A Pocket In Time

By Lexi Post

Katz Almira’s mission is clear—travel to the past, steal the note that ruins the world, travel back to the present. Easy. She’s the best pickpocket Time Weavers, Inc. has ever had. Posing as a poor widow in Regency London, she convinces her target, Lord John Byron, a man as sexy as he is wealthy, to take her in off the streets. But at her request to keep her hidden, instead of his cushy manor, he allows her to stay in a warehouse full of orphan boys he cares for there.

It’s the perfect place to hide, and bonus, her new roommates can help her find the mysterious note. With John as their pseudo-father, they know what he does every day, and with who. Katz can’t afford any distractions, but she soon finds herself getting attached to the orphans—and John—even helping him plan for their futures.

Each day she spends in the past is another day closer to her deadline, another day closer to returning to her own time, and another day John and this makeshift family get dangerously closer to her heart. But Katz staying in the past would have dire consequences for them all…

Each book in the Time Weavers, Inc. series is STANDALONE:
* On Highland Time
* A Pocket In Time

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Feb 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649371300

Lexi Post

Lexi Post is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of sensuous romance inspired by the classics. She spent years in higher education taking and teaching courses about the literature she loved while reading her favorite romance authors. It wasn’t long before she decided to marry her two first loves. From hot paranormals to sizzling cowboys to hunks from out of this world, Lexi provides a steamy read with a “whole lotta story.” Lexi is living her own happily ever after with her husband and her cat in Florida. She makes ice cream every weekend, loves bright colors, and you will never see her without a hat.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Dedication

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Discover more Amara titles…

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Bjorn Cursed

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Lexi Post. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

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Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Jen Bouvier and Lydia Sharp

Cover design by LJ Anderson/Mayhem Cover Creations

Cover photography by Period Images

elenathewise and johnanderson/Deposit Photos

ISBN 978-1-64937-130-0

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition February 2021

For my husband, Robert Fabich, Sr., a true gentleman, who showed me all that love could be no matter what time period.

For my sister Paige, who’s willing to follow me no matter where I go in history.

Author’s Note

A Pocket in Time was inspired by Charles Dickens’ novel Oliver Twist. As a teenager I had heard of Fagin and thought of him as a benevolent character. Imagine my surprise when I first read the story in college and discovered that Fagin was a master manipulator and would sell his own mother if it benefitted him. It was such a disappointment, even though the story had a happy ending, a rarity for classic literature.

Oliver, who is born in a workhouse as his mother dies in childbirth, eventually escapes after being badly beaten and flees to London where he meets the Artful Dodger. This character brings him to Fagin who is bent on corrupting Oliver, and as is later learned, is working with Oliver’s half-brother to keep Oliver from his inheritance. Oliver, after being accused of pickpocketing, fainting, burglarizing, and being shot escapes the clutches of the many who wanted to exploit him and finds his lost family. Most of the villains receive their appropriate due, and Oliver is adopted by his late father’s good friend and all ends well.

So when I discovered that my heroine, Katz Almira, was good at picking pockets as well as locks, and had been exploited herself, I knew exactly which classic story to use. I finally had the opportunity to make the caretaker of the pickpockets a good man. That, of course, led me to wonder. How would a woman tossed aside by her own society in modern times fit into a band of pickpockets in Regency London? What would make Jack, the second son of a marquess, become a benefactor to that ragtag band of thieves in the first place? Could two people from such disparate backgrounds actually find love, especially when neither was looking for it? And could Katz, like Oliver, find a happy ending despite the deck being stacked against her?

Chapter One

New England

Present Day

Katz Almira ducked to avoid the foot headed toward her face and kicked out in return when a voice in her head threw her off and she missed her target.

Katz, I need you to go to Regency England.

Javier, the physical trainer for Time Weavers Incorporated, grabbed her foot and yanked, dropping her butt on the mat. She held up her palm. Wait, I’ve got Jules in my head.

Javier raised one dark brown eyebrow in disbelief. You can do better than that, chica.

She rolled away from another hard kick and jumped to her feet. Jules wants me to go to Regency England.

Not want, need you to go.

She ignored the voice and scowled at Javier. He raised his finger to his temple and made a small circle before mouthing loco.

She completely agreed; her telepathic boss must have lost it. After living on the street for most of her life, she was a bit lacking in the civilized behavior category required of her own century, never mind Regency England. She walked off the mat and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from her neck. Unless you need a con artist or a pickpocket, I guarantee sending me there will make things worse, not better.

A chuckle reverberated in her head. Actually, a pickpocket is exactly what I need.

Now that caught her attention.

Have you seen the news?

Haven’t checked yet. Javier wanted an early morning workout. She glared at him and he gave her a wide, toothy smile. He knows I’m not a morning person and figured it was his only chance to take me down.

Javier let out a cocky snort as he sat on a bench across Stonehaven’s private workout room. Stonehaven was the mansion that served as TWI’s American headquarters.

The United States doesn’t exist anymore. Only something called the New World and that’s only the northern half of the United States and Canada. The rest of the United States is now part of something called the Nappian Empire. Once again, someone has changed a small but essential element in the past, and I need you to change it back.

Nappian? She opened her water bottle and took a large swallow.

The word is a combination of Napoleon and Pianatte, the emperor that followed. We traced the change in history to a note that a Lord Byron delivered to the War Office at that time. It appears someone decided to keep the note and the British lost at Waterloo. It was downhill from there. We don’t know what the note said, but it clearly was a matter of national importance.

"Tell me what you need me to do."

You’re going to join a band of pickpockets secretly led by this lord who, incidentally, was wounded in the fight against Napoleon. We believe originally one of his pickpockets stole the note and gave it to him. You must make sure that note makes it to the London War Office. Arthur will fill you in on the details.

Got it. If I identify the Disruptor who did this, do you want me to bring them back with me?

The long silence was unusual. Had something changed?

Yes, and Katz…

What?

Be careful.

She shook her head. As if she wasn’t always careful. She’d lived by her wits for too long not to be. If Jules said go to Regency England, she would get her ass in gear and she’d be fine. She didn’t want to lose her position. At least not yet. She still hadn’t gathered enough valuables to create her own haven. Another year should do it.

You leave now? Javier had risen, the sweat she’d caused him still evident in his short military buzz cut.

She raised her water bottle in affirmation, then chugged down the last of the liquid. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she grinned. Too bad, too. I had you beat. A few more minutes and you would have been begging for mercy.

Her trainer’s laugh filled the room as she walked toward him and the exit. None of the TWI agents had yet to put him in his place, but she liked to think she was the closest to accomplishing that.

In your dreams, chica. He followed her out, but turned down another hall as she headed up the stairs that led to the cushier places in the building. He yelled after her. Kick ass over there!

Of course. She entered the north wing hall. All of the support staff worked below, except old Arthur. As she entered the two-story library, she found the old white-bearded man bent over an ancient volume that looked like it might crumble if he turned the page. Research was his passion. It didn’t seem fair that he couldn’t time-travel.

Arthur, Jules is sending me to Regency England.

His silver gaze moved from the text to her, and the intense light radiating from his eyes almost blinded her.

Hey, tone down the gaze, will you? It was one thing for him to hypnotize her and then use his particular gift to transfer knowledge directly to her mind, but when fully conscious, it was painful.

He looked away. Sorry, I was concentrating. When he gazed at her again, his eyes were a faded gray. His brow wrinkled in concern. This assignment of yours worries me. I have much knowledge on the time period and the country, but your destination is not typical. My information on the backstreets of London and the criminal underworld is woefully incomplete. I don’t want you making any mistakes.

She waved him off as she moved toward an antique dark wood couch covered in worn gold velvet. I have more than enough experience with that side of society. It can’t be any worse than what I’ve known. She smirked as she sat. Just think of all the information you’ll have when I get back.

His face lit up. True. Still, I worry.

About me or what might happen if I do the wrong thing?

Both.

Hmm, she doubted that. Diana, her fellow agent and owner of Stonehaven, might think of old Arthur as a grandfather, but she’d learned as a child not to trust old men, even if they had a beard as white as Santa Claus.

Arthur sat on the stool. Now look into my eyes.

This was her least favorite part of working for TWI, but it was critical to her functioning in another time period. Knowledge was power, or so she’d been told. As she looked into pale gray eyes, Arthur’s hypnotic stare put her into a trance. Her body grew warm and tingly. It felt like lying in the sun while a light rain fell on her warm skin.

Water?

Katz blinked her eyes to find Arthur holding a glass in front of her. That was quick. She gulped the cold water down, her mouth dry as concrete in the summer sun.

He raised his brows. Actually, it’s been three hours. I wanted to be sure to transfer anything that might relate to your mission. I have quite a bit thanks to Diana’s last visit there.

No wonder she was thirsty. Thanks. She handed him the empty glass.

Wait. You’ll need this. With a soft groan, he rose, a quiet crack coming from his knees. Shuffling over to his desk, he rummaged through a few papers, careful not to disturb the tome he’d been reading. Hah, here it is. He held up a small framed picture. This is Lord John Byron, the man who must possess the critical note from the spy. Notice this is not the famous Romantic poet. It’s important you make contact with the correct Lord John Byron.

She briefly glanced at the picture. He looked like a typical aristocrat to her, his chin raised slightly, his shoulders squared off, and very little dark hair showing beneath his top hat. Basically, he appeared tall, lean, and privileged.

I hope you’ve given me more than this in my head to pick him out among the crowd.

Arthur frowned. Except for a bad leg, I don’t have much information. He does have a house on Harley Street.

Where are his pickpockets? Even as she asked the question, she searched her mind for the answer. Arthur was right, there wasn’t much on Lord Byron. Wait, he was in the shipping business?

Yes. Though I’m not sure if that was well known. Why?

Those in shipping stored their goods in warehouses. It was as if she read from a book verbatim. I’ll bet if I can find his warehouse, I’ll find his gang. Interest in her coming search sparked excitement inside her. That’s what she liked about her missions. They made her feel alive with purpose beyond survival.

I need to get down to Zania. I’m sure she’s waiting for me.

Arthur shook his head. That woman can stand to learn a little patience.

That all the support staff at TWI didn’t exactly see eye to eye was no surprise. Too much weirdness.

Fine, I’ll tell her you said so. She spun and strode to the door.

Exiting the library, she headed for her room, quickly undressed and took a hot shower. After throwing on a T-shirt and shorts, she pulled her long black hair into a ponytail. Opening the door to the hallway, she found a large back blocking her exit.

Torr, you make a better wall than a doorway.

Diana’s fiancé from Medieval Scotland moved to the side faster than his bulk implied he could. Ach, lass. I thought you’d left already.

Diana stood in her bedroom doorway directly across the hall in a terry cloth robe, her pale blond hair in a messy braid. You’re leaving so soon? Her green gaze roved over Katz, and her brow furrowed.

Katz shrugged. Why not? Hanging around here too long will make me soft.

But you didn’t get much sleep last night. Torr heard you well past three.

She rolled her eyes and closed the door. Though she appreciated that Diana could calm her mind when her nightmares hit, it still made her uncomfortable talking about it in front of Torr.

I’m used to getting little sleep. It keeps me on my toes. She faced the red-haired giant of a man listening to their exchange. You take care of her while I’m gone.

Torr’s face turned to stone. I always protect what is mine. His voice came out in a low growl that made her laugh.

I know, big guy. I know. Turning, she headed down the hall.

Be careful. Diana echoed Jules’s command.

In no time she was back downstairs. Word traveled fast with a boss who communicated telepathically, so she wasn’t surprised when she entered the dressing room and found Zania, the seamstress, waiting for her.

What do you have for me this trip?

Zania grinned, her new crowns glistening a brilliant white, fit for a teeth-whitening commercial. I’ve got two gowns, underthings, gloves and a reticule. Best you try them on. It is getting late, yes?

Katz glanced out the window that faced the ocean. The gray waves matched the color of the sky. It would be night soon. Though technically time wasn’t an issue for her, none of them knew how long a disruptive change in the Timestream could go before repairing it would weaken it too much. It was one of the reasons Jules had kept their forays back in time to two weeks. The longer they were in the past, the higher the chances of making a change to the present.

Zania began to dress her, adding layer after layer. She liked her. They had similar views and in looks they could pass for aunt and niece, though Zania was Romanian. As each piece of clothing was added, Zania explained its purpose, and Katz found matching knowledge in her head. She grinned, imagining old Arthur poring over internet sites on ladies’ garments from the 1800s.

Finally, Zania lifted a gray gown, as dreary as the sky outside, over her head.

What, no bright red this trip? The dress Zania had made for her mission to Medici, Italy, had been stunning. Too bad it had been torn beyond repair in her escape through a second-story window. Zania’s ability to make authentic clothing for every time period was her own special gift. Katz and her fellow agents would be lost without the special abilities of their support staff.

Zania shook her head. No bright colors for you. Jules says you are to be a middle-class widow. You must only wear gray, black, or lavender.

But black would suit me better.

The seamstress stepped back and eyed her as the material settled into place.

No, you stand out too much. I’ll make your second dress lavender. She strode to the opposite wall where a number of period pieces hung on the pole that ran from wall to wall. Zania reached up and lifted a hanger with a dainty dress trimmed in lace.

Katz groaned. You do know I’m supposed to live with a gang of pickpockets, right?

Zania shrugged. I thought of that. Inside here is a hidden place for a dagger. She opened the neckline of the pale dress, revealing a white cotton sheath, and winked. You are the best with a blade.

I can’t sneak through houses in a gown like this. She held out the skirt of the dress, showing off all the material. I’m bound to knock something over.

So you steal a pair of men’s breeches and a shirt and you’re good. Now, come here and put on the boots.

Katz slipped her feet into a pair of ankle-high lace-up boots that fit perfectly. Once she had them tied, she turned toward the floor to ceiling mirror that covered the third wall of the room.

Zania clapped her hands once and shook her head. "La naiba. We must fix your hair."

Katz threw her long hair over her shoulder. How about that?

She got the stink-eye for her remark and grinned until she caught sight of the straw bonnet Zania pulled from her worktable along with a number of long pins. Ugh. This assignment is all about being uncomfortable, isn’t it? Luckily, she’d never have to return to 1815 again and wear all of these clothes once her mission was accomplished. According to Jules, if an agent went back to the same location and year after changing history back, it would create a pocket in time, which weakened the Timestream. In this case, avoiding that worked to her advantage.

That’s why you get paid the big bucks. Zania grinned as she finished wrapping Katz’s hair into an updo and set the hat in place.

Katz stepped back. Meanwhile you get to have your evenings free to enjoy.

A gleam came into Zania’s dark brown eyes. This job does come with, how do you say, certain perks. Now shoo. You have work to do, and I need to get ready for my date tonight.

I’m going. I’m going. Have fun.

She grabbed the bundle that was her only change of clothes and headed to the gym again. It was empty as she’d expected. She didn’t like disappearing in front of others.

Searching her mind for the estimated date the infamous note had been brought to the War Office, she pinpointed two weeks before in the London warehouse district, closed her eyes, and pushed herself toward it. As the air around her brushed her clothing like a strong breeze, she opened her eyes.

The Timestream sped by in a reddish-purple haze, and for a while she floated as if weightless before the colors began to slow. They eventually separated from each other, and the stench of a London alley hit her long before the buildings surrounding her came into focus. Glancing around, she found a drunk sleeping it off and a host of rats keeping him company. With no one else in sight, she picked up the skirts of her gown and headed out in search of Lord Byron’s warehouse.

Within a couple hours of stealthy research, which required she put two drunks in their place and save a stray dog from a bully, she’d located Lord Byron’s warehouse thanks to a pickpocket who disappeared into a crate against the outside wall. Then she’d spotted the very man himself as he exited the building, locking it up tight and placing his keys in his waistcoat pocket.

From a distance, she wouldn’t have distinguished him from any other aristocrat now traversing Regent Street in his top hat and cane, but his telltale limp gave him away. He was broad shouldered but not bulky and definitely tall. She watched him from inside the millinery, planning her exit for just the right moment. Just a little closer.

Pulling open the door, she stepped out of the shop and onto the sidewalk just in time to collide with Lord Byron.

Oh! She braced herself against his hard chest, slipping her fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat and pilfering the keys inside before he could stumble back from her impact.

Except the lord with the limp had much better balance than she’d expected, and instead of stumbling, he grabbed her wrists as if he wanted to keep her from falling.

Damn. She quickly palmed the keys and let her glove drop to the ground.

Oh dear, my glove. She hoped she sounded helpless enough. She wasn’t very good at acting like a simpering fool. Even in her own century, she was more independent than half the people she met.

Being a gentleman, of course, he let go of her to assist, and as he bent, she slipped the keys into her reticule.

He rose, the slightly soiled glove in hand. I sincerely apologize, miss. Are you hurt?

She caught her breath as his cobalt-blue gaze met her own. Intelligent was her first impression. His face was a cross between male model and action movie star. His dark brows, lowered in concern beneath hair as black as her own, gave him a harsher look than she’d expected. He sported a straight nose that ended just above his slightly parted lips. His clean-shaven jaw was to die for. She’d always liked a strong chin on a man, though she preferred a bit of stubble.

Miss?

Recalling her role, she set her hand against her chest. I’m quite fine. May I have my glove? She should look away as if embarrassed, but she found his face far too enjoyable a view.

He lifted the glove, and she forced herself to look away for a moment to retrieve it. It had served its purpose. Now she needed to move on. It wasn’t as if they wouldn’t meet again…definitely something to look forward to.

Are you certain you’re unhurt? His concern seemed a bit over the top, but she was still thinking in the wrong century. It always took a while to adjust to the time period and all the information old Arthur had poured into her head.

She avoided Lord Byron’s gaze by pulling on her glove. I’m fine. Excuse me. She barely kept her lips from twitching before she quickly brushed past him.

He immediately fell into step beside her. Please, allow me to escort you to your destination. It’s the least I can do.

Actually, that was the last thing she wanted him to do. Didn’t he know a gentleman wasn’t to make conversation with a lady when they hadn’t been properly introduced? She kept her gaze focused on the people walking ahead of her.

Thank you, no.

As if it had just occurred to him that he was being far too forward, he sighed. I apologize once again, miss. And with that, he was no longer next to her as she maneuvered along the busy street.

Allowing herself a small smile, she ducked into an alleyway and picked her way through the stink and trash. This mission seemed easier than most, but after working for Time Weavers, Inc. for over a year, she knew it wouldn’t be for long. It was bound to get complicated. Since she’d arrived two weeks before the change in history, it meant she’d focus on identifying the Disruptor and staying close to the lord and his pickpockets…not necessarily in that order.

There were definitely fewer upper-class people on the side street she traversed, but those that were present were men. Added to that were the sailors who lived closer to the Thames. She’d discovered they were anxious for companionship when she’d first appeared in the area, so she stayed on high alert as she walked two more blocks and turned, arriving at her destination.

She smirked. The warehouse looked like every other building in the area and supposedly served a similar purpose, but she knew better. And it was there that she would await the arrival of one John Jack Byron, upper crust lord, war hero, and leader of a successful band of pickpockets.

Chapter Two

London, England

March, 1815

Jack resumed his course, concerned over his encounter with the black-haired beauty he’d allowed to continue on with no chaperone. Everything about the incident had felt wrong. That he had collided with her in the first place bothered him immensely. He’d survived for as long as he had in the push against Napoleon because he’d developed keen senses.

So how had a woman, who he would guess was close to his age of one score and thirteen, walked into his path without his being aware? Especially such a striking woman? And where was her maid? He slowed his stride, debating if he should go back and make sure she’d made it to her destination unhindered. He, more than anyone, knew the dangers that lurked along the streets.

She reminded him of women he’d seen on the continent, especially with her brown eyes, which were as translucent as a fine cognac. He slowed. What if she was visiting friends and didn’t know the dangers of going about without a chaperone?

Shaking his head, he increased his pace again. Her tone had made it very clear she wanted to forget the unfortunate occurrence. He should brush off the awkward meeting and focus on himself, like everyone else did.

Yet even as he turned up Harley Street toward his townhouse, his gut told him all was not right. He never doubted his instincts, at least not in the field. Back in London for only three months, he still felt out of his element. It all seemed pointless, especially after learning Napoleon had escaped Elba and had control of France once again. The need to do something was like a constant itch. The social visits, endless balls, and drinks at White’s to discuss politics or the newest bawdy house left him feeling uncomfortable, as if he wore clothes too small for his physique and filled with nettles. If it wasn’t for the lads, he’d be completely rudderless.

Taking the first step up to his townhouse, his bad leg reminded him it wasn’t just his worldview that had changed. His body had changed, too. Taking his weight onto his left leg, he managed each riser with no further pain.

Good afternoon, sir. Livingston, his butler, met him at the top of the stairs, holding the door open for him, as if his limp meant he couldn’t turn a doorknob. This from the very same man who could barely move without creaking when winter set in.

He handed Livingston his hat and headed for the library, but his butler rushed ahead and opened the door for him. He was about to remind the man that his hands were fine, but refrained. It was a waste of breath.

Livingston nodded. Would you like tea served?

He paused on his way to his desk. Tea? He glanced at the sideboard lined with the finest brandy, cognac, and other spirits. No, I have all I need here.

Very good. Do you need anything now, sir?

He put both hands on his desk and shook his head. No.

Livingston didn’t move.

He raised his eyebrows at his butler. Was there something else?

He opened his mouth, then closed it. No, sir. With that, he left the room.

Now what was that about? Livingston had been with him even before he’d left for the war, and he’d never known him to be at a loss for words. He sighed. If it was important, he would return.

Jack lowered himself into his chair, his right leg protesting. The surgeons had said walking would help, but they hadn’t said it would hurt like the devil when he stopped. He opened the