5/?
Veronica fluffed her pillow in the hammock and lay down intent on getting some sleep. Unfortunately, dreamland had not invited her for a visit tonight and instead she rose once more and entered the kitchen.
Roxton would want a glass of whiskey before bed and Marguerite no doubt would be
griping in the morning if there were no coffee beans roasted and ready to be brewed. Veronica ran a loving hand over a blank journal with the name Edward Malone embossed on the cover that had been left behind by accident. She pulled a plate out of the cupboard and rinsed it off then placed some berries and bread on it and set it on the counter should anyone be hungry in the middle of the night.
It had been this way for the first few months after her parents had disappeared. Veronica would brew their favorite tea and set out food knowing they would be famished when they returned, only to find the cold water and sandwiches still sitting untouched when morning dawned. And yet, she continued the ritual, knowing in her heart that she would wake up one morning and find the food and drink gone and her parents returned.
She was thirteen when she had finally given up her fantasy and instead convinced herself they were alive and merely too busy with a new discovery to come back to her. She began to spend more time with Assai and less engrossed in her father's journals, needing the contact of another living being instead of just the memories, happy though they were, that lived in the books.
Like those early years of her parents' disappearance, the nights now held an eerie quiet occasionally accented by the squawk of a Pterodactyl. No longer was she able to hear the soft snores of Challenger or the squeak of the floorboards under someone else's foot. She was alone again.
In the morning, she resolved to continue the search for her parents in earnest. Surely, given the tools that Challenger had left for her use, she would be able to locate them by then. Content with her plans and the arrangements, she climbed into the hammock once more and settled into a relatively peaceful sleep.
***
Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the walls of the treehouse waking the jungle beauty. Easing out of the hammock, she stretched and absorbed the silence that surrounded her. No more noises of the others in various states of wakefulness. She grimaced slightly at her lapse and jerked her thoughts away from the explorers who had become her second family. She would see them again and, with any luck, would introduce them to her real family.
"Veronica!" Assai's familiar voice called from the jungle floor.
Rushing to the balcony, she waved happily at her friend and then lowered the elevator. "Assai!" she cried, hugging the other woman tightly. "What brings you here?"
"Two reasons," she answered with a smile, "I wanted to check on you and I have some news."
Veronica shrugged. "I'm fine. I'm going to miss them, but I do plan on searching for my parents so I won't be constantly thinking about them."
"That is the news I should tell you," Assai interrupted, leaning forward with an eagerness that startled her friend. "The warriors were hunting yesterday and they found a series of caves three day's walk from here."
"That's not very unusual, Assai."
The young Zanga nodded. "Yes, but the contents of them, that *is* unusual. There were human skeletons…four of them…and this." She held out a small leather-bound journal which Veronica quickly took.
Flipping through the pages, the blonde's eyes widened as she recognized the handwriting. "This is my mother's."
"Yes, that is what I thought."
Veronica clutched the book to her chest and murmured, "Where is the cave?"
***
The entryway into the auspicious King's College Hospital was just as Challenger
remembered it. Electric lights pushed some of the darkness away, but there still remained a gloomy air about. Striding through the hall, he passed between a group of students who were discussing treatment scenarios for a terminal cancer patient. He smiled fondly at their youthful zeal, but offered no comment at some of the more brazen ideas. Instead, he walked on silently wishing them luck in their future careers.
"Pardon me, madam," Challenger murmured as he approached the front desk. "Do you happen to know where I might find Dr. Andrew Summerlee?"
The woman consulted the book lying to one side and answered, "Dr. Summerlee is
making rounds now, but he should be finished in a few minutes. You can wait in his office if you'd like."
Challenger nodded and the woman rose to escort him to a door a few feet down the hall. "I'll let him know he has a visitor."
"Thank you," the professor replied as he gazed at the various items in the younger man's office. He barely noticed the soft thud as the door closed. "Arthur, Arthur, you did yourself proud," he breathed as he read through the journals that lined the walls, several of which held the byline 'Andrew Summerlee, MD, editor.'
The professor had known for some time of Andrew Summerlee's success as a physician and instructor, but hadn't given the fact much thought. Now, as the news that doctor's father was missing and most likely dead had to be conveyed, Challenger thought it best that it come from him. George Challenger and Arthur Summerlee had been rivals and political enemies for years prior to Challenger's dare which goaded Summerlee into a trip to the Lost World. To this day, George still felt a twinge of guilt over the matter, regardless of how much Arthur claimed to enjoy the change in his life.
The door opened to reveal a younger version of the former professor. He adjusted his glasses, almost as if expecting Challenger to disappear like a figment of the imagination. "Oh, I'm real alright," the professor murmured.
"My father?" the younger man asked, glancing around the room.
The professor shook his head. "I'm sorry, son. He fell down a waterfall and has been missing, presumed dead for three years."
"Three years?" Dr. Summerlee murmured as he sat heavily in his chair, the shock evident on his face.
"I know we never agreed while we were here in London and occasionally, it occurred on the plateau especially when we'd first arrived. But be assured, your father became one of my closest friends. I will always hold him dear in my heart."
Having recovered enough to speak, Andrew looked the older man in the eye and said, "I want to know everything."
***
The professor recounted the tales of the lost world for two hours, reassuring the young man of his father's acceptance of their state and eventual appreciation for the possibilities that were now open to him. In the final few minutes of the meeting, Challenger withdrew a small canvas from his bag and handed it to the doctor.
"What is this?"
"Something your father did about two weeks before he disappeared. He had mentioned in passing that his greatest desire as a young man was to paint." Challenger paused and watched Summerlee's face as he absorbed the picture. "I think he would have wanted you to have it."
"It's wonderful...and my father painted this?"
Challenger nodded.
"I never knew," the doctor leaned back in his chair and continued to study the simple floral design that graced the canvas. "I'm glad," he murmured after a bit. "After my mother died, he became a different man. I'm glad he found happiness, even if I could never experience it with him."
The clock on the wall chimed softly pulling Summerlee's gaze from the painting. "I'm sorry, but I have appointments."
"Oh, of course, no problem at all."
The men rose and shook hands. "I do thank you, Professor Challenger. For many
things."
The older man smiled and nodded then left the doctor to his work. Nodding his thanks to the receptionist as he passed, Challenger allowed himself a brief self-satisfied smiled. A good thing had been done. He sighed as he pushed open the doors and walked out into the foggy London evening. A pedestrian accidentally bumped into him, stopping Challenger up short. He had forgotten that there were so many people in London. Having lived for such an extended period of time in virtual isolation from the rest of the world, it took him
aback.
"Extra, extra, read all about it!" cried a young newsboy as he waved a rolled newspaper in the air. "Heiress arrested on charges of treason."
Eager to catch up on what had happened over the last four years, Challenger dug six pence from his pocket and walked toward the boy. The youngster handed him a paper and pocketed the coins the resumed his call. "The infamous Marguerite Krux out of hiding and into the clink!"
Stunned by the boy's words, the professor unrolled the paper and skimmed the headline then, without a word, threw it in the street, his eyes darkening with anger.
***
"Here's the file you were looking for, Mr. Malone," a scrawny teenager with a heavy cockney accent said as he laid the thin folder on the desk.
Ned nodded and murmured his thanks. Opening the file, he found rather what he had expected: a few clippings related to the launch of the Layton expedition and a map which glossed over most of the details of their journey. But as he skimmed through the articles, he found one from the Society section, introducing Abigail Montross as Abigail Layton, soon after her nuptials to her husband Tom. It continued and stated that Tom, an American, was the son of deceased parents, but that Abigail was the middle child of Edward and Amy Montross.
"The *middle* child," Malone breathed. This was better than he had hoped. It had been almost sixteen years, and was a long shot at best, but the possibility still existed. Grabbing his coat from the back of his chair, Ned rushed out of the newsroom, gripping the short article tightly.
***
6/?
14 Pembroke Lane, the home of Robert Montross, Abigail's oldest brother, was a painted brick cottage. A beautiful garden greeted visitors, though the frosty weather had killed more than a few of the small buds. The young reporter took a deep breath, and hoped they would not take offense at his unexpected arrival. In his eagerness, Ned had forgotten that polite society preferred a letter of introduction if not a call prior to the visit. He hoped the news he bore would forgive any slight that he might cause.
Ringing the doorbell, he nervously adjusted his tie, still unaccustomed to the attire that his profession required. He found he often missed the banded shirt collars and loose vests he had worn on the plateau. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a small, blonde, blue-eyed child. "You're not Daddy," the little girl said, the disappointment evident on her face.
Ned, seeing the younger version of Veronica, knelt down and shook his head. "No, I'm not your father, but I would like to speak to him or your mother. Are either at home?"
The little girl's forehead creased with thought. "Mama's upstairs with the baby. She said that Daddy would be home from the bank soon."
"Madeline!" cried a feminine voice from inside the house. "Close that door
immediately!" She rushed toward the entrance intent on scolding the child when she saw the reporter. "Oh, forgive me, sir. Madeline is not a very patient child. May I help you?"
He cleared his throat and introduced himself. "I'm Ned Malone, with the International Herald Tribune."
"A reporter?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied with a nod, "but I'm not here on official business. I was wondering if Robert Montross or May Merriweather was available."
"Mr. Montross is expected presently, but Mrs. Merriweather is out of the country. She travels to France quite often to see her daughter. Mrs. Montross is at home; I will get her for you, if you wish."
Malone nodded and the woman escorted him into a smallish drawing room. A moment
later, the doors reopened and the lady of the house entered. "You are Mr. Malone from the newspaper?" she asked, her smile was welcoming but held a hint of suspicion. Apparently, the family had had more than their share of bad encounters with the press.
"Yes, ma'am, but, as I told your housekeeper, I'm not here on official matters from the paper. I recently returned from a trip to South America where my group met up with a young woman named Veronica Layton." He paused a moment and allowed the woman time to absorb the information.
"Abigail?" she asked, her tone a mixture of confusion and wonder.
Ned nodded. "Yes, she's Tom and Abigail Layton's daughter. Her parents are still missing on the plateau, but she believes them to be alive."
"Pardon me," the woman said as she eased into a chair. Shocked by the news, she shook her head. "This can't be true. We had given them up for dead years ago. Oh, Robert..."
"My dear, what seems to be the matter?" interjected a voice from the doorway. "Oh, my apologies, sir, I didn't realize we had guests. Amy, are you quite alright?"
His wife nodded and caught her breath. "Darling, this man is Ned Malone from the International Herald Tribune. He claims to have met Abigail and Tom's daughter in a recent trip to South America."
"Their daughter?" Robert Montross asked in disbelief. "Tom would never have allowed Abigail to go with him if he had known she was pregnant."
Ned smiled with reassurance. "Veronica has a picture of her mother, obviously pregnant with the rest of the group."
"She always was a sneaky one. She probably knew and didn't tell Tom because she so desperately wanted to go with him." Amy shook her head at the other woman's audacity.
Robert perched on the edge of the chair and leaned toward the reporter. "What of Abigail and Tom?"
With regret, Ned shook his head. "I'm sorry, but they went missing approximately fifteen years ago and no one has seen them since. Veronica does believe that they are still alive and, in fact, remained behind to continue her search for them."
"So loyal," murmured Mrs. Montross, "she is definitely her father's daughter. I remember when he and Abigail were first courting and she had that snafu with the dean." She smiled at the fond memories. "He went to the president of the college himself and worked out the whole situation to everyone's satisfaction. You know, I think that was when she realized she loved him."
"Veronica would love to hear all about that," Ned murmured. "And I would love to introduce you, especially since she's had no connection with family in such a long time."
Robert rose eagerly, "We would be delighted!"
"But, Robert, what if she's a savage?"
Malone chuckled. "Yes, she may know how to do a few things that normal girls from polite society do not, but, trust me, she's definitely not a savage. The education her parents provided before they disappeared more than made up for her lack of formal schooling."
He pulled a small journal from his pocket and presented it to Mr. Montross. "When we first arrived on the plateau, Veronica saved my life. That day, I sketched a picture of her. If you would like to see it..."
Robert opened the book quickly to the page Ned indicated just as Amy rose and stood beside him. The older man raised a doubtful eyebrow at Veronica's attire, but Amy smiled at the soft lines drawn by a man with obvious attachment to the woman in the sketch. "Do you expect her to come to London?" she asked a blushing Malone who read the knowing look in her eyes.
"Actually, I'm planning to return to the Plateau in four months. I promised Veronica."
"Then you must bring her back so we can properly welcome her to the family," Amy
insisted.
Ned chuckled, remembering how determined she was not to leave her home. "I'll see what I can do."
***
Walter Wilkite had been the Roxton family attorney for years, as had his father before him. Through each boyish escapade that William and John ventured into, he was there, ready to defend. To date, he had rarely found a situation that he was unable to remedy, a fact on which he prided himself. Until now.
He nodded briefly to the butler, who took his trench coat and hat as he entered the drawing room of the Roxton London house. Sparing a glance for his now-grown charge, he gratefully accepted a warmed brandy from Thomas. The bitter evening had taken the breath from him and he welcomed the warm fire that glowed from the far wall.
John watched him silently, his gaze hard and measuring, reading the haggard lines of the older man's face and knowing without a doubt that the situation was not good. "Well?" he asked, after the man had caught his breath.
The attorney shook his head as Roxton had known he would. "It doesn't look good, John. At the Plea and Directions hearing, we obviously plead not guilty, but she's set to appear before the Lord Chief Justice himself since the charge is treason. The evidence in the case against her is damning to say the least. Her accuser, a German soldier and the son of a former field marshal, has presented impenetrable arguments as to her guilt and claims that there is more information in storage at his home in Bonn."
Roxton gripped his brandy snifter so tightly that the heavy glass shattered in his hand. Unaware that blood now dripped onto the carpet, he threw the remnants toward the fireplace and cursed, "Dammit! Four years we've been gone from this world! The past should have died by now!"
"John, your hand!" Lady Roxton cried as she wrapped her linen napkin around her son's injury to contain the blood. "Marshall," she directed the butler, "bring some antiseptic and bandages for Lord Roxton." To her son, she continued in a soothing voice, "I understand your attraction to this woman. She is beautiful and..."
"It's more than that, Mother. I love her. I would die a thousand times over to spare her the pain of what the tabloids are printing. She's not the same person!"
"You know that, and the group knows that," agreed Wilkite, "but, John, the rest of the world believes her to be a spy for the Germans. And that, to the public at large, is unforgivable."
"According to my sources, she's little better than a jewel thief and a harlot! Surely you must see what marrying her would do to the family name!" his uncle added from his seat in a wingback near the fire.
Roxton whirled on the older man and ground out, "I don't give a *damn* about the family name! I never wanted the title to begin with."
Thomas Riley rose and answered in a peevish tone, "Well, since William's not around anymore, I don't see that you have much choice."
"Gentlemen, please!" Lady Roxton interrupted, knowing the topic would eventually
disintegrate into fisticuffs. John's anger, though slow to ignite, would burn hot, a trait which he had unfortunately inherited from her side of the family as the reddened cheeks of her brother easily attested.
The lord turned back to the fire, reining in his fury and said, "Anyway, we're already married."
"Not in the eyes of the church," answered his uncle with aplomb. The older man was nothing if not a stickler for etiquette and all that was proper. Such details he considered to be traits inherent in the upper class and should be maintained at all costs to preserve noblesse oblige.
"I'm not breaking my vows! Church-sanctioned or not, I am her husband and I will stand by her side through this."
Lady Roxton, seeing the certainty in her son's eyes, smiled. "I'm glad, John. If she means that much to you, she will have the full backing of the Roxton name. I still have friends in Parliament. Let me talk with them and see what can be done. Walter, I'll forward any information I obtain to you post-haste."
7/?
"It's been almost two days, dammit! I demand to see my wife!" Lord John Roxton
pounded his clenched fist against the counter in frustration. The Newgate prison officer flinched at the outward display of anger. After all, the world renowned adventurer who stood before him had added dinosaur hunter to his credentials. Who knew what else the man was capable of, especially where his supposed wife was concerned.
"My lord," the younger man placated, "I understand your frustration, but the investigator has forbidden Miss Krux contact with any person other than himself and Mr. Wilkite. Have you not asked your barrister as to her status?"
"Yes, I've damn well asked the attorney for an update; she is to be brought before the Queen's Bench tomorrow for indictment. That I know, but I bloody well want to see my wife for myself!" raged the hunter. He paced the entry like a caged animal, anger seething through him. God knew what stories they were concocting against her. His fingers itched to feel his pearl handled pistols. They had served him well in the past, but would, unfortunately, only gain him the cell next to hers. "On second thought," he muttered with irony, "that's not a bad idea."
Before he could act on the thought, Roxton spotted the Scotland Yard investigator leaving an interrogation room just down the hall. He charged toward the man intent on gleaning any sort of information from him. Then he watched as Wilkite exited the same room. Without further thought, Roxton rushed down the hall and shoved his foot between the door and the wall. Neither man noticed his actions as they continued back to the inspector's desk in the bullpen.
He eased open the door and, glancing behind him to ensure no one was watching, entered the room. "John!" cried a startled Marguerite as she rose from her chair and rushed to him.
Roxton clutched her tightly, relishing in the feel of her soft body against his, the scent of her hair. He pulled away a moment later when he realized that she had not returned his embrace. "Dammit to hell!" he cursed as he found handcuffs still chaining her wrists together. "Have they not taken these off you at all?"
Marguerite glanced down to her hands and shrugged. "I guess they're afraid I'll disappear again." She looked up into his eyes and shook her head. "John, do you know how much trouble you could get into if they catch you here?"
"I don't care. I had to see for myself that you were alright." He combed his fingers through her unruly locks and kissed her temple. "How are they treating you?"
She looked up in wonder at her husband. "That's all? No questions about my guilt or my motives? "
"No."
"As simple as that?"
"Yes. I know you have a past that you haven't shared with me and maybe never will, but that doesn't change the fact that I love you and will stand by you throughout whatever is coming." He led his stunned wife back to the table and linked their hands together. "Now, tell me the whole story."
"It's all true, John," Marguerite said as she closed her eyes fearful of the disgust she might see in his face. "I did spy for the Germans, but it was under the direct order of the Crown."
"You were a double agent?"
"Yes, you could call it that." She took a breath and looked up, amazed to find acceptance and understanding reflected back at her. "I met David Trader at a party one night before Churchill was removed from duty."
"David Trader? Her Majesty's head of Intelligence? You 'met' him?" Roxton asked with a skeptical tone.
"Let's just say, I borrowed something from him that he wanted back," she parried, her usual teasing nature returning for the moment. Rolling her eyes at the lord's raised eyebrows, she continued, "Alright, I lifted his wallet while we were dancing. Besides, he didn't notice until the end of the night and I did give it back.
"But not before I glanced through it and found a letter that didn't make any sense. Something about fish and birds…at any rate, when he finally realized he'd lost it and began frantically asking for the host to search for it, I figured out that the letter had to be of some importance and therefore returned it."
"Why do I not believe you to be the Good Samaritan?"
She huffed and tossed him a mock glare. "He was young, nice looking and an infinitely good contact to have in the future. A girl has to make use of every available opportunity."
"Mmm..." Roxton murmured. His noncommittal response only served to irritate her
more.
"He was impressed with my skill and invited me to tea the next day at his office. When I arrived, I found him reading a file. About me."
"Ah, yes, and how thick was this file, Marguerite?"
"Thick enough," she retorted. "He commented on my special qualifications and asked if I would like to serve my country in the War."
"And being the wonderfully unselfish person that you are, you readily agreed."
"Well, there was the little matter of jail time if I didn't cooperate, but we won't go into that now. Suffice to say, I went through all the training and was introduced into German society as a recently widowed Belgian heiress.
"Over an eight month period, I seduced several high-ranking members of the Kaiser's advisory board in the effort to obtain information for the Crown and leak misinformation to the enemy. I eventually married one of the Kaiser's top aides; and from my newly acquired place in society, I had advanced knowledge of where and when the Germans were planning attacks on the Allies."
The lord balked slightly at the news of her marriage. Although he realized she was not a virgin, he hadn't considered any circumstance for her matrimony other than love or money. "Is there anyone who can vouch for your innocence?"
"Trader was killed behind enemy lines a few months after I was pulled out and prior to my reassignment. Because of the highly confidential and potentially inflammatory nature of my work, he determined it was best if no one else knew."
"Surely there are files, records of your work..."
Marguerite shook her head. "Even if they still exist, we would never be able to access them."
"So then, the world will believe the lies of one disgruntled German who claims to have knowledge of your affairs during the War."
"Unfortunately, it's not just any disgruntled German who has brought the charges against me. He's the son of my former husband."
Roxton fell silent, assessing the situation to determine a possible solution that would free her. Marguerite offered him a bittersweet smile as she read the determination in his eyes and squeezed his hands. "It's alright, John. I knew when we returned I wouldn't be able to outrun my past for long. Why do you think I didn't telegram anyone when we had the chance? Aside from the fact that I have no family to tell, I wanted to give my enemies as little advanced warning as possible. Most thought I was already dead and I was happy to let them believe what they wished."
She paused a moment and stared at the translucent glass door as if trying to see through to the other side. Returning her gaze to Roxton she smiled wanly and murmured, "At least we made it home."
"Did we?" he asked with stark sobriety. "This isn't the England I knew. Certainly the landmarks are the same, but the people are different. We've lost our innocence." Marguerite shook her head. Only John Roxton would think that the British people, with such a bloody history, had once been innocents.
"Guess the grass isn't always greener..." she murmured.
"We never should have left the Plateau," he murmured giving her hands a final squeeze before rising pace the back side of the room. "There are many things we never should have done..."
"Like get married? It *was* rather foolhardy and --"
"Absolutely not! Sudden, yes, unexpected, maybe, but definitely not foolhardy and I won't let you backtrack from something that should have occurred a long time ago. I will never regret marrying you."
"Maybe you don't, but what does dear old Uncle Thomas think about his new niece? I saw his reaction when the officer arrested me. Certainly I am more of liability than an asset to the Roxton name."
"I don't give a damn. He and everyone else can go to hell. I know who you are and that is the person I married. All that remains to be done is to introduce the real you to rest of the world."
Marguerite closed her eyes, wishing it could be just that simple, but knowing it wasn't. She stood and placed her cuffed hands on his chest, stilling his nervous movements. "John, we've faced raptors and t-rex's and every other sort of evil and somehow we've always managed to escape permanent injury. But this time, there's no alternative; it's time to pay the piper. I was able to let the past rest while we were on the Plateau and had hoped it would die on its own, but I guess some demons just have to be faced. Whatever the consequences. If I don't, I'll never completely be your wife. Some prior sin will always shadow every move I take."
He gazed at her, unwilling to accept the bleakness in her eyes and in her words. He had sworn he would never let her go, would die for her if the situation warranted. But, this was one path he could not walk for her. He could only stand beside her, offering his support and love. He pulled her roughly back into his arms and whispered against her temple, "I don't want to lose you."
Unfortunately, Marguerite had no reassuring response.
***
...to be continued...
Veronica fluffed her pillow in the hammock and lay down intent on getting some sleep. Unfortunately, dreamland had not invited her for a visit tonight and instead she rose once more and entered the kitchen.
Roxton would want a glass of whiskey before bed and Marguerite no doubt would be
griping in the morning if there were no coffee beans roasted and ready to be brewed. Veronica ran a loving hand over a blank journal with the name Edward Malone embossed on the cover that had been left behind by accident. She pulled a plate out of the cupboard and rinsed it off then placed some berries and bread on it and set it on the counter should anyone be hungry in the middle of the night.
It had been this way for the first few months after her parents had disappeared. Veronica would brew their favorite tea and set out food knowing they would be famished when they returned, only to find the cold water and sandwiches still sitting untouched when morning dawned. And yet, she continued the ritual, knowing in her heart that she would wake up one morning and find the food and drink gone and her parents returned.
She was thirteen when she had finally given up her fantasy and instead convinced herself they were alive and merely too busy with a new discovery to come back to her. She began to spend more time with Assai and less engrossed in her father's journals, needing the contact of another living being instead of just the memories, happy though they were, that lived in the books.
Like those early years of her parents' disappearance, the nights now held an eerie quiet occasionally accented by the squawk of a Pterodactyl. No longer was she able to hear the soft snores of Challenger or the squeak of the floorboards under someone else's foot. She was alone again.
In the morning, she resolved to continue the search for her parents in earnest. Surely, given the tools that Challenger had left for her use, she would be able to locate them by then. Content with her plans and the arrangements, she climbed into the hammock once more and settled into a relatively peaceful sleep.
***
Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the walls of the treehouse waking the jungle beauty. Easing out of the hammock, she stretched and absorbed the silence that surrounded her. No more noises of the others in various states of wakefulness. She grimaced slightly at her lapse and jerked her thoughts away from the explorers who had become her second family. She would see them again and, with any luck, would introduce them to her real family.
"Veronica!" Assai's familiar voice called from the jungle floor.
Rushing to the balcony, she waved happily at her friend and then lowered the elevator. "Assai!" she cried, hugging the other woman tightly. "What brings you here?"
"Two reasons," she answered with a smile, "I wanted to check on you and I have some news."
Veronica shrugged. "I'm fine. I'm going to miss them, but I do plan on searching for my parents so I won't be constantly thinking about them."
"That is the news I should tell you," Assai interrupted, leaning forward with an eagerness that startled her friend. "The warriors were hunting yesterday and they found a series of caves three day's walk from here."
"That's not very unusual, Assai."
The young Zanga nodded. "Yes, but the contents of them, that *is* unusual. There were human skeletons…four of them…and this." She held out a small leather-bound journal which Veronica quickly took.
Flipping through the pages, the blonde's eyes widened as she recognized the handwriting. "This is my mother's."
"Yes, that is what I thought."
Veronica clutched the book to her chest and murmured, "Where is the cave?"
***
The entryway into the auspicious King's College Hospital was just as Challenger
remembered it. Electric lights pushed some of the darkness away, but there still remained a gloomy air about. Striding through the hall, he passed between a group of students who were discussing treatment scenarios for a terminal cancer patient. He smiled fondly at their youthful zeal, but offered no comment at some of the more brazen ideas. Instead, he walked on silently wishing them luck in their future careers.
"Pardon me, madam," Challenger murmured as he approached the front desk. "Do you happen to know where I might find Dr. Andrew Summerlee?"
The woman consulted the book lying to one side and answered, "Dr. Summerlee is
making rounds now, but he should be finished in a few minutes. You can wait in his office if you'd like."
Challenger nodded and the woman rose to escort him to a door a few feet down the hall. "I'll let him know he has a visitor."
"Thank you," the professor replied as he gazed at the various items in the younger man's office. He barely noticed the soft thud as the door closed. "Arthur, Arthur, you did yourself proud," he breathed as he read through the journals that lined the walls, several of which held the byline 'Andrew Summerlee, MD, editor.'
The professor had known for some time of Andrew Summerlee's success as a physician and instructor, but hadn't given the fact much thought. Now, as the news that doctor's father was missing and most likely dead had to be conveyed, Challenger thought it best that it come from him. George Challenger and Arthur Summerlee had been rivals and political enemies for years prior to Challenger's dare which goaded Summerlee into a trip to the Lost World. To this day, George still felt a twinge of guilt over the matter, regardless of how much Arthur claimed to enjoy the change in his life.
The door opened to reveal a younger version of the former professor. He adjusted his glasses, almost as if expecting Challenger to disappear like a figment of the imagination. "Oh, I'm real alright," the professor murmured.
"My father?" the younger man asked, glancing around the room.
The professor shook his head. "I'm sorry, son. He fell down a waterfall and has been missing, presumed dead for three years."
"Three years?" Dr. Summerlee murmured as he sat heavily in his chair, the shock evident on his face.
"I know we never agreed while we were here in London and occasionally, it occurred on the plateau especially when we'd first arrived. But be assured, your father became one of my closest friends. I will always hold him dear in my heart."
Having recovered enough to speak, Andrew looked the older man in the eye and said, "I want to know everything."
***
The professor recounted the tales of the lost world for two hours, reassuring the young man of his father's acceptance of their state and eventual appreciation for the possibilities that were now open to him. In the final few minutes of the meeting, Challenger withdrew a small canvas from his bag and handed it to the doctor.
"What is this?"
"Something your father did about two weeks before he disappeared. He had mentioned in passing that his greatest desire as a young man was to paint." Challenger paused and watched Summerlee's face as he absorbed the picture. "I think he would have wanted you to have it."
"It's wonderful...and my father painted this?"
Challenger nodded.
"I never knew," the doctor leaned back in his chair and continued to study the simple floral design that graced the canvas. "I'm glad," he murmured after a bit. "After my mother died, he became a different man. I'm glad he found happiness, even if I could never experience it with him."
The clock on the wall chimed softly pulling Summerlee's gaze from the painting. "I'm sorry, but I have appointments."
"Oh, of course, no problem at all."
The men rose and shook hands. "I do thank you, Professor Challenger. For many
things."
The older man smiled and nodded then left the doctor to his work. Nodding his thanks to the receptionist as he passed, Challenger allowed himself a brief self-satisfied smiled. A good thing had been done. He sighed as he pushed open the doors and walked out into the foggy London evening. A pedestrian accidentally bumped into him, stopping Challenger up short. He had forgotten that there were so many people in London. Having lived for such an extended period of time in virtual isolation from the rest of the world, it took him
aback.
"Extra, extra, read all about it!" cried a young newsboy as he waved a rolled newspaper in the air. "Heiress arrested on charges of treason."
Eager to catch up on what had happened over the last four years, Challenger dug six pence from his pocket and walked toward the boy. The youngster handed him a paper and pocketed the coins the resumed his call. "The infamous Marguerite Krux out of hiding and into the clink!"
Stunned by the boy's words, the professor unrolled the paper and skimmed the headline then, without a word, threw it in the street, his eyes darkening with anger.
***
"Here's the file you were looking for, Mr. Malone," a scrawny teenager with a heavy cockney accent said as he laid the thin folder on the desk.
Ned nodded and murmured his thanks. Opening the file, he found rather what he had expected: a few clippings related to the launch of the Layton expedition and a map which glossed over most of the details of their journey. But as he skimmed through the articles, he found one from the Society section, introducing Abigail Montross as Abigail Layton, soon after her nuptials to her husband Tom. It continued and stated that Tom, an American, was the son of deceased parents, but that Abigail was the middle child of Edward and Amy Montross.
"The *middle* child," Malone breathed. This was better than he had hoped. It had been almost sixteen years, and was a long shot at best, but the possibility still existed. Grabbing his coat from the back of his chair, Ned rushed out of the newsroom, gripping the short article tightly.
***
6/?
14 Pembroke Lane, the home of Robert Montross, Abigail's oldest brother, was a painted brick cottage. A beautiful garden greeted visitors, though the frosty weather had killed more than a few of the small buds. The young reporter took a deep breath, and hoped they would not take offense at his unexpected arrival. In his eagerness, Ned had forgotten that polite society preferred a letter of introduction if not a call prior to the visit. He hoped the news he bore would forgive any slight that he might cause.
Ringing the doorbell, he nervously adjusted his tie, still unaccustomed to the attire that his profession required. He found he often missed the banded shirt collars and loose vests he had worn on the plateau. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a small, blonde, blue-eyed child. "You're not Daddy," the little girl said, the disappointment evident on her face.
Ned, seeing the younger version of Veronica, knelt down and shook his head. "No, I'm not your father, but I would like to speak to him or your mother. Are either at home?"
The little girl's forehead creased with thought. "Mama's upstairs with the baby. She said that Daddy would be home from the bank soon."
"Madeline!" cried a feminine voice from inside the house. "Close that door
immediately!" She rushed toward the entrance intent on scolding the child when she saw the reporter. "Oh, forgive me, sir. Madeline is not a very patient child. May I help you?"
He cleared his throat and introduced himself. "I'm Ned Malone, with the International Herald Tribune."
"A reporter?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied with a nod, "but I'm not here on official business. I was wondering if Robert Montross or May Merriweather was available."
"Mr. Montross is expected presently, but Mrs. Merriweather is out of the country. She travels to France quite often to see her daughter. Mrs. Montross is at home; I will get her for you, if you wish."
Malone nodded and the woman escorted him into a smallish drawing room. A moment
later, the doors reopened and the lady of the house entered. "You are Mr. Malone from the newspaper?" she asked, her smile was welcoming but held a hint of suspicion. Apparently, the family had had more than their share of bad encounters with the press.
"Yes, ma'am, but, as I told your housekeeper, I'm not here on official matters from the paper. I recently returned from a trip to South America where my group met up with a young woman named Veronica Layton." He paused a moment and allowed the woman time to absorb the information.
"Abigail?" she asked, her tone a mixture of confusion and wonder.
Ned nodded. "Yes, she's Tom and Abigail Layton's daughter. Her parents are still missing on the plateau, but she believes them to be alive."
"Pardon me," the woman said as she eased into a chair. Shocked by the news, she shook her head. "This can't be true. We had given them up for dead years ago. Oh, Robert..."
"My dear, what seems to be the matter?" interjected a voice from the doorway. "Oh, my apologies, sir, I didn't realize we had guests. Amy, are you quite alright?"
His wife nodded and caught her breath. "Darling, this man is Ned Malone from the International Herald Tribune. He claims to have met Abigail and Tom's daughter in a recent trip to South America."
"Their daughter?" Robert Montross asked in disbelief. "Tom would never have allowed Abigail to go with him if he had known she was pregnant."
Ned smiled with reassurance. "Veronica has a picture of her mother, obviously pregnant with the rest of the group."
"She always was a sneaky one. She probably knew and didn't tell Tom because she so desperately wanted to go with him." Amy shook her head at the other woman's audacity.
Robert perched on the edge of the chair and leaned toward the reporter. "What of Abigail and Tom?"
With regret, Ned shook his head. "I'm sorry, but they went missing approximately fifteen years ago and no one has seen them since. Veronica does believe that they are still alive and, in fact, remained behind to continue her search for them."
"So loyal," murmured Mrs. Montross, "she is definitely her father's daughter. I remember when he and Abigail were first courting and she had that snafu with the dean." She smiled at the fond memories. "He went to the president of the college himself and worked out the whole situation to everyone's satisfaction. You know, I think that was when she realized she loved him."
"Veronica would love to hear all about that," Ned murmured. "And I would love to introduce you, especially since she's had no connection with family in such a long time."
Robert rose eagerly, "We would be delighted!"
"But, Robert, what if she's a savage?"
Malone chuckled. "Yes, she may know how to do a few things that normal girls from polite society do not, but, trust me, she's definitely not a savage. The education her parents provided before they disappeared more than made up for her lack of formal schooling."
He pulled a small journal from his pocket and presented it to Mr. Montross. "When we first arrived on the plateau, Veronica saved my life. That day, I sketched a picture of her. If you would like to see it..."
Robert opened the book quickly to the page Ned indicated just as Amy rose and stood beside him. The older man raised a doubtful eyebrow at Veronica's attire, but Amy smiled at the soft lines drawn by a man with obvious attachment to the woman in the sketch. "Do you expect her to come to London?" she asked a blushing Malone who read the knowing look in her eyes.
"Actually, I'm planning to return to the Plateau in four months. I promised Veronica."
"Then you must bring her back so we can properly welcome her to the family," Amy
insisted.
Ned chuckled, remembering how determined she was not to leave her home. "I'll see what I can do."
***
Walter Wilkite had been the Roxton family attorney for years, as had his father before him. Through each boyish escapade that William and John ventured into, he was there, ready to defend. To date, he had rarely found a situation that he was unable to remedy, a fact on which he prided himself. Until now.
He nodded briefly to the butler, who took his trench coat and hat as he entered the drawing room of the Roxton London house. Sparing a glance for his now-grown charge, he gratefully accepted a warmed brandy from Thomas. The bitter evening had taken the breath from him and he welcomed the warm fire that glowed from the far wall.
John watched him silently, his gaze hard and measuring, reading the haggard lines of the older man's face and knowing without a doubt that the situation was not good. "Well?" he asked, after the man had caught his breath.
The attorney shook his head as Roxton had known he would. "It doesn't look good, John. At the Plea and Directions hearing, we obviously plead not guilty, but she's set to appear before the Lord Chief Justice himself since the charge is treason. The evidence in the case against her is damning to say the least. Her accuser, a German soldier and the son of a former field marshal, has presented impenetrable arguments as to her guilt and claims that there is more information in storage at his home in Bonn."
Roxton gripped his brandy snifter so tightly that the heavy glass shattered in his hand. Unaware that blood now dripped onto the carpet, he threw the remnants toward the fireplace and cursed, "Dammit! Four years we've been gone from this world! The past should have died by now!"
"John, your hand!" Lady Roxton cried as she wrapped her linen napkin around her son's injury to contain the blood. "Marshall," she directed the butler, "bring some antiseptic and bandages for Lord Roxton." To her son, she continued in a soothing voice, "I understand your attraction to this woman. She is beautiful and..."
"It's more than that, Mother. I love her. I would die a thousand times over to spare her the pain of what the tabloids are printing. She's not the same person!"
"You know that, and the group knows that," agreed Wilkite, "but, John, the rest of the world believes her to be a spy for the Germans. And that, to the public at large, is unforgivable."
"According to my sources, she's little better than a jewel thief and a harlot! Surely you must see what marrying her would do to the family name!" his uncle added from his seat in a wingback near the fire.
Roxton whirled on the older man and ground out, "I don't give a *damn* about the family name! I never wanted the title to begin with."
Thomas Riley rose and answered in a peevish tone, "Well, since William's not around anymore, I don't see that you have much choice."
"Gentlemen, please!" Lady Roxton interrupted, knowing the topic would eventually
disintegrate into fisticuffs. John's anger, though slow to ignite, would burn hot, a trait which he had unfortunately inherited from her side of the family as the reddened cheeks of her brother easily attested.
The lord turned back to the fire, reining in his fury and said, "Anyway, we're already married."
"Not in the eyes of the church," answered his uncle with aplomb. The older man was nothing if not a stickler for etiquette and all that was proper. Such details he considered to be traits inherent in the upper class and should be maintained at all costs to preserve noblesse oblige.
"I'm not breaking my vows! Church-sanctioned or not, I am her husband and I will stand by her side through this."
Lady Roxton, seeing the certainty in her son's eyes, smiled. "I'm glad, John. If she means that much to you, she will have the full backing of the Roxton name. I still have friends in Parliament. Let me talk with them and see what can be done. Walter, I'll forward any information I obtain to you post-haste."
7/?
"It's been almost two days, dammit! I demand to see my wife!" Lord John Roxton
pounded his clenched fist against the counter in frustration. The Newgate prison officer flinched at the outward display of anger. After all, the world renowned adventurer who stood before him had added dinosaur hunter to his credentials. Who knew what else the man was capable of, especially where his supposed wife was concerned.
"My lord," the younger man placated, "I understand your frustration, but the investigator has forbidden Miss Krux contact with any person other than himself and Mr. Wilkite. Have you not asked your barrister as to her status?"
"Yes, I've damn well asked the attorney for an update; she is to be brought before the Queen's Bench tomorrow for indictment. That I know, but I bloody well want to see my wife for myself!" raged the hunter. He paced the entry like a caged animal, anger seething through him. God knew what stories they were concocting against her. His fingers itched to feel his pearl handled pistols. They had served him well in the past, but would, unfortunately, only gain him the cell next to hers. "On second thought," he muttered with irony, "that's not a bad idea."
Before he could act on the thought, Roxton spotted the Scotland Yard investigator leaving an interrogation room just down the hall. He charged toward the man intent on gleaning any sort of information from him. Then he watched as Wilkite exited the same room. Without further thought, Roxton rushed down the hall and shoved his foot between the door and the wall. Neither man noticed his actions as they continued back to the inspector's desk in the bullpen.
He eased open the door and, glancing behind him to ensure no one was watching, entered the room. "John!" cried a startled Marguerite as she rose from her chair and rushed to him.
Roxton clutched her tightly, relishing in the feel of her soft body against his, the scent of her hair. He pulled away a moment later when he realized that she had not returned his embrace. "Dammit to hell!" he cursed as he found handcuffs still chaining her wrists together. "Have they not taken these off you at all?"
Marguerite glanced down to her hands and shrugged. "I guess they're afraid I'll disappear again." She looked up into his eyes and shook her head. "John, do you know how much trouble you could get into if they catch you here?"
"I don't care. I had to see for myself that you were alright." He combed his fingers through her unruly locks and kissed her temple. "How are they treating you?"
She looked up in wonder at her husband. "That's all? No questions about my guilt or my motives? "
"No."
"As simple as that?"
"Yes. I know you have a past that you haven't shared with me and maybe never will, but that doesn't change the fact that I love you and will stand by you throughout whatever is coming." He led his stunned wife back to the table and linked their hands together. "Now, tell me the whole story."
"It's all true, John," Marguerite said as she closed her eyes fearful of the disgust she might see in his face. "I did spy for the Germans, but it was under the direct order of the Crown."
"You were a double agent?"
"Yes, you could call it that." She took a breath and looked up, amazed to find acceptance and understanding reflected back at her. "I met David Trader at a party one night before Churchill was removed from duty."
"David Trader? Her Majesty's head of Intelligence? You 'met' him?" Roxton asked with a skeptical tone.
"Let's just say, I borrowed something from him that he wanted back," she parried, her usual teasing nature returning for the moment. Rolling her eyes at the lord's raised eyebrows, she continued, "Alright, I lifted his wallet while we were dancing. Besides, he didn't notice until the end of the night and I did give it back.
"But not before I glanced through it and found a letter that didn't make any sense. Something about fish and birds…at any rate, when he finally realized he'd lost it and began frantically asking for the host to search for it, I figured out that the letter had to be of some importance and therefore returned it."
"Why do I not believe you to be the Good Samaritan?"
She huffed and tossed him a mock glare. "He was young, nice looking and an infinitely good contact to have in the future. A girl has to make use of every available opportunity."
"Mmm..." Roxton murmured. His noncommittal response only served to irritate her
more.
"He was impressed with my skill and invited me to tea the next day at his office. When I arrived, I found him reading a file. About me."
"Ah, yes, and how thick was this file, Marguerite?"
"Thick enough," she retorted. "He commented on my special qualifications and asked if I would like to serve my country in the War."
"And being the wonderfully unselfish person that you are, you readily agreed."
"Well, there was the little matter of jail time if I didn't cooperate, but we won't go into that now. Suffice to say, I went through all the training and was introduced into German society as a recently widowed Belgian heiress.
"Over an eight month period, I seduced several high-ranking members of the Kaiser's advisory board in the effort to obtain information for the Crown and leak misinformation to the enemy. I eventually married one of the Kaiser's top aides; and from my newly acquired place in society, I had advanced knowledge of where and when the Germans were planning attacks on the Allies."
The lord balked slightly at the news of her marriage. Although he realized she was not a virgin, he hadn't considered any circumstance for her matrimony other than love or money. "Is there anyone who can vouch for your innocence?"
"Trader was killed behind enemy lines a few months after I was pulled out and prior to my reassignment. Because of the highly confidential and potentially inflammatory nature of my work, he determined it was best if no one else knew."
"Surely there are files, records of your work..."
Marguerite shook her head. "Even if they still exist, we would never be able to access them."
"So then, the world will believe the lies of one disgruntled German who claims to have knowledge of your affairs during the War."
"Unfortunately, it's not just any disgruntled German who has brought the charges against me. He's the son of my former husband."
Roxton fell silent, assessing the situation to determine a possible solution that would free her. Marguerite offered him a bittersweet smile as she read the determination in his eyes and squeezed his hands. "It's alright, John. I knew when we returned I wouldn't be able to outrun my past for long. Why do you think I didn't telegram anyone when we had the chance? Aside from the fact that I have no family to tell, I wanted to give my enemies as little advanced warning as possible. Most thought I was already dead and I was happy to let them believe what they wished."
She paused a moment and stared at the translucent glass door as if trying to see through to the other side. Returning her gaze to Roxton she smiled wanly and murmured, "At least we made it home."
"Did we?" he asked with stark sobriety. "This isn't the England I knew. Certainly the landmarks are the same, but the people are different. We've lost our innocence." Marguerite shook her head. Only John Roxton would think that the British people, with such a bloody history, had once been innocents.
"Guess the grass isn't always greener..." she murmured.
"We never should have left the Plateau," he murmured giving her hands a final squeeze before rising pace the back side of the room. "There are many things we never should have done..."
"Like get married? It *was* rather foolhardy and --"
"Absolutely not! Sudden, yes, unexpected, maybe, but definitely not foolhardy and I won't let you backtrack from something that should have occurred a long time ago. I will never regret marrying you."
"Maybe you don't, but what does dear old Uncle Thomas think about his new niece? I saw his reaction when the officer arrested me. Certainly I am more of liability than an asset to the Roxton name."
"I don't give a damn. He and everyone else can go to hell. I know who you are and that is the person I married. All that remains to be done is to introduce the real you to rest of the world."
Marguerite closed her eyes, wishing it could be just that simple, but knowing it wasn't. She stood and placed her cuffed hands on his chest, stilling his nervous movements. "John, we've faced raptors and t-rex's and every other sort of evil and somehow we've always managed to escape permanent injury. But this time, there's no alternative; it's time to pay the piper. I was able to let the past rest while we were on the Plateau and had hoped it would die on its own, but I guess some demons just have to be faced. Whatever the consequences. If I don't, I'll never completely be your wife. Some prior sin will always shadow every move I take."
He gazed at her, unwilling to accept the bleakness in her eyes and in her words. He had sworn he would never let her go, would die for her if the situation warranted. But, this was one path he could not walk for her. He could only stand beside her, offering his support and love. He pulled her roughly back into his arms and whispered against her temple, "I don't want to lose you."
Unfortunately, Marguerite had no reassuring response.
***
...to be continued...
