Page 1 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)

London, Present Day

I sla Crawford stared at the email on her screen and frowned. Another letter from one of Audrey Marshall’s constituents complaining about the chronic lack of school funding in the country. It was the fifth email about the issue this week. At this rate, her boss would have to do more than ask Isla to write a placating response. Ms. Marshall would need to act—or at the very least, promise to act—by addressing the problem in Parliament.

“Well? Have you decided yet?”

With a start, Isla looked up from her computer. Her friend and colleague Chloe Osbourne was leaning over her desk, an expectant look in her brown eyes.

“Decided what?” Isla asked, her thoughts scattering from her current email crisis to the myriad other issues she’d been dealing with all day.

Chloe groaned. “Do you ever lift your nose from the grindstone long enough to smell the roses?”

Isla bit her lip to prevent a giggle at Chloe’s idiom fusion. Isla should be used to it. Chloe blended idioms all the time, and the fact that her friend was blissfully unaware of her habit only made it funnier.

“I sometimes stop to smell the roses in Kensington Gardens,” Isla said. “I think that counts.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “It’s almost October. Are there even roses blooming right now?”

“Yep. Pink ones.” Isla knew this because she’d seen them two days ago when she’d been on her early morning run. She didn’t bother telling Chloe that she hadn’t actually stopped to smell them.

“I can’t believe you noticed,” Chloe said.

“I notice lots of things,” Isla said. “Like, you’re wearing a new shirt, and the copy machine’s broken.”

“First,” Chloe said, “I bought this shirt three months ago. That hardly qualifies as new.”

As far as Isla was concerned, it did. She wasn’t sure what Chloe’s clothing budget was, but it had to be significantly larger than hers.

“Second,” Chloe continued, “the copy machine has been broken since yesterday, and since Dave’s been complaining about it all day, that hardly qualifies as a personal observation.”

Recognizing that this was a battle she wasn’t destined to win, Isla returned to Chloe’s original question. “Okay. I’ll admit, I sometimes get sucked up in my work and often spend too much time researching past parliamentary sessions, so tell me what I’m supposed to be deciding?”

“If you honestly don’t know, you really do have a problem.”

“Actually,” Isla said, “I have lots of problems. An entire inbox full of them.”

Chloe sighed. They both worked as Ms. Marshall’s assistants, but whereas Chloe was in charge of coordinating events, Isla oversaw all the politician’s correspondence and press releases. “Fine. Stop thinking about those for two minutes, and tell me if you’re going to be Peter Pan or Wendy for the Fall Ball.”

Isla pinned a smile on her face even as her eyes darted to the date on the corner of her screen. September 29. Her heart sank. Logically, she’d known they were nearing the end of the month. She’d been typing the date on letters all week. And yet, she’d not stopped long enough to consider how quickly October was approaching. Or more specifically, October 2. That was the date of this year’s Fall Ball, the annual gala held in the vast atrium at Portcullis House that most members of Parliament and their staff attended. It was a fancy affair, with live music, expensive catering ... and elaborate costumes.

“I thought we decided I should be Wendy,” Isla said. Chloe was going as Tinkerbell. Her short, blonde hair and petite stature were perfect for the part. Dave, Ms. Marshall’s chief-of-staff and the only other person in their office, had initially suggested that he go as Peter Pan. Thankfully, Chloe had persuaded him that he would appear far more dashing as Captain Hook. Heavy-set Dave walking around in green tights would not have been pretty.

“Did you find a nightie?” Chloe asked.

“I have a red plaid one and a green one covered in little sheep.”

“Then, you don’t have a costume.” Chloe folded her arms. “It doesn’t matter if your hair is the same length and color as Wendy’s; if you’re not wearing a blue nightie, people will think you came to the ball in your pajamas.”

“Just because Disney’s Wendy wears a blue nightgown doesn’t mean it has to be that color,” Isla said. “How does J. M. Barrie describe it in the book?”

Chloe groaned. “Isla, we’re not looking for historical or literary accuracy here. I know that’s your thing, but as hard as it must be for you to wrap your mind around it, most people haven’t read the book. As far as the general population goes, Disney’s characters have it right. Tinkerbell wears green, and Wendy wears light blue.”

“But—” One look at Chloe’s face and Isla’s argument fizzled. “I’ll stop at Primark on the way home to see if I can find one that color.” The discount clothing chain was her best hope of protecting her budget. “But if they don’t—”

“They don’t,” Chloe said. “I already checked. The only blue ones they have are covered in unicorns, and the largest size is age eight.”

“I have a Regency gown at home. I can wear that instead.”

“You wore it last year,” Chloe protested. “Besides, our office is supposed to be going with the Peter Pan theme.” She leaned a little closer. “If it’s just me and Dave, people will think we’re dating, and that will be the end of my chances to get to know Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome upstairs.”

There was a hint of desperation in Chloe’s voice, and Isla experienced a pang of guilt. Chloe had suggested the Peter Pan theme at least a fortnight ago. And Isla had agreed to go along with it. Added to that, her friend had been gushing over Mr. Mahoney’s new chief-of-staff on the floor above them ever since she’d shared the same lift with him a few weeks before. The Fall Ball was a big enough deal that it was a virtual certainty that he’d be there. It really was a perfect opportunity for Chloe to get to know him better.

“If you have any suggestions for finding a Wendy costume in the next two days, I’m listening,” Isla said. “On the condition that it doesn’t break my bank account.”

“It won’t,” Chloe said. “McQuivey’s Costume Shop has one. I saw it when I picked up my Tinkerbell costume. Their rental prices are cheaper than anywhere else, and you could stop by on your way home tonight. The owner told me she stays open late on Thursdays.”

As much as Isla would rather go directly home after work and curl up in a chair with a good book, she did need a costume. And she was running out of time. “All right. Where’s the shop?”

Chloe’s eyes shone triumphantly. “It’s in Pickering Place, just off St. James Street. If you take the Tube to Green Park, you’ll see the alley entrance right next to Berry Bros. & Rudd.”

“McQuivey’s Costume Shop,” Isla repeated, entering the name into her phone.

“Yeah. It’s actually a really cool shop. If you have time, you should look through some of the other costumes. Maybe it’ll give you some ideas for next year.”

Next year. Would she still be here then? Isla dropped her phone into her handbag. Two and a half years ago when she’d graduated with her degree in political science from the University of York, she’d accepted an intern position on Audrey Marshall’s election campaign team. Soon afterward, Ms. Marshall had been elected the member of Parliament for the York Central District and had asked Isla to stay on as her assistant in London. The job offer had been a dream come true. After three years of studying political history and the current issues facing Britain’s government, she’d been presented with an office that overlooked the Houses of Parliament and the opportunity to work shoulder to shoulder with the politicians now leading the country.

She glanced at the email about school funding shortfalls again, and her shoulders slumped. It had not taken long for reality to dim the imagined glamour of her work in London. Despite her education, her role here was little more than secretarial. She dealt with a discouragingly large number of complaints and had no influence whatsoever on their resolution. Every day, she left the office exhausted but aching to do more than simply keep up with Ms. Marshall’s correspondence or offer placating words to her constituents and the press.

“I’ll take a look around the shop while I’m there,” Isla said. It might be fun to browse through the costumes for a little while. The new book about Oliver Cromwell that she’d been looking forward to reading would still be waiting on her coffee table when she got back to her flat.

“Fabulous,” Chloe said. “Shoot me a text to let me know how it goes. If the nightgown I saw there comes with a blue ribbon for your hair, you’ll be all set. In theory, you don’t even have to wear shoes.”

Isla chuckled. “This may be the best idea you’ve ever had. If I go to the Fall Ball in pajamas and bare feet, I’ll be the envy of every single female stuck wearing high heels.”

“Me too.” Chloe grinned. “I’ll be wearing green slippers with pompoms on them.” She moved back toward her own desk. “We just need to remember that when some big, tall chap dressed as a construction worker gets too close to our toes.”

“Good point,” Isla said. “We’d better avoid all men wearing bovver boots.”

Chloe’s laughter filled the small room as Dave walked in carrying a box of copy machine paper.

“Glad to see someone’s enjoying themselves,” he grumbled. “I had to lug this box all the way from the ground floor.”

“You’re our knight in shining armor, Dave,” Chloe said.

Smothering a smile, Isla went back to her work. This was why she couldn’t change jobs yet. She’d miss Dave’s chronic crankiness almost as much as Chloe’s idiom-filled cheeriness.

The Green Park Tube station was packed with commuters heading home. Grateful to escape the chaos, Isla wove her way through the congestion toward the exit and the street beyond. Turning left, she followed Piccadilly until she reached St. James Street. There, she took a right and slowed her steps.

She loved this part of London. History seemed to seep from the very walls of the buildings that lined the street. Brick Georgian houses with their tall, elegant facades stood beside older, smaller sixteenth century shopfronts, their doorframes low and their timbered walls uneven. The modern, sleek, and shiny vehicles driving by seemed out of place on the narrow road. And yet, there was something rather wonderful about the natural melding of centuries of London life in this small section of the city.

The sign for Berry Bros. & Rudd hung suspended a few feet over the pavement. Isla approached the old wine merchant’s shop curiously. She had almost reached it when she noticed an arched entrance beside it. A familiar City of Westminster sign hung on the black timbered walls beyond the archway, announcing the entrance to Pickering Place. She stepped through the archway. The alley beyond was narrower than the corridors in her office building. She followed it about twenty feet until it opened into a tiny flagstone square.

The buildings surrounding the square were at least two hundred fifty years old. They were built of gray brick, with white windows and doorframes. Black railings ran along the fronts of the houses and up the steps leading to the front doors. Shrubs in planter boxes dotted the area, and a wooden bench to one side of the square invited visitors to linger awhile.

Turning in a slow circle, Isla studied the half dozen doors. One bore a small sign. Moving closer, she made out the lettering on the brass plaque. McQuivey’s Costume Shop . She’d found it. Climbing the three stone steps to the door, she glanced at the nearby window. Two mannequins stood beside each other. One was dressed as a Roman soldier, the other as Cleopatra. Isla pushed open the door and walked inside.

A bell rang somewhere at the back of the shop. The tap of brisk footsteps crossing the wooden floor followed, and moments later, a woman appeared between the racks of clothing. She was at least four inches shorter than Isla’s five feet, six inches. Her hair was snowy white and pulled back into a tidy chignon held in place with a mother-of-pearl hair fork. She wore a purple dress with matching purple shoes, and a string of multicolored glass beads hung around her neck.

“Good evening,” she said with a smile. “Welcome to McQuivey’s Costume Shop.”

“Thank you.” Isla returned the lady’s smile. “Are you Mrs. McQuivey?”

“I am, indeed.” The older lady studied her owlishly through her round, wire-rimmed glasses. “And may I ask your name?”

“Isla Crawford.”

“Lovely to meet you, Isla. How may I help you?”

“A friend of mine thought you might have a Wendy costume,” Isla said.

“Wendy? As in Peter Pan’s Wendy?”

“Yes. It’s for a work costume party, and she feels rather strongly that I wear a light-blue nightgown.”

“I see.” Mrs. McQuivey had yet to drop her gaze. Her eyes were hazel, Isla noticed, and had an unusual sparkle. “And how do you feel about that?”

Surprised by the question, Isla shrugged. “I don’t feel quite as passionately about the color of Wendy’s pajamas as Chloe does, but I’m happy to wear a light-blue nightie if I can find one.”

Mrs. McQuivey nodded thoughtfully. “Putting the desires of others before your own is an admirable trait.”

“Oh, but I really don’t mind.” Isla smiled. “It’s hard to complain about wearing comfortable pajamas to a work party.”

“True,” Mrs. McQuivey said. “Although, being uncomfortable isn’t always a bad thing. After all, that’s often when we’re called upon to show courage and fortitude.”

Isla received the distinct impression that Mrs. McQuivey was referring to something more significant than painful shoes or tight clothes, but it seemed best not to ask.

“You’re probably right,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure of it. I’ve seen it happen time and time again.” A slight frown appeared on Mrs. McQuivey’s brow. “Forgive me for being presumptuous,” she said, “but are you quite sure you want a Wendy costume? I would have thought you’d prefer to wear something historical.”

Puzzled, Isla glanced at her own clothing. Sensible black flats, black trousers, a cream-and-sage-green floral blouse, and a gray cardigan. She wasn’t wearing anything terribly dated. Her ensemble was work attire at its unremarkable finest. As far as Isla could tell, there was nothing that might give away her love of the past. “Why would you say that?”

“Oh, just a feeling I have.” The older lady started toward the nearest rack of clothing. “I’ve discovered that occasionally, people come to the shop in search of entirely the wrong thing.”

“The wrong thing?” Why would Mrs. McQuivey think she could possibly know what someone else needed?

“Completely and utterly.” She tutted as though the concept were ridiculous. “Only two days ago, I had a gentleman come in wanting a policeman’s uniform.” With a shake of her head, she drew a hanger out from between its tightly packed neighbors and held up an elegant navy jacket, tan breeches, and crisp white shirt and cravat. “He was much better suited to be a Georgian gentleman than he was to be a London Bobby.”

“Did he change his mind, then?” Isla asked.

“Of course. When you find the clothes meant for you, there’s really no helping it.”

Isla eyed the outfit wistfully. If Chloe had chosen a Georgian theme, Dave could have dressed up in these clothes rather than a Captain Hook costume, and Isla could have worn her Regency gown again. “I do love historical costumes,” she admitted, “but I’m afraid this time it needs to be a Wendy costume. My colleagues are planning on me wearing it.”

Mrs. McQuivey nodded absently, replaced the gentleman’s clothing, and continued along the rack to a section filled with long gowns. She slowed, her fingers brushing against the fabric, a pensive look on her face. She reached for a hanger, went to pull it out, and then shook her head. “No,” she muttered. “Not that one.”

Isla waited. She wasn’t sure what the older lady was looking for. She hoped it was the Wendy nightgown, but she’d not spotted anything that looked remotely like a Disney costume on that particular rack. “Would you like me to help look?” Isla asked.

“No, no.” Mrs. McQuivey slid a few hangers along the rack. None of them resembled a nightie. None of them was light blue. “I shall find it, my dear.”

Isla tightened her grip on the strap of her purse. Perhaps coming here hadn’t been the best idea after all. “Would you like me to come back tomorrow?”

“Goodness me. That won’t be necessary. I shall find just what you need in no time.” She slid three more hangers down the rack, and then her fingers stilled. “There now.” A satisfied expression settled on her face, and she withdrew a cream-colored gown covered in embroidered flowers. “What do you think of this?”

“It’s beautiful.” The elegant gown wasn’t at all what she was here for, but Isla couldn’t help but reach out to touch the shimmering silk. “Is it Elizabethan?”

“Well done.” Mrs. McQuivey appeared impressed. “Late Elizabethan or early Jacobean, I’d say. Early 1600s, for sure. You see how the sleeves are narrow rather than the padded leg-of-mutton sleeves they wore a few decades before then?”

“Yes,” Isla said. “The narrower sleeves are an improvement, but a gown like this must have been so hard to put on and so heavy to wear all day.” She fingered the long-waisted stays that tapered to a point at the front. “They wore farthingales, too, didn’t they?”

“Absolutely. The circular hoops were sewn into the underskirt to give their skirts the desired shape.”

Isla shook her head. “I wouldn’t know how to begin dressing myself. No wonder so many women relied on lady’s maids to help them.”

“I’m quite sure you’d sort it out quickly enough.” She handed Isla the gown. “Here. Try it on and see for yourself. I’ll fetch you a chemise and a farthingale.”

“Oh, no, I—” Isla attempted to hand the gown back, but Mrs. McQuivey had already turned to face the rack behind them and was pulling underclothing off the hangers.

“The chemise goes first, then the farthingale, followed by the stays, the gown, and the jacket.” The shopkeeper set a chemise on top of the gown in Isla’s arms, and carrying the hooped farthingale, she started toward the back of the shop. “This way, my dear. And while you try that on, I’ll look for the Wendy costume—if you still want it, that is.”

“Yes,” Isla said, a hint of desperation in her voice. It would take forever to put this costume on. She’d gone out of her way to come to the costume shop to please Chloe. She shouldn’t have to please the shop’s proprietor too. “The Wendy costume is really all I came for.”

Mrs. McQuivey waved a hand in the general direction of the other racks. “Don’t worry. It’s out there somewhere. I’m quite sure I saw it recently. But you might as well try on something more you while you’re waiting.”

Isla really didn’t know why the older lady thought a cumbersome late-Elizabethan gown was more her than a comfortable nightie, but refusing her offer seemed pointless. Particularly as Isla couldn’t deny that she was unaccountably drawn to the shimmery silk gown. If it was going to take Mrs. McQuivey time to find the right costume, Isla may as well have some fun trying on this one while she waited.

“Okay.” Isla spotted a couple of curtained cubicles in the corner. “Shall I use one of those changing rooms?”

“No.” Mrs. McQuivey stopped opposite a dark-green door. “Use this one. There’s better lighting.” She smiled. “Be sure to come out once you’re dressed, so I can see how you look.”

Isla nodded and reached for the brass doorknob. Etched with an intricate depiction of the sun, moon, and stars, it was polished to a shine. She ran her fingers over the smooth metal, admiring the craftsman’s skill before opening the door and stepping inside.

It was a small room. Perhaps it had once been a pantry or cleaning cupboard. The floor was wood and the white walls were not quite straight. A large mirror hung on one of the walls, and a row of small hooks was situated above a short bench. Hanging the various pieces of clothing in her arms on the hooks, Isla set her purse on the bench and kicked off her shoes. No matter what Mrs. McQuivey said, it was going to take serious concentration to put this costume on correctly.

Several minutes later, Isla smoothed her hands down the floral silk skirt and surveyed herself in the mirror. A small smile danced on her lips. The gown fit perfectly. Although the stays were restrictive, she could not help but notice how well they accentuated her small waist. And below the stays, the wide hoops of the farthingale held out the gown in a perfect dome.

Isla swayed from side to side. Like a silent bell, the gown’s hem swooshed across the floor, gently brushing her bare feet. The neckline was lower than she was used to, but a wide Medici lace collar ran around the back of her neck, drawing the eye upward. Her light-brown hair fell in gentle waves to skim the shoulders of the beaded jacket that was almost exactly the same color blue as her eyes. She smiled again. She felt like a princess.

“Are you managing, my dear?” Mrs. McQuivey’s voice reached her from the other side of the door.

“Yes, thank you.” Somehow, she’d navigated the inordinate number of ties and pins. “I think I’ve put everything on right.” Knowing that Mrs. McQuivey would not be satisfied unless she saw Isla in the costume for herself, Isla turned from the mirror and opened the door. “What do you think?”

She stepped out of the changing room and onto a gravel path. She gasped, staggering sideways. This time, her feet met grass. A breeze caught her skirt, and the fabric flapped against her bare ankles. She looked up. The costume shop was gone. In its place, a vast lawn stretched out before her. A gravel driveway circled the grass, lined with large trees and bushes. On the other side of the lawn, a gray-stone manor house filled the view, complete with small-paned windows, more chimneys than she could count, and half a dozen stone steps leading to a wide wooden door.

Isla swallowed hard and closed her eyes. She’d never had a hallucination before, but this had to be one. A rumble filled the air. It sounded like thunder. The skies had been clear when she’d entered the shop. She stumbled back a pace, wincing as her feet encountered the small rocks again. She’d always been told that you didn’t feel pain in dreams. Was the same true for hallucinations?

“Mrs. McQuivey?” Isla attempted to clear her constricted throat. “Mrs. McQuivey?”

There was no reply. Spinning around, Isla reached for the changing room doorknob. It was gone. In its place, an old-fashioned latch hung on a black door. The door was unusually short and appeared to be the only entrance into a stone hut of some sort. Isla depressed the handle and wrenched the door open. Wood, chopped in tidy stacks, filled the space within. Panic welled. It looked like a woodshed. But how could that be? Moments ago, it had been a changing room.

“Mrs. McQuivey! Where are you?”

Another gust of wind rattled the nearby branches, and gray clouds scudded across the sky, blocking the lowering sun. A crack of lightning was followed almost immediately by a second roll of thunder. The storm was close. Even as Isla framed the thought, she felt the first droplets of rain. Within seconds, the isolated drops became a deluge. The gravel hissed as the rain hit the ground at full force.

Turning her back on the woodshed, she lifted her sodden skirts and dashed for the closest trees. Water ran down her face, dripping off her hair and clothing. Her feet slipped on the wet grass, and she stumbled, falling to her hands and knees. A sob escaped her. This couldn’t be happening. Wrestling yards of heavy, drenched fabric, she pulled herself upright and stumbled on. Another crack of lightning lit the sky, and a new awareness filled her. She couldn’t take cover beneath the trees. Not until after the storm passed. Her gaze shifted to the distant manor house. Who lived there? Would they know how to help her?

Another clap of thunder. And then a hawk’s piercing cry. She shivered, fear tightening her chest. How could she be in a costume shop one minute and outside in a completely unfamiliar location the next? It made no sense. And where was Mrs. McQuivey? Or Pickering Place? She fought back another sob. With no sign of the older lady or a landmark she recognized, Isla had no choice. She was soaked to the skin and couldn’t feel her feet anymore. Her only hope of avoiding hypothermia was to seek shelter at the house.