In addition to the lightness, she now felt a sense of destiny. She was meant to be right where she was and meant to have Deirdre and Mina’s legacy. She headed back to the main entrance for something to eat. At the door she was nearly run over by a tall, skinny youth talking on a cell phone.
“Yo, Professor. Oops. Hold on.” He looked down at Eleanor. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” she replied, but she stepped aside to wait for him to go by.
He paused outside the door and returned to his conversation. “The tables are full, and they said at least a half hour wait. No, she didn’t have your reservation. Okay, but you’ll have to talk to her yourself.” He clicked off his phone and put it in his pocket before loping the short distance to the parking lot, where he mounted a motorcycle parked among a dozen others.
She’d heard what the young man said and wondered what she should do. Call a cab to go into the village? She could probably get something to eat there before going to the museum. She pulled the brochure from her purse to see if it mentioned restaurants in the area.
One motorcycle rider separated from the bunch and drove his noisy machine up the driveway to stop in front of the steps. She looked up. The driver’s worn black leathers clung to his long muscular arms and legs as if they had been custom-made. She could feel him staring at her through his tinted visor.
Bolstered by her recent triumph, she refused to be intimidated. She crossed her arms and stared back.
He removed his helmet and brushed back his long dark hair. Eleanor caught her breath. Omigod!
Chapter Eighteen
It was him. Shermont.
But it couldn’t be. She’d left Lord Shermont nearly two hundred years in the past.
“You don’t look like a professor,” Eleanor said, dumbfounded by the motorcycle rider’s uncanny resemblance to her lost love.
“Haven’t we …” He touched his eyebrow. “Sorry,” he said, taking off his leather glove and sticking out his hand. “James Wright.”
“Mr. Wright,” she said, shaking his hand. That familiar warmth spread to her heart. It had to be him, yet it couldn’t be. Confusion warred with unreasonable hope.
“And you are?”
“Eleanor Pottinger.” She felt a stab of pain. He didn’t remember her. She pulled her hand away.
“It’s not like me to be illogical, but I have to say this even though it’s going to sound like the worst pickup line in the world.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Didn’t I meet you in my dreams last night?”
She realized with sudden clarity that James Wright must be the other time traveler the ghosts had told her about. James Wright, a.k.a James Bond, Lord Shermont. In the past, he hadn’t remembered the future due to his injuries, and in the present, he didn’t remember much of the past they had shared. She crossed her arms, trying to hold the disappointment at bay. “What do you recall of this so-called dream?” she asked.
“All the best parts,” he said, and his wicked grin sent a blush to her cheeks. “Not much that makes sense. It’s all mixed up with spies and secret codes of the Napoleonic War era, which is logical, because that’s the topic of my research. I do remember enough to realize I want to get to know you. Are you free for lunch? Dinner? The rest of your life?”
“What about your friends?” She gestured with her chin toward the parking lot where the other riders waited, quite interested in what was going on in front of the steps.
“Ah, yes. My students.”
“Then you really are a professor?”
“University of Chicago. I took on this summer semester abroad in order to do research for my thesis. They attend classes Monday through Thursday during the week, and I shepherd them around to historic sites on the weekends.”
Eleanor now understood the ghosts’ reasoning in choosing this man to take back the first time. They probably thought his experience dealing with young people would help him provide a strong guiding force for a younger Teddy and might keep him out of trouble. Something must have gone wrong, and they set James down in the wrong place.
“I’m doing research on that period myself,” she said, not willing to let him get away just yet. “Specifically the clothes of the Regency period. I’m a costume designer. I’ll be working on a movie that will be filmed near here.” Which was sort of the truth. If she made it to the interview, she knew she would be offered the job.
“Maybe we can compare notes,” he said. “Won’t you join me for lunch? Uh … me and my students. I have them until seven o’clock tonight. Then I’ll deliver them to a lecture on the architecture of Christopher Wren. That’s why we came here to the Twixton Manor Inn. When the sixth Lord Digby renovated the original building in 1702, Wren designed the new façade and parterre. Unfortunately the formal gardens are long gone.”
“I heard there used to be a fabulous moonlight garden here,” she said, hoping to spark his memory.
He shrugged. “I’m not really into gardens. But I am hungry. Back to the subject of lunch.”
“Well, I was on my way into the village to get a bite before checking out the Jane Austen House Museum at Chawton Cottage.” She handed him the brochure that contained a small map.
He flipped through the single-page, trifold advertisement. “What do they have? Maybe I’ll take the kids there after lunch.”
“I’m not sure what else they have. I’m going to check out a necklace on display that belonged to Jane Austen.”
“A necklace?” He rubbed the scar on his forehead.
She touched her throat, a useless habit since her necklace was no longer there. “An amber cross.”
“How very strange.”
“What do you mean?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown bag. “In the village this morning I wandered into an antique store and felt a strong compulsion to buy this against all reason. Even though I usually analyze every action to death before doing anything, I purchased it straightaway. And now I know why. I bought it for you.” He handed her the package. “Go on. Open it.”
Inside the brown paper was a bit of folded tissue paper. She opened that and found an amber cross on a delicate silver chain. Eleanor recognized it immediately. Cassandra’s cross. Her necklace was similar to Jane’s, but with five larger stones and a different filigree pattern around the edges. “I can’t accept this.”
“I’m afraid you must. It doesn’t go with my outfit.”
She smiled. “You should give it to your girlfriend—”
“Don’t currently have one.” He flashed her that toe-curling grin. “But I’m working on it.”
“Okay.” She couldn’t deny a thrill at his statement. “Your mother or sister then. You should give this to someone special.”
“I have.”
She shook her head and reluctantly held the necklace out to him. “We’re total strangers.”
“How soon you forget. I know you rather well … from my dreams.”
“Perhaps you should tell me everything you remember.”
“Later. Over supper.” He still didn’t reach out to take the necklace. “In the meantime, would you keep it in exchange for helping me this afternoon? You could teach the students about the fashions of the Regency.”
“I’m hardly qualified to lecture—”
“Not a formal class. We’ll do it like a conversation. You’ll talk fashions, and I’ll chime in with whatever seems pertinent about the history of the period.”