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  He was asking for my consent, although we both knew that it mattered not a whit now that Father had made his decision. I supposed that under Jacob’s supervision I would no longer have to work very hard at my studies. Although I did not know it then, my days as a heedless youth were over. Under the guidance of Jacob, I would be initiated into the mysteries of Greek, Latin, and other studies befitting the education of a young gentleman. Susanna, too, was allowed to partake in these studies and proved to be superior to me in her grasp of them.

  Around this time in Father’s library, I chanced upon a manuscript dealing with alchemical studies. I was dazzled by the prospect of learning from the manuscript how to turn base metals into gold. After much discussion, I persuaded Father to allow me to buy the flasks, stirring rods, a mortar and pestle, charcoal, and various other materials needful for conducting alchemical experiments.

  Jacob was loath to see me begin these experiments, warning that few—if any—had ever been successful in turning base metals into gold.

  “But the great Paracelsus did agree that it was possible to make gold,” I argued.

  “But of an inferior sort,” Jacob was quick to reply. “He tried through his experiments to discover cures for illnesses.”

  “If I am not to repair my family’s fortunes by making gold, what is the use of alchemy?” I asked. “I have little interest in finding cures.”

  Jacob laughed and then turned serious. “What the true alchemist seeks is to discover the secrets of the universe by delving into his soul, where hidden abilities lie. The transmutation of the baser elements in one’s self is what mystical alchemy is all about.”

  When my tutor’s leg was pronounced healed, my father prevailed upon him to stay an indefinite time with us, for by this time Father had found in him so congenial a companion that he was loath to see him go. It mattered little to my father that Jacob was a Protestant, for Father—whatever his faults—was of the opinion that each man should make up his own mind as to how he should worship. Our family had been Catholic for generations and still was, although it was growing very risky to practice one’s faith. In secret we attended mass, celebrated by the priest who had lived in our house. He had a special room—a “priest’s hole,” as it was known—but because of the perilous times for those of the true faith he had taken leave of us a month ago and gone to a monastery in France.

  Oliver Cromwell, a militant Puritan and the general of Parliament’s New Model Army, for years had been whipping up sentiment against the king, who had been raising taxes without the consent of Parliament, until the whole country was divided. Generally, we Catholics supported the king, while Protestants supported Parliament.

  Cromwell’s army had soundly defeated the Royalist forces and was keeping the king a prisoner on the Isle of Wight. Would we have a monarchy still under Charles Stuart, or perhaps a republic, or—an even worse fate—would Cromwell proclaim himself king?

  Many were the evenings that Jacob and my father sat by a crackling fire and discussed these and other matters of great import. Sometimes they argued: Father staunchly upholding the divine right of kings to govern as they pleased—in his estimation, Charles I was within his God-given rights to raise taxes without the consent of Parliament for as long as he pleased—while Jacob argued for the right of men to put checks on the power of kings.

  Both agreed that the Dutch and English were making the world a vastly different place by setting up colonies in the New World, which had led to new beverages like coffee, which Father noted had become all the rage in coffee shops in London.

  Dan moved uneasily in his chair. While they were sitting listening to Caleb drone on, someone could still be out there planning another way to get rid of them.

  Caleb stopped reading and said, “If anyone cares to, you can take the memoir and read it for yourself.”

  “May I look at it?” asked Gerry, standing up.

  As Caleb handed the memoir to her, she said, “Thank you, Caleb. I’m rather tired, so I’m going to call it an evening.”

  She wasn’t the only one who seemed tired, thought Dan. J.J. could hardly keep his eyes open, and Laney was yawning behind her hand. Even though the attack had been foiled, the whole thing was bound to affect them all.

  “Tomorrow I have some business to attend to, so feel free to wander around the city by yourselves. If you need anything, ask Cummings,” said Caleb, nodding to his butler, who was standing by the door, hands laced over a gently swelling paunch.

  Dan hurried to catch up to Gerry. He felt like a high school kid again. He’d ask her out for lunch once more. If she gave him the brush-off, that would be it. “Gerry,” he called out. “I know you’re meeting with an author tomorrow, but would you like to do something after? Cummings told me about a great little place that serves Chinese food.”

  Gerry hesitated, then squared her shoulders and said, “Why not?”

  Dan’s heart lifted. “Could you make it to the Golden Dragon in Chinatown by eleven thirty? I hear it gets really busy around noon.”

  “I’ll be there.” Her smile sent a wave of warmth through him.

  Laney was dawdling in the hall. Dan put an arm around her and walked with her down the long hallway, carpeted with a heavy maroon plush carpet that hushed their footsteps. They passed little tables holding expensive-looking vases filled with hothouse flowers and gilt-edged mirrors that reflected their passing.

  “So what do you want to do tomorrow, Laney?”

  “Shop. I want to get something for your birthday, which is coming up soon, and I think I know exactly what to look for.”

  “Not by yourself.”

  “Oh, Dad, I’m not a kid anymore!”

  “We could go together.”

  Laney shook her head. “What kind of surprise would it be if you saw what I bought for you?”

  “Then take J.J. with you.”

  “But he’s such a kid! You trust him and not me?”

  “J.J. is only two years younger than you, and besides, this is your first time in San Francisco. There’s safety in numbers. Go ask him.”

  Laney grinned at him. “I already did. I just knew you would have a fit if I went by myself and you’d worry all the time.”

  “That’s my girl. Why don’t you and J.J. have lunch with Gerry and me?”

  “I don’t think so, Dad.”

  “Okay, but don’t spend too much on my present. You’ll need your money later for college.”

  “Okay, Dad, but I’d like to get a swimsuit, too. That is, if I can find one that looks good on me. I’ve put on a few pounds here.” She slapped her thighs. “Why did I have to get Mom’s build? It looks great on her, but big hips and a fleshy bod went out in the fifties.”

  “You look marvelous to me, kid. Besides, how you look isn’t the most important thing.”

  At the door to her bedroom, he gave Laney a hug and said, “You’re a great kid—a fantastic trumpet player, a swimming champ on your high school team, and smarter than your old man.”

  “Oh, Daddy, how you exaggerate!” said Laney, rolling her brown eyes expressively and giving her shoulder-length light brown hair a toss.

  “Look who’s going to college in the fall—on a scholarship, no less.”

  “Four years,” moaned Laney, “and then off to more school to learn how to be a vet.”

  “You’ll love it. Think of all the people you’ll meet.”

  “I can hardly wait!” said Laney, her eyes dancing with excitement.

  His spirits rose. Maybe his streak of bad luck had come to an end. He had a gut feeling, the kind he used to get in ’Nam—they called it situational awareness—before the action would heat up that something very important was going to happen, something that would change their lives forever.

  Even though he wanted very much to tell his daughter how much he loved her, he felt awkward about sharing his feelings.

  So he contented himself with saying, “Time for your beauty rest, Laney. Tomorrow’s shaping up to be pretty busy
.”

  “And don’t worry about me, Dad. After all, I’ll have my trusty sidekick with me.”

  Laney planted a firm kiss on his cheek. “Have fun!” she called out, throwing him a teasing look.

  His little girl was definitely growing up, Dan mused as he went into his bedroom. He felt restless, though, and started pacing around the room. The notion wouldn’t go away that someone was trying to take out the Morgans. He hadn’t mentioned this to anyone else; he didn’t want to scare them.

  Could someone be trying to make some quick bucks by killing Caleb? But that didn’t make any sense. Holding him for ransom would be the way to go—unless someone had a definite grudge against him. But why wait until his relatives were with him?

  No point trying to hash out the problem now. He was too beat. Quickly shucking his clothes, he fell into bed and yawned hugely. San Francisco was turning out to have more excitement than he’d bargained for.

  CHAPTER 9

  Carlo Hauptman San Francisco, St. Francis hotel, Friday, June 19, 1992

  * * *

  Leaning forward in an armchair in the living room of his suite and jabbing a finger at the two men standing in front of him, Carlo yelled, “You told me there would be no problems!”

  Sean, the older of the two men, seemed unruffled by Carlo’s outburst. “The plan was good. We watched the Morgans go into the restaurant. Mick stayed with the car while I boarded the yacht. No problem getting the captain to let me on. I hid the bomb in a locker. It should have exploded.”

  “You were sloppy!”

  His black eyes cold, Sean merely looked at him. “I am never sloppy,” he said.

  “Then what happened?”

  “They must have discovered the bomb before they left the dock area. The yacht needed to accelerate before the mercury switch would cause the bomb to explode.”

  “I’m not interested in your excuses!” Carlo raged. “And you’re supposed to be the best—ex-IRA—I’m paying you enough to do the job right!”

  What was he going to say to Papa? His plans were ruined. Carlo remembered the time when he was six years old and had tripped over the cat and accidentally spilled hot coffee all over his father. Papa, his eyes burning like hellfire, shouted at him and raised his hand to hit him. Then Mama came in. Papa stopped shouting and acted as though nothing had happened. He didn’t even seem to care anymore about the spilled coffee, just turned away and waved his hand indifferently at Carlo. That had been the pattern of their relationship.

  After Mama died, no one had much time for him, certainly not Papa, who was always so busy.

  He thought constantly about his father. It was important to please him, but what could a small boy do for such a one? Only be ready to serve him instantly.

  And so he had grown up, hanging on to Papa’s every word.

  After Carlo’s expensive education at Harvard, Papa had allowed him to learn the business. “A sacred trust,” he’d called it.

  He had tried, really tried his best. But it was hard to win Papa’s approval.

  What would his father say about his failure to have the Morgans killed? Papa had been very clear: Nothing could be allowed to interfere with the task at hand. Nothing else mattered.

  Mick, the younger man standing next to Sean, shifted from one foot to another. A fox-faced runt with a pointy chin and nose, his none-too-clean clothes hung on his skinny frame, thought Carlo contemptuously. What a contrast to Sean, whose corded muscles showed that he obviously was familiar with the inside of a gym.

  “Just so we’re perfectly clear about this,” said Carlo. “You’ll have to try again or find another way to eliminate the Morgans—and it must be done within two days’ time!”

  “The mechanic where the old guy gets his Lincoln serviced said that the car has to be cleaned and ready to go on Sunday. Maybe we could set something up for then.”

  Sean shot a disapproving look at Mick and said, “Forget it. We don’t have time to make another bomb and set it up properly.”

  Barely containing his rage, Carlo ordered, “Then find another way!”

  “That wasn’t part of the deal. We did what we said we would do.” His ramrod-straight posture and glacial stare made Carlo realize that the man wasn’t going to change his mind.

  For a heartbeat the two men stared at each other. Then Carlo said petulantly as he stood up, “All right. Have it your way.”

  Sean nodded. “The money,” he said.

  Carlo went to the safe, took out a bulging envelope, and said as he handed it to Sean, “It’s all there.”

  Without counting the money, Sean took the envelope and put it into the pocket of his navy windbreaker. Then he and Mick walked out of the suite without speaking.

  Alone, finally, Carlo took a deep breath. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of rough stuff. He shivered slightly as he remembered the way Papa had looked, his eyes fiercely alive and his mouth twisting. “The window of opportunity to destabilize this timeline will be open for one day only, June 21. You must kill the Morgans before they have time to access this window and ruin my plans for the future!”

  Carlo’s gut rumbled. The tension was getting to him.

  It wouldn’t be so easy now to eliminate the Morgans; they would be on their guard. But it had to be done—and he would have to do it himself. There was no time to make other arrangements.

  Only two days. That was all the time left. He would never get another chance. Papa had been very clear on that point.

  But he would succeed. Afterward, Papa would look at him, not praise him—that was not Papa’s way—but give him that certain look of respect, which would be enough.

  Carlo smiled. When this was all over, how he planned to celebrate! It would be exciting to see the changes occurring because of the death of the Morgans. For a brief moment he regretted the necessity of killing them—after all, he was a civilized man. He would carry out his obligation. Soon. Carlo went to the safe and took out the case. Opening it, he began assembling his gun.

  CHAPTER 10

  Geraldine Morgan Caleb’s mansion, Friday, June 19, 1992

  * * *

  Standing in front of the door to Marjory’s bedroom, Geraldine looked fondly at her aunt. “After I visit my author tomorrow morning, I’m going to meet Dan for lunch. Would you like to join us?”

  “No, thank you. Don’t worry about me, dear. I plan to take in some of the sights around town. Now off you go and get a good night’s sleep.”

  Her aunt still treated her sometimes like the five-year-old child she had been when her mother, a widow, had married Marjory’s brother. Over the years, a close bond had developed between her and Marjory, who had treated her as though she were of her own blood and not her brother’s stepchild. She could always talk to Marjory about things that she was reluctant to talk about even with her own mother, such as sometimes dreaming about events that later happened.

  “Do you have any idea what is really going on, Aunt Marjory?”

  Her aunt pursed her mouth, a sure sign that she was seriously considering her niece’s question. “No, but I have a feeling that we are about to find out. Soon. And don’t worry; we’ll be fine.”

  How could her aunt be so optimistic when they had become involved in an adventure that was catapulting them into something that went way beyond anything they had ever experienced? However, she didn’t want to burden her aunt with her fears so she smiled at her and said lightly, “‘To sleep, perchance to dream’?”

  “Perhaps. Geraldine, if you would like to talk about Charles …”

  “Not yet, Aunt Marjory.”

  Her aunt looked at her and nodded.

  “I’ll be okay. I just need some time to adjust. Thank you again for asking me to come with you. I’ve already told Caleb how much I appreciate his inviting me to stay here in his home with the other Morgans.”

  “Everything is working out very well. Good night, dear.”

  Geraldine’s throat closed up with emotion. Without speaking, she turned and w
alked down the lushly carpeted hallway and into her bedroom, where she sat down in a dark green velvet wing chair. She felt so exhausted: her broken engagement, escaping death by a hairbreadth, and now the revelations from Caleb.

  Geraldine moved restlessly in the chair. She was very glad now that she had come on this trip. She wanted to put as much space as possible between her and Charles.

  After dinner, when Caleb had started reading Jeremy’s memoir, the mention of his sister, Susanna, had made the hair on her arms stand up—a kind of sign telling her to pay attention. What was that all about? More mysteries.

  After putting on her reading glasses, she began reading where Caleb had left off.

  I was in the midst of an alchemical experiment when Father, with Susanna close behind him, flung open the door. “You and your sister must hide yourselves!”

  Startled, I dropped the flask I was holding. Ignoring the shattering of glass, Father said, with an urgency that I had never before seen him display, “There is no time to lose. Alf has spotted Cromwell’s men on the track. They will be here momentarily.”

  He hurried me down the stairs where our housekeeper, Molly, was wringing her hands. We swept past her, urged on by Father, who pushed us into the priest’s hole. A faint smell of incense and candle wax still lingered in the air. The thought of the many masses that had been celebrated here was oddly comforting.

  “You will remain here until the invaders leave.”

  “But, Father, I must help defend our home.”

  “They are too many for us, my son. Hide here with your sister. If I am arrested, take the gold hidden here—enough to provide for you both for a short time—and get you away to London to my sister’s home. Here, I have written your aunt Arabella’s address.”