What if a sword-wielding, outspoken time traveler found herself stuck in Regency England?
***
Clara Eaton has a secret: she's a member of an elite time-travelling society, concealed in the heart of London.
Clara has spent the last six years learnin...
"There is nothing quite like a dinner party in the world. A young woman should be on her guard for improper language, for it is often more party than dinner."
-Andrew Hamilton in 'A Treatise on the Duties of the Female Sex' (1797)
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Clara blinked.
It was strange, she thought, to be speaking to Liam-that-wasn't-Liam. It was even stranger that James Pemberton knew that she was from the future. She was fairly certain that Violet wouldn't have told him in a letter — the countess wouldn't have risked it being intercepted — which left only one logical conclusion: he'd guessed.
Which, you know.
Bit insulting.
Clara frowned, glancing down at her clothes. "What gave me away?"
"Your legs," James said. "No well-bred lady would sit like that." He gestured to the way her legs were crossed in a pretzel position. Clara placed them on the floor, crossing them at the ankle, and James nodded. "Better."
"Jamie." Francesca crossed her arms. "Leave poor Miss Eaton alone. She's only just arrived."
He rolled up his sleeves. "From when?"
"The twenty-first century," Clara said. "About two hundred years from now."
She explained the situation, starting with the firework hitting the clock and ending with her tumble from the ceiling. James sat on the sofa, nodding along. Well, sat was a generous term, Clara thought; 'sprawled' or 'lounged' might have been more accurate. He threw an apple into the air at random intervals, catching it with practiced ease.
When Clara was done speaking, James tapped his chin. "Well," he said. "I owe Cecily two shillings. When Mother wrote saying that it was an emergency, she was certain that it would involve time travel."
Francesca frowned. "And what did you think?"
James bit into the apple. "Oh, I thought you'd found a charming sailor and run off to Gretna Green."
"James!"
Francesca lunged, swatting him on the shoulder. James snickered, and the sound was so much like Liam that her heart twisted. Francesca shook her head, plucking another biscuit from the tray as she took her seat.
"How is Cecily?" Francesca asked.
"Really, Frannie?" James polished off the apple. "No inquiries as to my own welfare? No, Hullo, dearest brother, how are you feeling after William Wallace tried to put a sword through your stomach?"
Clara raised an eyebrow. "William Wallace tried to stab you with a sword?"
James waved her off. "It was more of a knife, really."
"I was going to ask," Francesca said defensively, "but I want to hear about Cecily first." She lifted a delicate shoulder. "I happen to like your wife more than I like you."
