"His name is Laycock. That's all you know, except that he lives in some town called Wixcomb," Judy commented idly. She and Carla had time to kill. A dozen, black-nosed sheep had ambled into the road in front of their car, forcing the young women to wait while the animals made for greener pastures through the break in the hedgerow.

"I know he lives in the only hotel in town, which bears his name. And his first initial is V. V. Laycock," Carla elaborated, her hands gripping the wheel as though she continued to steer.

"Hmmm." Judy brushed her bangs off her forehead while peering through the dusty windshield. "Could you imagine if people heading into New York had to wait for sheep to stroll across the highway?"

"There'd be a lot of dead sheep in New Jersey!" Carla laughed. "But we're in England now, and the idea is to kick back and relax a little on this trip, right?"

"Right," Judy agreed, squirming in the passenger seat. She sat with her feet on her tote bag, her knees pressed against the dash, one elbow out the open window, and her hat being flattened by the ceiling above.

Carla honked the car horn, at last scattering several sheep, and cautiously inched the vehicle forward until a few more of the woolly beasts lumbered out of the way. Seizing the opportunity, she accelerated slowly and pressed on through the cluster of animals.

"I liked London," Judy volunteered as they sped along the open road. "I hope we'll have a few more days there before we go home."

"Oh, we will," Carla assured her. "I'm not going to spend a long time doing research on this Laycock person's old family archives. We’ll have plenty of time to do the tourist bit in London."

"That means nightclubs, too, not just museums."

"Of course! Honestly, Judy, just because I’m engaged to be married and make my living holed up in my den writing biographies of dead people doesn’t mean I’m not up for a good time. Actually, between the two of us, I’ll bet I have the better social life. You never have time to date because you’re always working, working, working." She glanced at Judy, quickly adding, "Not that I’m not glad you live your life the way you do. You’re the best agent I’ve ever had."

"Well, thanks."

The tires hit a bump in the pavement, and Judy’s head thwacked hard against the ceiling of the car. "Ow!" she squawked, yanking off her flowered, burgundy velvet cloche and flipping down the sun visor. She peered into the attached mirror, muttered, "Damn," and flipped the visor up again. "I missed last month's appointment with my hairdresser. What was I thinking? I should never have flown off to England without getting a touch-up first. My roots look awful."

"Put your hat back on," Carla advised casually. "I'm sure we can find a drugstore in Wixcomb. Just buy a bottle of shampoo-in hair color and bleach it yourself."

She put her hat back on, and to help get her mind off her muddy roots, Judy said, "Tell me something more about this Laycock person. How did you ever find somebody with private papers dating back to the reign of King John?"

"The magic of the Internet. I told you. I posted notices with all my sources and resources, and Laycock responded, inviting me to his home to study his medieval parchments, which he says appear to be signed by Lackland himself."

"Lackland?"

"That was sort of King John's nickname."

"Really."

History bored Judy. Carla loved everything old and ancient, including the lives of long-dead souls, while she herself admired cutting edge technology.

"So you’re saying you don’t know this man from Adam. Carla, did you ever consider that he might be some kind of pervert, luring you to his lair?"

"He’s a computer guru, not a pervert. Owns his own company. Develops spam control and antivirus software."

"You know this how?"

"Because he told me."

"He told you." Judy sighed. "I am so glad you invited me along on this trip. You’re too trusting. The real world can be a lot more dangerous than you suspect."

"That’s why I’ve got you, to protect me from the dangers of the real world." Carla shot her a fast smile.

But Judy frowned as she attempted to rearrange her bottom in the passenger seat. "Do you think we’ll be in Wixcomb soon? I’d like to stretch my legs."

"You'd have more room if you put your tote in the backseat."

"Uh-uh." Solemnly, she shook her head. "My bag is always with me. It's my security blanket in the city, but even more so when I'm traveling. Except for clothes, everything I could ever need is in there."

"It shouldn’t be much longer. In fact, there’s a sign!"

***

"I thought your Mr. Laycock owned a computer business," Judy commented when they pulled into the small, graveled lot off the street and looked to the building posed atop a hill. Unlike the black beam and white stucco houses they had passed in the business district, Laycock Inn was an imposing stone structure overlooking the town from its southern edge.

"He does," Carla insisted as she climbed out of the car and closed the door with a smart thud. "The inn is probably a family enterprise. But, wow, it's great, isn't it? It looks as though it used to be a manor house."

Judy wasn't sure what a manor house was, exactly, so she said nothing. But as she exited the car and slung her tote bag over her shoulder, she noticed another great edifice on a much higher hill north of town. "Look at that!" She pointed. "Whatever it is, I'll bet it's a lot bigger than Laycock's place."

"I believe that's the remains of an old castle," Carla surmised as she popped open the trunk.

Before hefting her own suitcase out of the "boot," Judy smoothed the lapels on her burgundy velvet jacket and brushed the creases from her black wool pants.

Together, the women headed up the stone path to the inn, though suddenly they found themselves accompanied by a pair of liver and white spaniels. The dogs seemed to know their way around; they bounded through the entrance ahead of Carla and Judy, who paused to survey the huge room they encountered. "I'll bet this was the great hall," Carla mused. "In the old days, the floor would have been covered with rushes."

Judy preferred the area rugs she found now. She strode across them, directly to the reception desk, leading both Carla and the pair of dogs. "Hello," she greeted the clerk, a plump, matronly woman with a cap of gray curls.

"Hello," the woman returned, her glance including Carla. "I see you've met the master's hounds, Duke and Duchess. Don't let them bother you, they're just friendly. Sometimes too friendly." She rested her ample breasts on the high desk as she leaned over it and shooed the animals away. Then, smiling, she said, "Welcome to Laycock Inn, dearies. Are you having a holiday here? Usually we have older couples on day trips from the city or odd ducks, intellectual chaps who come to poke among the ruins or other such things. It's so nice to see pretty young girls like yourselves. Do you have reservations?"

"No," Judy said, shaking her head, "though we would like to stay if there are rooms available. Actually, we're here to meet with Mr. Laycock."

"Mr. Laycock? Oh, you mean the viscount."

"Viscount?" Judy shared a look with Carla as she suddenly realized what the "V" in V. Laycock stood for.

"Yes." The older woman nodded. "The only surviving Laycock is his lordship, the viscount, and he was lost for a while." Suddenly, her eyes widened. "Oh! You're the authoress, are you? The one who's come to look at his old parchments? I never expected you to be so young."

"Actually, Carla Whittaker is the author." Judy gestured to her friend. "I'm Ms. Whittaker's agent, Judy Lambini."

"It's indeed a pleasure to meet you both. I'm Mrs. Haversham. I manage the inn for the viscount."

"It seems to be a popular place," Carla commented. Several people were seated at dining tables arranged near a huge, stone fireplace, and a group wearing jeans and hiking boots were coming down the stairs, chatting noisily as they headed for the door.

"Oh, yes. Laycock Inn is most always full up. It was a boon to the town when his lordship claimed his inheritance and turned the empty old manor into an inn. Now, when people come to Wixcomb to poke about, they actually stay here and spend their money in the local shops."

"Poke about?" Judy repeated, raising her eyebrows.

"Yes. They poke about in the ruins of Laycock Castle. You must have seen it, up on the far north hill. Of course, today is Samhain--All Hallow's Eve, you'd call it--so we've even more visitors than usual, since the other business brings them round."

"Speaking of business," Judy pressed politely, "I think Mr.--ah, Viscount Laycock--is expecting to see Ms. Whittaker. Could you tell him she's arrived?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Unfortunately, he's on one of those calls where people from other places get on the same line to chat it up, so you’ll have to wait until he’s finished. Meantime, why don't you have a seat and a spot of tea to refresh yourselves?" She gestured to a grouping of over-stuffed furniture that included a sideboard.

Judy spied a warming plate and tea kettle along with cups and a tray of cookies. On cue, her stomach growled, and Carla chuckled, nudging her shoulder. "Come on," she urged. "You're hungry. We haven't had anything to eat since that continental breakfast."

"What about rooms?" Judy asked, glancing at Mrs. Haversham.

"Oh, there’s a pair set aside for you, compliments of the viscount."

"But how did he...?" Judy intended to ask how he knew there would be two of them arriving. It had been very last minute when Carla suggested Judy join her on the trip.

But another guest snagged Mrs. Haversham’s attention, so they left the desk and headed for the refreshment table.

"I’d kill for a cup of coffee. Real coffee!" Judy confessed after taking a sip of hot tea. "Did you notice if we passed a Starbuck’s on our way through town?"

"Not very likely," a gangly fellow of about thirty put in as he, too, helped himself to a cup of complimentary tea. "I’m Ian MacCoombs, by the way," he informed them. "Are you guests here? I don’t recall seeing you earlier."

"We only just arrived," Carla explained before introducing herself and Judy.

"You're Americans. I presumed so, though I hadn’t thought Wixcomb's reputation had extended so far yet. It’s a fascinating area, to be sure. You'll enjoy it. The hills are simply abundant with places of power."

"Places of what?" Judy screwed up her face as she peered at Ian.

"Places of power," he repeated, setting down his teacup and using his big hands for emphasis. "Energy fields. The land around here is well-known for them. Did you know some are masculine and some are feminine? Like yin and yang. The masculine sites fill you up while the feminine ones disperse or dissolve. It's quite remarkable."

"Remarkable," she repeated.

MacCoombs monopolized the conversation, announcing his intent to explain about seven different sorts of places of power. By the time he got around to describing the fourth, the type that served as gateways between worlds, Judy felt her mind as well as her behind going numb. So she abandoned her tea and company and set out for a stroll around the former "great hall." Between two tall, mullion windows, she spotted a glass case atop an ornately carved wooden stand. Wandering closer, Judy discovered a fabulously jeweled dagger lying on a bed of satin.

"Don't touch that, dearie!" Mrs. Haversham warned from her post at the desk. "An alarm will go off if you touch the case. That piece is quite valuable. It’s been in Lord Laycock's family for nearly a thousand years."

Judy stuffed her hand in her pocket and marched back to the manager. "Speaking of Lord Laycock, is he going to see us now?"

"Yes, actually. If you’ll collect Miss Whittaker, I’ll take you to his office out back. Feel free to leave your shoulder bag with your other luggage, dearie," she advised. "No one will make off with it, I promise."

"That’s all right. I’m used to carrying it around," Judy insisted, patting her tote almost affectionately.

Rescuing Carla from Ian’s place of power lecture, they followed the hotel manager through the kitchen and out a back door.

"His lordship works in a separate building because of all the power and phone lines he needs for his business," Mrs. Haversham explained as they crossed the brittle, brown remains of a summer garden, heading toward a slate-roofed, stucco cottage. It looked like the sort of place that Lady Chatterly sometimes met her lover. "Here you go," she announced, opening the cottage door and gesturing Carla and Judy inside. Then, without advising her employer of their presence, she left.

Judy blinked, feeling disconcerted. Outdoors, they'd seen a picturesque little cottage surrounded by bracken and climbing vines. Inside, they slammed headlong into twenty-first century technology supported by sleek, satiny black furniture, pearl gray carpet, and track lighting. Hard drives, monitors, printers, shredders and scanners hummed, beeped and buzzed. Keyboards and speakers, their cords dangling disconnected, were strewn helter-skelter, while CDs and floppies dotted nearly every flat surface, much like the leaves in the yard.

"Be with you in a moment," a masculine voice promised, drawing both Judy's and Carla's eyes to a figure hunched over a work station in the center of the room. Laycock promptly spun around in his ergonomic chair, and Judy felt a shock--not of recognition, but rather like deja vu.

"Ms. Whittaker, I presume?" he inquired, coming to his feet and veering straight toward Carla. As he approached, Judy realized she couldn’t see the man’s eyes through his amber-tinted glasses. Yet the funky glasses seemed to go with the rest of his casual ensemble, consisting of a Cleveland Indians baseball cap, pulled low on his forehead, a Cambridge University sweatshirt, jeans, and Nike athletic shoes. Judy felt a bit alarmed when she found herself thinking that everything he wore fit rather nicely on a body that looked extremely well-muscled for a man who spent most of his time in front of a computer.

Laycock did not suit her image of a viscount. Judy imagined viscounts to be skinny old men wearing tails and striped ascots.

"I'm Carla Whittaker." Carla shook Laycock’s hand. "I really appreciate this."

Turning to Judy, he asked, "You are the agent Mrs. Haversham mentioned?"

He’s kind of short, but his presence looms large... "Yes," she replied, stupefied by that wayward thought. "I'm with the Edwin Grant Agency, out of New York." Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved a business card. "Judy Lambini. Ms. Judy Lambini."

Laycock took the card but not her hand. Instead, he walked past her, reaching for a pile of spread-sheets stacked in a nearby chair. Picking them up and dumping them on the floor, he indicated Carla should sit.

"I'm sorry," he said to Judy. "I don't seem to have any other chairs available."

She scowled. Perhaps nobility never had to consider the needs and comfort of others, so he didn't realize he was being offensive. More likely, though, guessing his age by the hint of gray in Laycock's dark sideburns, he had been locked away writing computer language for so darned long, he'd lost most of the social skills he'd learned in kindergarten.

"No problem," she insisted graciously. "I've been sitting in a cramped little car all day. It feels good to stand."

"As I was saying," Carla continued, gingerly perching herself in the chair, "I'm really grateful to be here. But I don't want to impose, so if I could, I'd love to see those documents, the ones from the Barons' War, right away."

Laycock nodded. "The drafts of the concessions the barons eventually won from King John," he said. "I brought them out in anticipation of your visit. They're over there." Without turning his head, he gestured to a long, shallow table under a high window.

Glancing where he pointed, Judy saw what seemed to be a few framed pictures on top of it.

"They're encased in glass," he explained, as if he’d read her thoughts. And when Judy looked back at him, she found he’d been studying her profile. That realization gave her a tingle--pleasant or unpleasant, she wasn’t quite sure.

Carla shot to her feet and hurried over to the table. "My God! They're so well-preserved!"

"They’ve been very well cared for. And though I don’t mind you reading them, Ms. Whittaker, I must insist you do it here. I wouldn't feel right letting them out of my sight."

"Oh, I understand," Carla assured him breathlessly.

Judy thought her friend sounded like a woman who'd just run into her first love and learned he'd never married. No wonder Carla had gone into writing biographies of dead people. She got off on reading nearly illegible old papers!

The viscount wheeled the solitary spare chair over to Carla, who sat down again without looking, as though Laycock were a waiter seating her at a dining table.

"Could you use some help?" Judy offered.

"Oh, no." Carla waved her hand and shook her head, still not looking up from the papers. "And don't be mad, Judy, but I probably won't be able to meet you for dinner."

"I'm not mad." She wasn't. But she did feel superfluous, and she didn’t much like the feeling.

Lord Laycock gestured to the door. "Your room should be ready for you now, Ms. Lambini. Why don't you make yourself comfortable there? I suspect you have work of your own to do. I understand literary agents work seven days a week."

"Who told you that?"

He shrugged. "Just something I heard, I suppose."

It was true enough in Judy's case, but she didn't admit it. "Actually," she said, "I'm here on vacation."

"Then a walk up to the ruins might be in order."

The last thing Judy wanted to do was walk around any old ruins. But she decided to take off while her dignity remained intact. "I'll think about it," she told his lordship. "'Bye, Carla," she added.

Judy headed for the door and reached for the knob, but the viscount, who had kept pace with her, grabbed it at the same moment. Their hands touched, and Judy felt a searing jolt run up her fingers and tickle the length of her arm. She drew her hand away as though she’d been zapped with an electric current.

"Excuse me," he apologized, opening the door and glancing back toward his work station as though he regretted the minutes he’d spent away from it. Judy stepped outside, and he pushed the door closed after her without another word.

"Well, that was rude," she muttered aloud at the door. She didn’t know what bothered her more--Carla not needing her, the viscount’s shabby manners, or the fact that she felt an immediate attraction to him, despite his shabby manners.

With a sigh, she trudged back across the barren garden, feeling an alien in an unfamiliar world.