An Unusual Masquerade

Prologue

Eversham Hall, Southwold, Suffolk, England

1813

Sebastian D’Brooke, the Duke of Eversham was lonely. Heartbreakingly so. However, the cause of his loneliness could be laid at his own particular door, no one else’s. At the advanced age of three and fifty, he never married, nor formed an alliance, or was that a misalliance?, with any of the young ladies he had selected over the years to warm his ducal bed.

No. No wife, no mistress, no children, and obviously, no grandchildren. No blood relations to take over the reins of the dukedom when Sebastian passed, except for that blockhead cousin, Miles Fredricks, Esquire.

A dilemma, that. Or perhaps his lack of a connection could be considered a tragedy.

Naturally, over the years he pondered this problem. He vacillated over one solution, then another, without ever choosing an outcome. There had always seemed to be time to make a decision.

Time. Time had been his lifelong passion. Everything, even the matter of an heir, took second place to his obsession with the concept of time.

Walking to the open window in his workshop bungalow, Sebastian glanced out at manicured frontage and pebbled pathways leading to his grand estate, Eversham Hall. It was a known fact that the Hall was the finest in Suffolk, England. Perhaps in all of England.

All was quiet outside; no visitors or busy servants scurried about to disturb his solitude. That was the way he liked it; that was why he spent most of the day at his secluded workshop, away from the main Hall. The only noise he could hear was the ticking and tocking from the many pendulum clocks spaced out along the walls in the bungalow.

Sebastian loved clocks. He loved all kinds of devices that told time: mantel clocks, ormolu clocks, watches, sundials, hourglasses, in fact, anything used to measure time. Timepieces were his passion. He could even say in all honesty that the clocks kept him company. He considered himself not an amateur horologist--a person who dealt with timekeeping apparatuses--but a professional one.

And now, today, Tuesday, the sixth of July in this the year of our Lord 1813, he was almost finished with his pièce de résistance.

Returning to his crowded work area, Sebastian sat in a wooden chair and adjusted his spectacles. Strewn out on the tabletop were the intricate bronze gears he had created for the ultimate device in dealing with time. A mechanism that actually accessed time in the past and also time in the future.

Seemingly impossible, and yet...

He brushed back the white fringe of hair constantly falling into his eyes. Truth be told, he had not come up with this idea on his own. Years ago he had been an adventurous sort. He had often gone diving in the waters of the North Sea, near his estate. One fortunate day, he had come across the remains of an ancient Roman vessel. Amidst the wreckage of rotting lumber, he discovered the fragmented pieces of a small device. A device constructed of bronze with numerous precision-made gears and dials commonly found in timepieces from eras past.

The purpose of this device had puzzled him ever since.

Until now.

Finally, after countless hours... countless years of translating the Greek inscriptions on the device, he deciphered the meaning and function of the object. He deconstructed it and then made dozens of missing parts. Lastly, he fashioned a replica to, hopefully, duplicate its function.

As it turned out, this mechanism was based on time. And now he was almost ready to begin his scientific experiment.

His plan was this: take a seemly routine voyage around the British Isles on his personal schooner, Tempus Fugit, Times Flies. Obviously, since that blasted war with the French--with Bonaparte in particular--was still raging on, the sailing would be confined to English waters. Then when the ship reached an energy grid line that was required for activation, he would set the mechanism in motion.

To be truthful, Sebastian was not certain of the outcome. Would his schooner be thrust back into the past? Or instead would the Tempus Fugit be vaulted into the future?

Perhaps there would be some other reaction entirely. Something he had not anticipated. It was possible. Anything was possible.

A knock sounded on the door. His long-suffering butler, Dobbins, entered the congested workshop holding an elaborate tray filled with refreshments.

With his pinched nose, bulbous chin, and dark uniform coat and jerkin, Dobbins was a somber sight. The man nasally intoned, It is time for tea, Your Grace.

The butler glanced around the overcrowded spaces, and, hard-pressed to find an empty spot for the tray, sighed. I shall obtain another table, Your Grace.

No, no, I will make room. Sebastian stood, and then swept aside loose papers and stray tools, which then allowed Dobbins to set the tray down.

While the butler prepared his tea in the preferred manner, Sebastian pulled down on the edges of his waistcoat and then sat. His stomach, quiet before, reacted to the aromas from Cook’s fragrant carrot teacake.

Looking at one of his pendulum clocks, he noted the time. Two o’clock. He had worked straight through the nuncheon hour of midday. He was hungry.

The word hungry brought to mind his godson, who also happened to be his nearest neighbor, except for Mr. Albert McCall to the west of Eversham Hall.

Tell me, Dobbins, Baron Hungerford has been gone these past two years from his estate, what? He signed up with the Navy and went overseas to assist in that demmed skirmish with the Colonies. Last I heard he was promoted to commander. In charge of his own ship--a sloop of war. Has Hungerford returned from his duty?

Indeed he has, Your Grace. Dobbins shook out the linen napkin and draped it over Sebastian’s lap. Just last week his lordship returned to London on a packet boat. At present he is convalescing at Hungerford Park.

Convalescing? Devil take it! What happened?

Commander Walker, or rather Lord Hungerford, was unfortunately wounded in a savage attack two months ago, I believe. The incident occurred in one of those provincial, backwater towns across the ocean, Your Grace.

By Gad! To steady his nerves, Sebastian paced the tight area of his bungalow. He liked the lad. As much as he liked anyone, he supposed. Hungerford had to be at least thirty. Or one and thirty. Always had been a plucky youngster. As brave as any fellow Sebastian had ever encountered.

Basil Walker, the Baron Hungerford, had always been an active young buck. Perhaps he was blue-deviled with this convalescing of his. If so, he might be amenable to boarding the Tempus Fugit. He might be amenable to seeing how Sebastian’s newly created device manipulated time.

Sebastian placed his hand on his butler’s shoulder. How is Lord Hungerford faring? What kind of injury did he suffer?

Dobbins’ droopy cheeks reddened like overripe tomatoes. He dropped his gaze to the floor. I cannot say for certain, Your Grace, but I have heard his lordship sustained a bullet wound to his... er, buttocks region. An incensed Colonial damsel fired a large caliber gun or musket in his direction.

The devil!

Coughing to hide his amusement, Sebastian then took a sip of tea. I see. Perhaps Lord Hungerford has tired of vegetating. I shall issue an invitation to him for the morrow. He might enjoy a bit of sea air on my schooner, what? There he can... rest on his laurels, as it were.

Then Sebastian laughed which gave Dobbins permission to smile as well.

After consuming the refreshments, Sebastian gestured for his butler to remove the debris. Once he was alone, excitement bubbled in his veins. He could not wait to start the experiment. Finally, after all these years!

Indeed, he was feeling ten times better than he had in a very long time. How could he wallow in the dreary feeling of loneliness when, in the company of his godson, he was close to blowing the top off of time itself?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter One

Miami, Florida, USA

Present Day

Helene Madison was all about taking risks. She always leapt before she looked. Action before reaction. Grab the tiger by the tail before considering the consequences--that sort of impromptu thing.

Or perhaps the most pertinent one: Marry in haste and repent at leisure.

Yep, it was true, she married Colbert Madison after knowing him for only a month. One tiny little month! Thirty days wasn’t long enough to decide on a lifetime partner--no way, no how. A lifetime commitment based on that short amount of time? No. N-O, hell no.

She knew that, of course, but to her regret, she’d disregarded her family’s warnings, her friends’ advice, and even her own instincts.

Looking out the picture window at the panoramic view beyond her studio apartment, Helene sighed. Now she was repenting at leisure.

No more risk-taking for her.

Not only had she jumped into marriage, but she’d agreed to pick up stakes and follow her new hubby to the tropical paradise of Miami. Her condo, conveniently located in Tarryton, New York, had been only twenty-five miles from midtown Manhattan and her lucrative private art appraiser job. Her former lucrative private art appraiser job. Now she was spectacularly unemployed with no clients to her name. No wealthy clients, anyway. Evidently, living in New York, even if it wasn’t Manhattan, gave her business a certain pretentiousness that art lovers... well, loved.

Another downside of this move was that now she was utterly and completely alone. Unfortunately, her marriage disintegrated soon after she and Colbert finally started to get settled here... only one year into their union.

She’d loved her husband, she really had, but surprise, surprise, it turned out that Colbert... Colbert preferred... well, he preferred the male of the species rather than the female.

The sting of tears burned her eyes, but she determinedly blinked to drive away the wetness. She’d cried enough. She wouldn’t cry anymore.

The one bright spot to this dismal situation was the location. Truthfully, she couldn’t regret her new location. She’d never get used to the sight of lush palm trees lining the streets and the graceful sway of the fronds as warm, sultry breezes fingered through the leaves.

Florida had to be the most gorgeous spot on Earth, not that she’d ever traveled anywhere outside the US. Seeing coconut palm trees first thing in the morning, swimming with playful dolphins, sipping the signature drink of margaritas... all these things acted as a balm to her damaged soul.

Absolute perfection. Who could ever tire of this?

But now she was left at the young age of twenty-six... divorced, uprooted from friends and family, and also tightly pressed for cash.

Until she found a permanent job, anyway, and hopefully attracted prosperous clients with an avid interest in works of art.

In the meantime, she temped at an agency, did odd jobs and varied assignments--in other words, she did whatever was available.

A knock on her apartment door interrupted her musings, and that knock meant it was time for her to participate in one of her varied assignments.

She skewed her lips. The assignment? To be a bikini bunny for a water photo shoot. Some kazillionaire living in a mansion on Miami’s Biscayne Bay had a yen to take his yacht out into the waters of the Atlantic and be photographed with a gaggle of girls in revealing swimsuits.

On the plus side, at least he liked females.

Storing away that hurt, Helene opened the door. Her fellow bunny, Charlene, stood on the other side.

Hey there, sugarplum! Y’all set?

Charlene, a vivacious blonde, was a perfect example of the three Ss: short, stacked, and sexy. She even wore her skimpy bikini without a cover-up.

What Charlene was wearing... or what she wasn’t wearing, was rather... distracting.

Helene cleared her throat. You’re driving out to the mansion in that, Char?

No, no, we get t’relax. Mr. Bags O’Dough sent his driver for us. We’ll be stretchin’ out in the back of the limo. First class all the way, gal pal! Giggling, Charlene stepped inside the apartment.

Seeing the high thong on Charlene’s bikini bottom revealing her friend’s rear cheeks made Helene instinctively glance away. Just what kind of job had she leaped into this time?

Another knot of unease settled in her stomach. This is just a photo shoot, right, Char? I mean, how long are we supposed to be on the yacht?

Charlene’s shrug threatened to loosen her bikini top’s already loose straps. It’s all day. I don’t know if Mr. Big Bucks is providin’ lunch, so I’ve got a few protein bars an’ apples we can eat.

Good idea, thanks.

Helene grabbed her beachbag with her change of clothes. Her own swimsuit was more modest than Charlene’s and it covered everything it was supposed to. In fact it was like wearing a multi-colored bra and panties. A zippered terrycloth cover-up discreetly hid the bikini from sight.

She had to sigh. This assignment was a far cry from her profession as an art appraiser. But...

Nibbling on her lower lip, she chanted to herself: the money for doing this photo-shoot is good. More than good.

Maybe, by modeling for this kazillionaire, she’d earn more than enough money to tide her over until she got settled here in Miami and built up her clientele. And, if she was really lucky, maybe things were in the works for clients with money to burn to come knocking on her door soon. Very soon.

Charlene fluffed up her poufy, dyed hair and then pulled on Helene’s arm. C’mon, sugarplum! Let’s get a move on. There are four more of us gals t’pickup before we get t’Mr. Bags O’Dough an’ his Biscayne Bay mansion. Imagine, he’ll have six bodacious bunnies t’kiss his, no doubt, big butt. That guy’s gonna be in heaven!

Shuddering at that particular unpleasant image, Helene took a deep breath, followed her friend outside, and then locked her apartment door. She had to think positively. Maybe, by going out on the cool waters of the Atlantic today, she’d be changing her life for the better.

It could happen. She could be lucky.

Fingers crossed!

* * * *

Sitting on a bench at the stern of the yacht, Helene watched as the boat slowly left the dock right outside the kazillionaire’s mansion. The vast building looked more like a fabulous museum than a private residence. Too bad she hadn’t been invited inside. Beautiful works of art had to live behind those gilded paneled doors. Marbled flooring, mosaic windows, fabulous chandeliers... the list, no doubt, would be endless.

In keeping with the mansion’s magnificent façade, the surrounding grounds were absolutely amazing. Impressive Italian renaissance gardens, Baroque architecture, and intricate stonework lining the waters of Biscayne Bay...

Breathtaking!

Guarding the stonework were colorfully striped poles reminiscent of Venice and its canals. And, in the rapidly increasing distance, was a forest of palm trees, each one vying to be the tallest in sight.

Everything was beautiful. Truly beautiful. She loved antiques, and antiquity, and of course priceless works of art. She positively itched to have a gander at this collection. She couldn’t let this opportunity pass her by: by hook or by crook, she’d finagle a tour of the mansion once the photo-shoot was finished.

She looked toward the front of the boat, the bow, where the other five bikinied models were congregated, along with Valerii--a beefy, bearded guy. Evidently he was the kazillionaire. He had explained that the shoot wouldn’t start until the yacht reached open waters.

The sounds of raucous laughter and high squeals drifted back to where she sat at the stern. Apparently everyone was getting to know each other... some probably more than others.

Helene opted for quiet. She faced the receding shoreline, watching a flock... or was the correct word squabble?... of seagulls following behind, hovering over the foamy wake from the yacht.

How lovely and peaceful it was to be surrounded by the endless waters of the Atlantic.

I watch you, came an unexpected voice. You not like the others.

She whipped around to see a thin man with rumpled deck clothes and a scruffy brown mixed with grey beard walk toward her. His gait swayed with the motion of the yacht.

Sitting across from her, he rubbed his chin. Why you different?