A Murder in Time (9 page)

She'd planned well, she reminded herself. Yesterday, she'd called Leeds to tell him that she would be returning to the Bureau in a week. She'd even scheduled an appointment with the FBI shrink. And if that didn't take off the heat, she'd made damn sure that if they began looking for her too soon, the trail would lead to Mexico.

She'd bought herself a week, maybe two. But all she needed was forty-eight hours.

Her stomach, which had been settling, lurched up again.

Forty-eight hours, and her life would change forever.

Kendra had always considered herself sophisticated and well-traveled, but her breath caught in her throat at her first sighting of Aldridge Castle. Maybe it was the contrast of the velvety green lawn and the craggy gray rock of the ancient fortress beneath silky blue sky. Or maybe it was its shocking size. Hell, she'd been in towns smaller than the castle, with its raised central tower, uneven castellated chimneys, and turrets that stabbed into the heavens.

The original tower, she'd researched, dated back to the time of William the Conqueror. Throughout the centuries, a series of wings had been cobbled onto the original structure. The effect was moody and magnificent, pulsating with prestige and barely-leashed power.

A gravel road, pale as moon rock, cut across the huge park, which was shadowed with trees and topiary. The automobiles parked in a gleaming queue along the curb were a stark divider between past and present.

Carefully, Kendra wheeled the Volkswagen Golf she'd rented that morning onto the drive, hearing the crunch of pebbles as she found a parking space. If her fingers trembled a little when she shut off the ignition, she chose to ignore it. Just as she ignored the acrobatic butterflies that invaded her stomach.

Slinging her big purse over her shoulder, she made her way toward the crowd of people standing in front of the stone steps that led to the castle's entrance hall. Most were young. Many, she knew, were professional actors. A nomadic group, which suited her purpose very well.

A ruthlessly efficient-looking woman was pacing the stone steps. Holding a clipboard in one hand, she pointed her pen like a stiletto in the other, the object of her ire being a man standing in the front row.

“Mark, you bloody chav, I told you to shave that silly patch on your chin.” Disapproval rang in her voice. “You're to play a fucking footman—not some gangster rapper.” She dropped her hand, tucking the clipboard under her arm and clapping briskly. “Oy, everybody! We've got three hours to get dressed and into our roles before the toffs arrive. They want realism! Now, follow the signs to the servant's hall, and get dressed!”

Kendra waited until the throng dispersed. The woman glanced up as she approached, scowling. “Who are you?”

“Cassie Brown,” Kendra lied. “I'm sorry I'm late—”

“Those gits! I
told
them not to send me anyone with short hair.” Scowl deepening, the woman began tapping the clipboard with her pen. “We need Sherlock Holmes—not Katie Holmes!”

“I thought this was a costume party for the early 1800s.”

“Yes. What of it?”

“Sherlock Holmes wasn't created until the late nineteenth century.”

“Well, aren't you bloody clever. And a Yank, too.” Disgust replaced anger. She stopped tapping and rolled her eyes. “What were they thinking? They say they want realism, then they send me an American who looks like a bloody flapper. Oh, fuck it!” She gave a disgruntled shrug, and flipped through several sheets attached to the clipboard. “We're still short on lady's maids.” Briskly, she scribbled a note and tore off a slip of paper, handing it to Kendra. She pointed toward the departing crowd. “Follow that lot there to the servant's hall. Heaven knows what they're going to do about your hair. We're trying to create a
mood
. Stark Productions should
never
have given you the assignment.”

Before the woman could change her mind, Kendra hurriedly joined the others trudging along the path. A young woman with long red hair tossed her a sympathetic look. “I couldn't help but overhear. Don't let that old cow bother you. You look fab. I've been wanting to get my hair styled like that for ages.”

Kendra lifted a hand to her hair, which swung in a thick ebony sheet below her jawline. Her mouth tightened involuntarily as her mind flashed to the reason she had this particular style.

“I shouldn't worry about it, if I were you,” the girl continued, misunderstanding her expression. “Mrs. Peters has been nattering on all morning about our roles. She's been positively batty about it. But these wankers aren't coming for realism. They want to spend the weekend playing dress-up and getting smashed. They'll not care whether your hair is short or long. The men certainly won't. They'll be more interested in shagging you.” She grinned at Kendra. “I'm Sally, by the way.”

“Cassie.”

“Are you an actress?”

“You could say that.”

Sally didn't hear the irony. “Me, too. I've done the Shakespeare festivals. You Yanks
love
the Bard. And I was a tavern wench last summer at Littlecote House.”

That remark drew the attention of one of the young men walking ahead of them. Turning, he gave Sally a lascivious grin. “Ah, Sally me girl, you can
serve
me anytime!”

“Cheeky bloke!” Sally laughed, and did a couple of skips forward to punch him good-naturedly on the arm. “This idiot's Ian, Cassie. And don't believe a word he says. What's your role here anyway?” She looked at him. “Court jester?”

“You're a saucy wench!” Ian looked over at Kendra. “American, eh? Hollywood? You've got the bone structure for the big screen, to be sure.”

“Watch out, Cassie. Ian thinks he's bloody James Bond.” This time Ian was the one to give her a playful swat.

With half a smile, Kendra listened as they traded barbs. Others within earshot joined in, their banter so easygoing that Kendra suspected they'd known each other before this particular job. It was nice . . . and, just for a moment, envy speared through her. They were a team, she realized.

She understood what it was like to be part of a team, although never with this lighthearted sense of fun. The stakes had always been too high. Catching serial killers, pedophiles, or terrorists was simply not conducive to a carefree atmosphere. The humor she was familiar with tended to be of the gallows variety, cynical and sarcastic.

A din of at least a dozen voices reached them as they entered the castle, growing louder as they moved down the wide corridor and through arched doorways. Here was the source of the noise: an enormous room with high ceilings and a fireplace that was big enough to roast a full-size boar. That should've been the focal point, but today it was a mere afterthought in the whirling dervish of activity. Every surface, including the long pine table, was taken up by boxes and piles of clothing.

It was a little like being backstage at a Broadway production, Kendra supposed. Organized chaos. Personnel from Stark Productions had divvied up the space into designated sections: Lady's Maid, Valet, Housemaid, Footman, Scullery Maid, and something called a tweeny.

As Sally bounced over to the line for Scullery Maids, Kendra joined the one for Lady's Maids, handing the woman the slip of paper she'd been given. Once again she was subjected to a measuring stare.

“The hair ain't right.”

“So I've been told.”

The woman shrugged. “Size eight, right?”

Kendra did the size conversion in her head, and nodded. The woman shoved a bundle of clothes at her.

“Shoe?”

“Seven—ah, I mean, four-and-a-half.”

The woman pulled out a pair of ugly black half boots from a box. “You can change in the room down the hall. Third door on the right.”

At least a dozen women, in varying states of undress, were already in the room, which had been converted into a women's locker room. Scanning the high, white walls, Kendra wondered at its original purpose.

“Isn't this exciting?” said Sally as she came up behind Kendra. She put her bundled clothes down on the bench and began stripping. “When I played a tavern wench, I could at least wear my own knickers,” she remarked conversationally, lifting a shapely leg to tug on black wool tights, followed by a sturdy garter. “These drawers don't even have a crotch. Might as well go starkers.”

Kendra surveyed the undergarments she'd been given. “They weren't kidding about authenticity, were they?”

Sally giggled and pointed at the simple, shapeless white linen garment that bore a passing resemblance to a thin nightgown. “That's a shift. And that,” she moved her finger to the rectangular scrap of fabric with a single string attached, “is called a short stay. It's worn over the shift. Sort of like a bra.”

“Hmm. What's this?” Kendra picked up a long piece of fabric that resembled a belt for a robe, but it had two pouches sewn onto it.

“Pockets. You tie the belt around your waist. Under your gown. There's slits in the skirt so you can reach into the pocket . . . See?” Sally demonstrated. It looked like a feminine version of a workman's tool belt. “Did you know that back in the day, pockets were considered sexy? Any woman showing off her pockets would've been considered a slut.”

“I guess I'll keep my pockets to myself.”

Kendra stowed her purse beneath the bench, and stripped off her shirt. Sally was lacing up her half boots, but stilled. “Holy God. What happened?”

“What? Oh.” Kendra realized that the other woman was staring at the puckered scars on her leg, arm, and torso. Self-conscious, she hurriedly slipped into the old-fashioned garments. “Nothing. I was in an accident.” She concentrated on figuring out how to tie the stay. Then she dragged on the muslin dress the color of an eggplant.

“Turn around so I can button you,” Sally ordered, and after Kendra obediently presented her back, she nimbly did up the buttons. “I didn't mean to embarrass you. They look like . . . well, never mind. There!” She forced a jovial note in her voice. “You look a lovely lady's maid, Cassie. I, on the other hand, am a lowly scullery maid.” She tied on her apron.

“You'd rather be a lady's maid?”

“I'd rather be a
Lady
!” Sally laughed. “I wonder how many of the toffs will be sneaking into someone else's bedroom for a little slap and tickle tonight?”

“You're such a romantic,” Kendra said dryly.

“This is a Regency house party, Cassie. That's what they
did
! Have you got your room assignment yet?”

“Room assignment?” Kendra tugged on her stockings and garters before picking up the half boots.

“Well, you won't have your own room. You may be an upper servant, but you're still a servant,” she grinned. “I noticed you didn't bring any luggage with you. If you need any help collecting it from the boot of your car, I'm sure Ian will volunteer.”

Kendra's fingers stilled briefly in tying her shoes. “Thanks, that's very thoughtful of Ian. But I can handle it.” Of course, she had no intention of staying the night. Once she accomplished her mission, she would disappear. It was imperative that she be gone before the police arrived. “I want to look around first.”

“Be careful that Mrs. Peters doesn't catch you in the private rooms. You missed it, but she lectured us nearly an hour on how bleeding old and priceless everything is.”

Kendra stood up, forcing a smile. “I promise to be careful.”

At least here she could tell the truth. She planned to be very careful.

And she wasn't talking about Mrs. Peters.

More than four hundred guests mingled beneath the blazing chandeliers in the grand ballroom. At another time, Kendra would have enjoyed the experience, watching the crowd that included some of the world's most famous faces, wearing fashions befitting the early nineteenth century. They almost looked like they could've stepped out of the pages of a history book. Almost. If you ignored the tattoos and body piercings—most of which were sported by women.