Perfect Timing: Those Were the Days / Pistols at Dawn / Time After Time. Nancy Warren

pointedly dropping his gaze to her chest. “I should think you’d have many other things to fantasize about.”

      “Indeed,” she said, apparently knowing when to end a conversation. Or, perhaps, simply ready to find a dark corner. “Too bad, though. You have such talent. R.J. will be disappointed.”

      Tucker looked at Jonathan. “Yes. I imagine he will.”

      “Tucker!” They all looked up as Blythe rushed toward them, causing curious guests to turn in her direction as she sped past.

      “Darling, what is it?” Tucker asked as his sister clutched his arm, her chest heaving.

      “There’s a woman on the floor in the drawing room,” she said. “I think she may be dead!”

      CHAPTER THREE

      “THE STRANGLER?” Tucker asked as he ran down the stairs, breathless, behind his sister.

      “I don’t know. She’s just…lying there.”

      “I can’t imagine the Strangler would hit now,” Jonathan said. “Too many people. He’s never been that bold before.”

      “Just hurry,” Blythe said.

      They rounded the corner, moving farther away from the grand ballroom and the rear veranda and rushing down the hall toward the front door and the thick, carved oak doorway that led into the drawing room.

      The doors were closed, and Tucker shot a questioning glance toward his sister. The room was usually kept open, and during their fetes, the room often saw the still-sober crowd, smoking and discussing philosophy or jazz from the comfort of the oiled-and-rubbed leather furniture.

      “I didn’t want anyone wandering in,” Blythe said. “I left Anna in there with the body,” she added, referring to their housekeeper.

      “Good Lord, woman,” Jonathan cried. “Have you gone mad? Anna with a dead body? The story will be all over the gossip rags by tomorrow. I imagine that wretched photographer has beaten us to the room.”

      “I’ll thank you not to question my judgments in my home, Jonathan,” Blythe said, looking down her nose at him. “I trust Anna implicitly. She’s been with us for years.”

      “Perhaps you would do well not to—”

      “Enough,” Tucker said. “There’s no point in bickering. Open the door and we’ll see the situation for what it is, whatever it is.”

      As it turned out, Blythe was right. Their motherly housekeeper hadn’t moved, and certainly hadn’t brought in any other help. Instead, she was hunched over the prone form of a young woman. She held one of the girl’s hands tight against her breast, and with her free hand, she patted the girl’s cheek.

      Tucker raised his brow. “I know that the dubious bit of combat medicine I gleaned during my infantry days is no substitution for a formal medical education, Anna darling, but I sincerely doubt that a pat on the cheek will prove restorative.”

      “She’s not dead, sir. Just a mite under the weather.”

      Tucker took a tentative step forward and found himself looking into a very alive—albeit very unconscious—face. A beautiful face, too, with light brown hair framing angelic features.

      She wore no makeup, unlike the current fashion, and Tucker tried to recall the last time he’d seen a young woman without her face painted. He’d gotten so used to seeing his sister and her friends, their eyes outlined in kohl, their lids painted blue, their cheeks and lips flush with rouge.

      He’d forgotten how fresh a woman could look. Soft and new, as if she’d just woken in his arms after a night of lovemaking.

      Tucker closed his eyes, frowning, and wondered where the devil such absurd thoughts had come from. Yes, the woman was attractive, but she was also quite knocked out. And he was behaving like a foolish schoolboy.

      Quickly, before anyone noticed his distraction, he bent beside her, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it over her. “Yours, too, Jonathan,” he said. “If she’s in shock, we need to keep her warm.”

      “Do you think that’s it?” Talia asked. “Shock? Did she meet the Strangler perhaps?” Her eyes, Tucker noticed, were wide with excitement. “And what a strange costume she’s wearing. Dungarees and that odd top. I realize this is a masquerade party, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a young woman choose such inappropriate attire. It’s both provocative and entirely unflattering.”

      “Out,” said Tucker firmly.

      “Pardon me?” Talia’s eyebrows rose in amazement.

      Tucker nodded his head, in deference to the woman’s years. “Please. I’d like you to step out.” In truth, he agreed with Talia’s assessment. It all was very odd. And the way the black material clung to her breasts was, indeed, very alluring. “The girl hardly needs to wake up to five strangers peering at her as if she were a carnival sideshow.”

      For a moment, he thought Talia would argue. But the older woman surprised him, her eyes losing their scandalous gleam and fading to a warm sympathy. “Quite so,” she said. She took Jonathan by the elbow and started to steer them both toward the door. Jonathan, however, held back.

      “You, too, old man,” Tucker said.

      “Very well,” Jonathan said. “But first, a word.”

      Reluctantly, Tucker left the girl’s side. “What?”

      “The way she’s dressed. Dark colors. Pants more suitable for a working man.” He exhaled loudly. “The woman has a pretty face, but don’t fail to consider the obvious, Tucker. Your home is filled with valuables as well as with your guests. You’d do well to ensure the security of both.”

      Tucker bit back an instinctive response to slug Jonathan and defend the girl’s honor. Instead he nodded stiffly. “Of course,” he said, then motioned for the door.

      “Give a shout if you need anything,” Jonathan said, casting one backward glance at them before the oak doors swung shut, leaving Tucker alone with Anna, Blythe and the unconscious woman.

      “Anna, go prepare a room. I expect we’ll have an overnight guest.”

      “Of course, sir. Should I send for Dr. Williams?”

      Tucker looked at Blythe, who shrugged. “Yes,” he told Anna. “I think that might be a good idea.”

      As Anna scurried out to take care of the various tasks, Tucker bent over the woman, her hand tight in his. Blythe knelt down beside them, her face furrowed with concern. “Whatever could be wrong with her?”

      “I don’t know,” Tucker said. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this helpless in his life. Not even during the nine months he spent fighting in the war, with artillery bursting all around him. At least then he’d had a sidearm, had a fair chance of staying alive. And he’d understood the situation.

      “Where do you think she came from? Did she come for the party? Does she know one of the guests? Perhaps she’s come to work. We hired dozens and dozens of waiters. Could she be wearing some odd new uniform?”

      “Blythe,” Tucker said, without looking at his sister, “do be quiet.”

      Blythe made a hurt little noise, but she complied, and for that, Tucker was grateful. He needed to think, and he couldn’t get his head around the situation, not with her blathering on and on. He knew the answer to none of her questions, and that one simple fact preyed on him. This beautiful woman had collapsed in his drawing room, and he had no idea as to her identity or purpose. No idea about anything at all, for that matter.

      Except for one thing.

      Something about the woman fascinated him. He brushed his fingers across her cheek in a soft caress, wishing he knew what had brought her to him. Although he couldn’t