Outshine
v0.1
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Other Books by Nichole Van
Author's Note
Reading Group Questions
Alternate Prologue
Deleted Scene: Emme and James
About the Author
Preview of Intertwine: House of Oak Book One
Preview of Gladly Beyond: Brother's Maledetti Book One
To my readers,
For tirelessly begging to know Daniel Ashton’s story.
This one is for you.
To Dave,
You know how much I love your spreadsheets.
Prologue
The blue drawing room
Kinningsley, the seat of Viscount Linwood
Herefordshire, England
November 12, 1826
You are wrong, Daniel—”
“No! I’m not. It’s the only correct explanation, Jasmine. You just said so yourself.”
Daniel Ashton paced before an enormous paned window, hands shaking, breathing serrated. All of him jagged shattered pieces.
He refused to meet the gaze of the petite, dark-haired woman standing across the room, arms hugging her upper torso.
It was already bad enough to feel the weight of Jasmine Linwood’s pity. He had no desire to actually witness the tears quietly slipping down her cheeks.
“I know this is difficult . . .” she began, her tone placating, as if he were a little brother she was about to reproach.
That Daniel considered himself to be her honorary younger brother was beside the point.
“No! Scaling a cliff is difficult. Running a marathon is difficult. This”—he paused his pacing to point a shaking finger at her—“t-this is a living hell I refuse to accept!”
“Daniel”—a hiccupping sob—“s-sometimes the logical answer isn’t the correct one—”
“No!” he roared, finger still pointing, still shaking. “You m-might be a mystic, but that doesn’t mean you understand everything going on here. You cannot t-take this from me—”
He gasped out the last words, spinning around to face the window. Emotions choked, acrid and burning in his throat.
Hope. He had to cling to hope. Because without hope, only madness and despair existed.
Daniel was used to living in shadows. But this time . . . this time was different. If he couldn’t fix this . . . the darkness would never leave, never lift. Boundless in its breadth. Fathomless in its depth.
Some wounds were too deep to ever heal. The best he could hope for was an uneasy coexistence.
Breathe in and out. One day at a time.
Unbidden, his eyes darted to a wooden box resting on a table beside the window. The box that had become his constant companion. Not for itself, but for what it contained.
Promise you will keep it for me. Don’t forget.
Guilt crushed his chest in a destructive vise.
How could he have done this?
Daniel kept secrets and solved problems for the most powerful men in the world. He was considered by some to be one of those powerful men.
He would fix his mistake, correct his wrong.
“Daniel, p-please—”
“No!” Lungs heaving. “’Til the day I die, I will never stop fighting for this!”
Silence.
His razored breathing echoed through the room, mingling with Jasmine’s quiet weeping behind him.
He would never agree with her.
He had to have absolution.
There was no other way.
And then . . .
Between one heartbeat and the next, something . . . changed.
The entire world hushed. Motionless.
The very air portent-laden.
Years of spy work had Daniel’s senses instantly screaming Danger!
He stilled and turned, meeting her watery, wide-eyed gaze.
He shook his head. “Something is wro—”
Abruptly, Jasmine flinched, as if hit by an unseen force. She screamed—pain-filled agony—arching backwards, mouth an ‘O’ of horror and anguish.
Daniel lunged for her, catching her convulsing form an instant before she hit the floor.
“Jas!”
Her entire body jerked in a seizure, eyes rolled to the back of her head,
“Jasmine!”
Then, he heard it.
A deep rumble from far away, drawing nearer.
Like a steam locomotive. Or a vast mining explosion. Or an airplane during takeoff.
The sound reverberated. A sonic boom?
No! It was a—
The windows rattled. The floor shook. Items danced across tabletops. Chandeliers swayed.
Daniel clutched Jasmine’s convulsing body to him, pulling them both to the middle of the room, barely dodging a vase toppling to the floor.
He had experienced earthquakes before. One on a rare family trip to Disneyland as a child. He and his sister, Kit, had clung to the motel bed as the TV rattled and car alarms blared.
All long before the time portal in Duir Cottage had forever altered the trajectory of his life.
The rumble turned into a roar. A jet engine of sound.
Daniel tensed, ready to crawl underneath the large grand piano for protection. He held Jasmine closer, her body still twitching—
The shaking abruptly stopped.
Both the earth’s and Jasmine’s.
He cradled her suddenly limp form in his arms.
Chest heaving, he noted the cries of servants, the frenzied barking of dogs. Timothy, Lord Linwood desperately calling for his wife.
“Timothy . . .” Jasmine moaned, face deathly pale.
“Timothy is coming, Jas.” Daniel brushed hair off her face. “We’ll get you help.”
Abruptly, her eyes flared open.
“No!” She clutched his coat.
“Jas?!”
“The portal!” Her terrified blue gaze met his. Voice agitated. “Daniel . . . something has happened to the time portal!”
Chapter 1
The East India Docks
London, England
Mid-morning on July 24, 1828
No one expected a ruddy fishwife screeching at drunken sailors on London’s south docks to be a venerated Peer of the Realm.
And that was the one (and only) beauty of Fanny McCusker.
She was the perfect alter-ego for a spy.
Which allowed Mrs. McCusker—a.k.a. Daniel Ashton, Lord Whitmoor—to shriek insults with impunity at his quarry . . . a merchant ship’s captain smoking a pipe across the street.
“Cap’n, yer mum’s so daft she climbed a glass wall to see what was on the other side,” Daniel shouted at the man.
Nothing like a ‘yo momma’ smack down, Regency-era style.
Captain Adams turned his head.
With her broad girth, penetrating voice, smattering of facial hair and complete lack of social filters, Fanny McCusker was expert at extracting information in the most obnoxious way possible.
The wise ran when they saw her coming.
“What did you just say about me mum?” the
captain snarled, taking a step Daniel’s way.
Captain Adams was many things . . . wise, thankfully, was not one of them.
“Yer mum’s teeth are so yellow, God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and yer mum just opened her mouth,” Daniel jeered.
“Shut yer trap, woman!”
“Make me!”
Captain Adams lunged toward Daniel.
Bingo.
Daniel hitched up his boned corset, clapped a hand on his bonnet and took off for a side alley, Captain Adams hot on his heels. Reaching the back of the alleyway, Daniel ducked into a recessed area where his right-hand man, Garvis, waited.
Captain Adams rounded the corner, only to stutter to a stop, eyes huge as he stared down the two barrels of Garvis’ pistols.
“ ’ave a seat ’ere, Cap’n.” Daniel kicked a stool in the man’s direction. “I just wants to ’ave a wee chat.”
Captain Adams, however, had not risen to his levels of infamy by backing down from a fight.
“I gots nothing to say to you, woman,” the man sneered, raking his eyes over Daniel, clearly weighing his chances at out maneuvering the two of them.
Daniel chuckled. It was not an amused sound. “I wouldn’t do it. I suggest ‘ee sit, Cap’n.”
Today would be Fanny McCusker’s grand finale—one last appearance before Daniel retired. God-willing.
After nearly ten years in the Home Office serving the Crown, the persona of Daniel Ashton had evolved into the legendary public figure of Lord Whitmoor, renowned for his daring feats—a man somewhere between Robinson Crusoe and Ivanhoe.
The captain hesitated.
“You’re trying me patience.” Daniel’s voice was deceptively calm. “Shall I have me man shoot yer right or yer left kneecap first?”
Without blinking, Garvis shifted one gun to point directly at Captain Adams’ knees. Daniel and Garvis had their routine down—not so much good cop/bad cop, as bad cop/even worse cop.
Captain Adams was not . . . unimpressed. He licked his lips.
Over the years, Daniel’s exploits and extraordinary methods of gathering information for the Crown had made him the subject of newspaper rumors, broadsheet cartoons, ballads, a dreadful threepenny opera and as of late—
“How do you know I won’t whitmoor ya?” the captain asked.
—a verb.
Daniel filed that under ‘Signs It Was Time to Retire’—when the general populace considered your name so synonymous with secrets and unexpected clandestine behavior that you became a part of speech. Bow out when his career had hit its zenith, so to speak.
Over the years, Daniel’s assignments from the Crown had consumed an absurd amount of time and energy. Something he saw as both a pro and a con.
A con because it left him with less time to pursue personal matters. Specifically finally fixing his terrible mistake of two years ago and resolving the problem of the time portal.
A pro because his attempts to solve those two problems had met brick wall after brick wall. Currently, he was at an impasse without a way forward or back. His espionage work provided a welcome distraction from the bleak darkness of his thoughts.
A rogue blast of anguished guilt shot through his chest, instantly tightening his breathing.
What was he going to do now? He had to solve this problem and leave behind these two years of self-loathing and pain and torment—
Don’t go there!
Focus, Daniel.
Garvis fired a warning shot, splintering rock and wood next to Captain Adam’s right knee.
The man flinched and yelped. Daniel flowed into action.
He seized the captain’s arm and twisted it around between the man’s shoulder blades, expertly applying pressure that almost dislocated the captain’s shoulder, causing excruciating pain.
Captain Adams collapsed to his knees, roaring in agony.
“Or maybe Fanny ’ere will whitmoor you instead,” Garvis drawled.
Daniel bent the captain’s arm further. “ ’ere now, Cap’n. Let’s ’ave a wee chat, shall we? Start by explainin’ how large sums of newly-minted money ended up in wine casks aboard yer ship.”
Without waiting for a reply, Daniel applied more pressure and, between the captain’s screams, elicited the information he needed.
Mind distracted, he eked another couple hours of living, avoiding the guilt that threatened to crush him into dust.
Chapter 2
A hackney cab
London, England
An hour later on July 24, 1828
She should not have come.
She should have stayed at home, safe in the shell of her anonymity. Remaining as she had always been—the background wallpaper against which others lived their lives.
Pride was one of the seven deadly sins for good reason and, at this moment, Fossi Lovejoy was far too guilty of it.
But . . .
She had traveled one hundred and twenty-four point nine miles already. ’Twould be cowardice to not see the thing through when only two point four miles remained of her journey.
And Fossi Lovejoy was many things at the moment—furious, outraged, indignant—but cowardly was not one of them.
Righteous anger had a way of fortifying one’s spine, she had discovered. Lord Whitmoor could not be allowed to steal from her.
The hackney cab rocked along the crowded London street for another half a block and then suddenly lurched to a stop, throwing Fossi forward, knocking her knees against the opposite bench.
A quick glance out the window showed that two enormous wagons—one filled with wine casks, the other with wooden crates of hissing geese—had managed to tangle their wheels. Naturally, the drivers felt the need to expound upon the other’s stupidity, family heritage and reproductive habits at colorful length.
Heavens. London is certainly proving educational.
Fossi sat back on the seat, twisting her gloved hands. Wondering for the fifty-third time since breaking her fast at the Boar and Rose Inn if pride and outrage justified her transgressions.
Mentally, she cataloged her sins over the last three days.
First was the lie she told her father. She was not, in fact, visiting an ailing schoolfriend of her mother’s in Bath. The good Reverend Josiah Lovejoy erroneously assumed the elderly woman was paying for Fossi’s travel expenses.
Which led to her second transgression—Fossi was a genteel lady traveling alone without a chaperone. Her pitiful savings only supplied enough money for one person’s transportation, not two. Bringing a companion had been out of the question.
Not that Fossi needed a chaperone. Her reputation, such as it was, could hardly suffer from this trip. A lowering thought, but nonetheless true. Her financial status (poor), age (thirty-two this past summer) and education (far more expansive than sensible) already ensured her spinsterhood.
No person in England was more unmarriageable than a plain, aging, poor, clever woman.
It was impossible for her chances of matrimony to sink any lower. A black mark on her honor would simply be another shovelful of dirt on an otherwise deeply buried dream.
Granted, that knowledge had been scant comfort on the overnight mail coach when trying to sleep between a farmer’s wife who reeked of onions and a sweaty businessman whose hands had a distressing tendency to wander where they shouldn’t.
Then there was the vanity and pride of wishing to protect her work from Lord Whitmoor’s exploitation, which had been the catalyst for this journey in the first place.
The cab lurched to life, moving slowly through the crushing traffic. A fruit monger argued with a flower girl. A weathered old woman played a hurdy-gurdy hanging from her neck. A street sweeper held up carriages while he cleared the road of manure and filth so his patrons could cross on (relatively) clean ground.
London was different and yet exactly what Fossi had always expected.
Loud. Noisy. Chaotic.
A sea of humanity.
But in all her imaginings of London, she had never
considered the smells.
Coal smoke, rotting garbage and mildew. The stink of stagnant water and cattle stockyard and unwashed bodies. The last smell, in particular, seemed ground into the hackney itself. Not to mention the floor of the cab which Fossi found disturbingly sticky.
She glanced for the sixty-first time at the magazine clipping clutched in her gloved right hand.
It had appeared in Scriptis Mathematicis, the foremost scholarly publication for the Society of Mathematicians—a society to which Fossi belonged. Or rather a man named Foster Lovejoy belonged.
Women were not welcome within the Society, naturally.
Fossi could not afford a subscription to Scriptis Mathematicis but instead relied on friends within the mathematical community to forward copies to her.
This particular notice in last month’s journal had instantly captured her attention. The clipping showed a complex mathematical equation and then ended with the words:
One who knows the solution to this equation should present himself and the solution to Ashton House in Mayfair, London.
Fossi chewed on her cheek.
The fact of the clipping was nothing out of the ordinary—others entreated the Society for answers to mathematical questions with shocking frequency.
It was the what of the clipping that made Fossi’s blood stir in righteous indignation.
The equation displayed was hers. A creative idea she had scribbled in her notebook one night several months ago.
She had talked to no one about it, shown it to no one. But there it was nonetheless—distinctly recognizable parts of it published in Scriptis Mathematicis for all the world to see.
Why had Lord Whitmoor taken her theorem? Of all the secrets in Britain, why had he chosen to pilfer hers?
Well . . . she assumed Lord Whitmoor had taken them. Or at the very least ordered the pilfering done.
Thanks to newspaper reports, everyone in Britain knew who resided at Ashton House, particularly after the events of last April when Mr. Daniel Ashton had miraculously foiled an assassination attempt on the king. Mr. Ashton had been gravely wounded as a result, adding to his aura of power and mystique.