the fire, desperate to put out the flames. Colchester was suddenly next to her, dragging her to her feet by her bound hands. He steadied her with one hand and swung with the other, pain exploding outwards from her cheek, her teeth rattling as he punched her hard. She fell back down to the ground and he kicked her in the stomach, the breath rushing out of her.

The barrel of gin exploded, shards of wood and liquid, drops of fire raining down on them. Colchester blinked, a look of confusion on his face. His mouth opened, and a heavy trickle of blood came out. He turned his back on her, seeking the source of the injury, and Helen felt a surge of cold-blooded triumph as she saw a large piece of metal embedded in his back from the explosion.

The men were screaming, some in pain, others shouting orders as the fire spread and a wall of heat seared her skin. There was another explosion as the next barrel of alcohol caught fire. Colchester sank to his knees, and Helen surged forward, the first hint of air seeping into her lungs. Blood was pooling in front of him steadily, making a large irregular circle. She shoved her hands into his jacket, getting a grip on the envelope, his own hands wrapping around her wrists as he tried to stop her. He said something, but it was no more than a gurgle, his grip weak.

She let go of the envelope and reached for the gun at his side, cocking it and firing into his chest without hesitation. His body jerked, his hands falling down lifelessly. Her hands shook as she reached back into his jacket and pulled the plans free. The ship groaned ominously, the wood cracking and buckling. Helen stood quickly, the ship reeling around her. One of the crewmen was screaming, his legs sheared off in the explosion. Nobody was paying any attention; everyone engaged in trying to put out the fire before the entire ship exploded. He had a knife on his belt, and Helen grabbed it, ignoring his cry for help as she moved to the rail. She didn't have much time to cut her hands free before the ship would blow, barrels of explosives beneath her feet.

She slammed the knife into the deck and put her hands around it, sawing through the ropes as fast as she could. Every second was too long, and she knew it was only a matter of moments before the ship exploded. The rope gave, and her hands came free. She grabbed the envelope in one hand and ran to the rail, climbing on top and jumping out, feet first, as far as she was able.

The breath exploded out of her on impact, icy cold seawater swallowing her whole. Helen kicked frantically, breaking the surface and beginning to swim, the envelope awkward and slowing her down. Why was she holding it? It seemed bizarre that she would let it go. That she traveled through time, and gone to such great lengths to get these plans, and now suddenly she could let them sink to the bottom of the ocean.

She swam another few strokes before a flash of orange exploded above her, illuminating the night around her as the ship exploded. Helen dove under the water, the explosions oddly muffled underwater. Something struck her shoulder, a piece of wood no doubt, and she let go of the envelope, frantically trying to grab it even as her body bobbed back up to the surface.

It was gone. The plans were gone, and Colchester was dead. Debris was everywhere, bodies and pieces of bodies floating all around her. She took in the destruction surrounding her, the surface of the ocean still aglow with small fires that the waves hadn't yet extinguished. Helen grabbed onto a floating plank and draped her arms over it, breathing heavily.

She stopped kicking and instantly began to sink; her skirt heavy as though it were lined with bricks. The material billowed out below her, so she looked like a peculiar jellyfish. Her fingers were clumsy from the cold and shock of survival, as she sifted through the material looking for the ties to her petticoats. She pulled the knot free, and the material slid off her body, tangling her feet for a moment before she was free. Her teeth began to chatter as she floated in the middle of the ocean. Between one blink and the next, the ocean was dark and quiet. Helen looked for land, the fog thick enough that she couldn't see more than a few hundred feet in any direction. And she couldn't see where the shore was.

Fuck. She was going to die out here after all. Unless she had the luck of Rasputin, she'd freeze to death before morning. The stars whirled above her, and she thought about what it would be like to die. Dying from the cold was supposed to be pretty good in the hierarchy of death. She'd go numb and go to sleep. Better than a gas chamber or being shot in the gut. For better or worse, it would take her longer to die than anyone else. If any of the crewmen had managed to survive the explosion, the cold would quickly kill them. Thanks to her genetic modifications, she could survive a couple of hours, maybe more. It was just possible she'd survive till morning; survive long enough to see the shore and know just how far away safety was. _Although I might die by drowning,_ Helen thought morbidly. Which was also apparently a pretty good way to die.

She chose a direction at random and started kicking lazily, willing to do anything to try to save herself; even if the odds of choosing the right direction were minuscule.

The full enormity of what she'd done sunk in. She'd stopped the Nazis from getting Roland Black's plans. She'd killed Colchester. _I did it. Go me._ She suddenly remembered a line from one of her favorite books: _It's hell being a hero._ Wasn't that the truth.

And it wasn't over; the Germans were here. Colchester said he had superiors in Germany, men who were already working towards inventing weapons that could change the course of history and secure Germany's victory.

What would happen now? What would the Germans do next?

She couldn't help but think of Edward, and didn't even try to stop herself. She could just imagine him on the wharf, staring out at the burning ship and knowing she was on board. Was he sad that she was dead? He must have felt something for her. After all, he offered to make her his mistress. _That's because I made him horny, nothing more than that._

Still, it seemed cruel that she didn't get to sleep with him. That she'd never gotten a chance to see him lose control. To see him in the throes of passion.

God dammit, she didn't want to die! The injustice of it all made her furious, and she screamed in anger. Why not? It wasn't like anybody could hear her. Her voice carried over the water, coming back to her and sounding different.

Very different. She strained to listen.

"Helen! Helen, where the hell are you?" _Now I know I'm dying._ It sounded exactly like Mary. Maybe the hypothermia was making her hallucinate. A lump of grief filled her throat as she listened to that voice call again and again. Her pronunciation was strange, so different from the way the people spoke here. So much brasher and honest. God, she missed her friend.

"Helen! Where the fuck are you?" Mary shouted. Helen looked around her wildly. It did seem a little strange that she would imagine Mary right now. If anything, her rescue fantasy would have Edward in it. He'd apologize and kiss her back to warmth. Maybe even offer to make her his Duchess.

"I'm here," she called out weakly. Because, what the hell? Who cared if she wanted to die talking to imaginary people?

Her limbs moved sluggishly, the heat inside of her beginning to fade. Helen saw a light in the dark, close, only a few hundred feet away, and a small dinghy. Mary was sitting in the boat by herself, hunched forward against the cold; the lantern held at arm's length as her head craned around, searching the dark ocean for Helen. Helen tried to smile, but her teeth were chattering so hard she couldn't do it.

"Mary?" Her voice was so faint she could barely hear it herself. She said it again, her voice a little louder this time but not loud enough. Her teeth chattered violently, cutting the word Mary in half as she repeated it over and over again, louder and louder each time until finally her voice carried along the frigid water and reached her friend.

Mary gave a little cry of delight, her face illuminated by the lantern as she rowed the oars. "There you are! Keep talking. I'm coming for you." Mary put the lantern down, the splash of oars cutting through the water peculiarly loud, as if the sound were bouncing back to her in a cave. _That can't be good._

Helen kicked, trying to get a little closer to Mary, feeling an hysterical urge to laugh. And then, suddenly, and as if it had taken forever, Mary was speaking from directly above her, looking down at Helen with a disgusted expression. "You look like shit. And pale. Here, take my arm." Tears streamed down her face, taking the sting out of her words.

Helen reached up, hand shaking. It was hard to grip because she was so cold.

"Oh fuck, if you capsize this boat and kill us both, I'm going to be _pissed_ ," Mary said and grunted with the exertion of hauling Helen into the boat.

Mary pulled her over the side, and Helen lay there, stunned, feeling like a fish pulled from the deep and smashed on the head. Was that it? Was she actually safe? Helen had been so convinced she was going to die that it seemed impossible that any of this could be real. "What are you..." She had to swallow and a shiver racked her. "What are you doing here?"

She could see the flash of Mary's white smile in the dark. "Saving your ass. Let's get you out of those clothes and wrapped in a blanket. I brought you food too. It's a meat pasty. Whatever that is. And I wouldn't ask what kind of meat," she said and started to undo the back of Helen's dress.

"How...why...are you here though?" Helen asked around a mouthful of food.

"How what? How did I get here? Time machine. Why? Because you died. In our time period, you never made it back to shore." Mary tugged hard on the fabric of her sleeves, the boat rocking as she did so.

Helen swallowed. "Then...and don't think I'm not grateful, but couldn't you have come a bit sooner?"

Mary shuddered. "I've been here for two days. Kind of. They thought I was dead. You don't want to know what they do to dead homeless people in this time," she said, her voice curiously hollow. "I made it, that's the important thing." It was clear she didn't want to talk about it. With a final tug, the dress came off, and Helen squeaked in surprise when Mary huddled close to her and draped blankets over them. Her body was warm; almost burning in contrast to Helen's iced flesh.

"The Germans! They're here," Helen said, softly.

"Yeah. We know."

"At least the plans are gone. Did it work? Have you ever heard of the Warmaker?" If Helen had managed to change history, preventing the Warmaker from ever reaching the Germans, then Mary would have no idea what Helen was talking about.

Mary paused mid-stroke. "No, Helen, you didn't. The Warmaker Offensive went ahead just like before."

"How?" she exploded. "The plans were on that boat!"

"We don't know. Maybe it was on another boat?" Mary asked.

Her voice was low with conviction. "No, it was this one. I'm sure of it."

"Well, then, maybe somebody else survived too. Maybe they had two sets."

"I failed," Helen said, her voice breaking.

"Failed, shmailed We've got a new mission. Give you a chance to get yourself into the history books as a hero, after—Oh shit!" Mary exclaimed in a harsh whisper. She reached for the lantern, opening the door and blowing out the candle, plunging them into the dark. "Quiet, I can hear him."

Helen stilled, straining to listen. Several seconds later she heard it, Edward's voice, loud and hoarse as he called for her. She turned to look, seeing another boat moving slowly through the water, brightly lit, illuminating the dark. Was he close enough to see her?

Grief overwhelmed her, and she bit her lip to keep herself from responding, from telling him that she was alright. Mary's hand clasped her arm, sliding down to squeeze her hand in the dark.

And then there was silence. 30 seconds, then 40. "Helen!" he shouted again, this one desperate and final, carrying across the water. She could hear the anguish in it. She covered her mouth with her arm, a noisy sob escaping her despite herself. It was muffled, not nearly loud enough to get his attention, but she wished....

There was no point in wishing.

She was not someone who had the luxury of want. But maybe it was because she had almost died, or because she could almost _feel_ Edward out there in the ocean with her, searching for her. His grief at her loss was a terrible comfort. Even though she wasn't supposed to dream, she imagined what it would be like to respond to him. Could almost hear his shout of joy and the stern way he'd scold her. Maybe she'd even get that spanking he'd threatened. He would pull her into his arms and warm her. Kiss her and hold her close. And then what? Would he be so shaken that he would finally put aside his morals and make love to her?

Would he break off his engagement, not marry his heiress, and stay with her as she and Mary tried to kill the Nazis who'd come back in time? Would he try and involve himself, putting himself in front of her and into danger at every opportunity?

He'd get himself killed.

_My powers of fantasy suck_. She should've dwelled on the sex and cut out the end where reality intruded. The Germans were here. Mary was here, and they apparently had a new mission. She was a soldier. She'd survived this mission, but that didn't mean she would survive the next. Wasn't it best for him to think that she was dead?

They sat in silence for what felt like forever, listening as he called and called until his voice gave out. The boat disappeared into the fog, and still they sat there. He'd probably given up by now. Back to shore and his fancy carriage, going back to his townhouse in Mayfair and his fiancée.

Which was exactly what he was supposed to do. She wished it didn't hurt so much.

She couldn't stand not knowing. "What about him? Does he...live for a long time? Is he happy?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you," Mary said quietly.

Helen closed her eyes, wishing she could take the memory of Edward away. Love sucked.

"But what the hell. You had a bad day. He's the reason we know what happened to you," she said softly. "He had a journal. It was the last entry. The name of the boat, the time, description of the fire and a newspaper clipping."

"The last entry?" Helen asked, feeling muddled and frozen.

"He never wrote again. He'd kept one for years. Seems a bit of a problem for these people, writing down stuff," Mary said, trying to make a feeble joke, and referencing why she'd become involved with him in the first place. "But Helen, he even wrote your name. If he hadn't left that for us, we wouldn't have been able to find you. He kind of saved your life."

Helen choked down a sob and pressed her forehead hard against her folded arms. "His life doesn't change, Helen. He gets married and has children. He sponsors inventors and becomes a big philanthropist. When he gets married, he goes from being rich, to making-a-difference rich. But you're under orders never to see him again.

Tears spilled down her cheeks and her heart felt as if it were breaking. "Why do I feel like I'm making a huge mistake by letting him think I'm dead?"

"Because you love him," Mary paused, "and it's made you an idiot."

Mary moved away from her and picked up the oars, beginning to row them back to shore. It didn't take very long, but Mary kept checking her compass, and when they hit shore, it was a rocky beach and not the docks. "Now what?" Helen asked as they pulled the boat onto the shore.

"We enjoy the English seaside for the night, try not to die from the cold, and in the morning we find the Germans and kill them all. After I get clothes."

"I know a good seamstress."

Mary frowned. "I thought I was supposed to find a haberdasher?"

"Did Daniel tell you that? He doesn't know what the hell he's talking about."

"I'm just messing with you."

Helen grabbed Mary, wrapping her tight in a naked hug. "I've missed you!"

Mary squeaked. "You're cold! Get the hell off me!"

Helen sniffed and pulled back. "You stink. What is that?"

"Cemetery. Don't...ask," she gritted out.

Helen laughed. "Oh. Wait, they really thought you were dead? I think I thought that was a bad joke or something."

"Sadly, no. And if you think that's a bad joke, you just wait until I tell you what we're supposed to do next."

"What?" she asked, pulling the blanket tighter around her.

"What do you know about gaming halls and brothels?"

"Oh fuck."

"I don't think we have to do that. But I'm not sure." She waved a hand at Helen airily. "Don't worry it'll be fine. We'll play some cards, drink some booze, uncover a secret society that's gathering money for the Germans; it'll be fun. We've got to track down a woman. Ms. Wells she's called."

"She was Colchester's mistress."

"Nooo, she was Colchester's boss. We think. That's one of the many things we get to figure out."

"I almost met her earlier tonight. Edward and I went to a party she had at Colchester's house."

"Does Edward know her? Because you kind of need to be involved in this."

"No. He was there because of me. There's no way I'd run into him at a brothel."

"Great. Problem solved. Now it'll be easy."

"How can you say that? You just cursed us. You can't say stuff like that out loud."

"I take it back. I'll throw salt over my shoulder at the first opportunity. Now let's go find some Nazis."
