A couple of elements to note. The “space-time continuum” is a phrase that Amy Stevens used before she and Simon West traveled back to 1805. It was hardly a reflection of her understanding of science but came from the TV show Stargate Atlantis, something she admitted when pressed by Simon. No one really knows (including yours truly) how the coin enables time travel, except for the easiest explanation: “It’s magic!” Please suspend your disbelief and enjoy the story.
I always knew that Weston’s story was waiting to be told, for he is the “earl” referred to in the title of Amy and Simon’s novella. I was delighted when we were given the title Down the Rabbit Hole for this book, because his experience of time travel was totally unexpected (unlike Amy and Simon, who knew where they were going), and it was totally out of keeping with his known reality. Thank goodness he had Mr. Arbuckle to help him and someone to share the experience with him.
PROLOGUE
LONDON
APRIL 1805
“It’s a disaster.” Bennet William George Haven West, third Earl Weston, moved about the room as he spoke. The mantel needed paint. The books should be dusted. At least the decanters were full. “A disaster, to put it plainly.”
“Come now, Wes, it’s not like we are on the edge of complete bankruptcy. We’ll find a way out.”
Weston loved his cousin and heir presumptive. Ian’s use of “we” made him feel less alone and told him everything he needed to know about Ian’s loyalty.
“It’s almost that bad. These last two days with the estate’s man of business have convinced me that while no one will refuse me credit, there is not enough money coming in to make a dent in the bills that have been piling up for the last two years, at least.”
“Two years?” Ian sounded shocked.
“Two years. Since the old earl’s son and heir died. Apparently my cousin was the only one able to keep his father’s generosity under control.”
“Uncle Weston was an amazing man. Everyone mourned his passing.”
“As did I, Ian. I loved my uncle and benefited from his largesse as much as anyone. He never said no, whether it was to a beggar on the street or to his wife and children.” Weston poured himself just a drop more wine and offered the decanter to Ian, who shook his head. “If only his generosity had not extended to every possible investment suggested. You know as well as I do that each was less successful than the one before it.”
“When he died—has it been three months already?—I wondered then, and still do, if the news of the loss of that ship brought on the apoplexy that killed him.” Ian shook his head, his expression a mix of sorrow and frustration.
They were verging on maudlin ground now.
Weston stood up. “I am off to Westmoreland. The blasted artist is ready to put what he calls ‘the finishing touches’ on my portrait. The portrait I cannot pay him for.”
“Wait, tell me what your man of business had to say about the opportunity to invest in the canals. The new venture that Lord Wedgebrook is so excited about?”
“He said exactly what I expected. That I need to be sure that the investment is sound. The estate cannot stand another failure.”
“But it would be your money, not any of the money that is part of the estate.”
“As it stands now, Ian, I am the estate. The farms are in wretched condition. The tenants can barely call themselves farmers. The cottages are in such disrepair that no one with any ability will sign on.”
Ian shook his head in sympathy. “It’s hard to know where to start.”
Weston felt for the locket in his pocket. He had thought marrying Alice would be the first step toward the future. With her by his side, anything seemed possible. Now he was almost glad she had refused him. Debt was the last thing she would want in a husband.
The less noble part of him missed her. Missed her quite desperately. How could she say no when he knew her heart was filled with the same love and longing as his?
“Wes, what is it? What has you looking so stricken? Truly, there is a way out of this.”
“Stricken? Did I? It was nothing, just a moment of grief.” Let Ian think it was for his uncle. Move on, he told himself. Thinking of Alice only led to an endless circle of anguish that squeezed his heart and made his head ache.
“I will go to Westmoreland and start there.” Weston stood up. “I can close up this house and reduce expenses until next Season, at least. I can sell some horses, and there are some paintings not entailed. The Rembrandt, for one.”
“Dear God, Wes, that would be like announcing to the ton that you are on the verge of bankruptcy. Have you thought of marrying an heiress?”
“An heiress? Never!” Weston answered, more sharply than he intended.
“Very well.” Ian held up his hands as if in surrender. He stood up. “Feel free to call on me anytime, Wes. I will help you in any way I can. Indeed, I may even know someone interested in the Rembrandt.”
“Thank you, Ian.” Weston took the hand his cousin offered and clapped him on the shoulder. “No need to rush into it. I will think on it at Westmoreland. Who knows, something miraculous might happen. Yes, a miracle. Something that neither of us can imagine.”
Within a quarter hour, Ian was off to his lodgings and Weston was bound for the country. Eight hours more and the earl was less than ten miles from Westmoreland. The carriage rumbled on in the moonlight.
He wouldn’t be traveling in the dark much longer. Only a few miles more. The moon was full, the roads were safe, and he had a pistol if he was wrong about that.
He spent most of the trip leaning against the cushions, pretending to himself that he could doze off, but he’d spent the whole of the trip considering ways and means of righting the accounts. In a half-dreaming state, his head was filled with ideas from sensible to bizarre.
Weston fingered the round locket in his pocket and wished the future had a different look. One where he and Alice faced it together, with enough money to make her every wish come true.
He drew a deep breath and a sudden lassitude overcame him, dragging him to sleep just when he thought he might never sleep again.
CHAPTER ONE
“What the blazes is going on?” A hard thump had awakened him.
Weston’s first thought was to have a word with the coachman, but when he opened his eyes he wondered if his last visit to deal with the estate’s debt had done the job and he was ready for Bedlam.
He was not in his coach at all, but in the library of his town house in London.
He’d left London. He was sure he had. Weston could recall his conversation with Ian and his final words to the majordomo. “Send the overdue bills to Herbert.” His man of business knew what to do, and it would not be wise to let the staff know how much to let he was. Not with his sister’s come-out within the next year.
Now that seemed to be the least of his worries. As he straightened, he realized he was seated on the sofa, and that there was someone next to him.
And another man stood nearby, wringing his hands in a way that was not at all reassuring.
“Answer me, man. What the devil am I doing in London after riding in my carriage for ten hours?”