Authors Notes: The characters mentioned as ancestors of Jack in Regency England and in the Old West will eventually be Skewed Romance stories as well. I plan to write a couple Jack and Samantha historicals since I'm the only one who has written them in this manner and it hasn't been done to death as a plot bunny. Reviews are greatly appreciated. I would really like to know that you're reading and enjoying this story.

Chapter 23

Jack stared at Phillippe and wondered if there was any validity to his claim. While he had no problem with eliminating a servant, he was hesitant to eliminate someone from his family tree and risk ending his own existence. Phillippe's hair was a close shade to Jack's honeyed locks and he had a similar aqualine nose, but were they related? When his gaze met Phillippe's, Jack had all the confirmation he needed. Phillippe's eyes resembled his own and were very much like his father's had been.

Although he seldom justified or explained himself to anyone, Jack feared he would have to at least attempt to do so with Phillippe. While he'd liked Phillippe as his valet and had planned to let him live, the fact he was blood made it imperative he keep him alive. Supposedly the lineage was legitimate, but in an age where masters bedded maids and mistresses bedded footman, Jack didn't wish to risk ending his existence in the future. Peace with Phillippe was potentially a matter of survival.

As Jack was considering the situation, Phillippe demanded, "What exactly is going on?"

"I don't honestly know," Jack responded.

"Who exactly are you and where the hell is my brother? Is this sorcery?" Phillippe questioned. When Jack remained silent, Phillippe stood and yelled, "Answer me damn it! Or by God, I'll go to the murderous mademoiselle's father and have you brought before the King for practicing the black arts!"

Unable to help himself, Jack began to laugh. He was so unused to anyone standing up to him, let alone threatening him. The absurdity of the situation struck Jack as hilarious and he laughed helpless as Phillippe looked at him in confusion. Phillippe had expected anger or fear in response to his threat, not amusement. Perhaps he would have been better served to go to the Englishman with his concerns instead, but he'd wanted to keep the matter discreet for his brother's sake.

At last, Jack composed himself and became serious as he confessed, "I truly cannot say where your brother is, but if you'll sit down I'll tell you what I know."

Reluctantly, Phillippe complied, his expression suspicious as he crossed his arms and snapped, "Fine. Start talking."

Jack struggled to keep from laughing again at Phillippe's expression as he began, "My name is Jack Newquay and I believe I'm one of your descendants."

Phillippe's expression remained frozen as he said, "Go on."

"The night of the ball, I was attending a museum gala in Atlanta, the Colonies," Jack clarified. "At the party in the 20th century, I was with Samantha and we were standing in front of a painting by Commerces- your brother. Violence erupted at the party and I placed myself in front of Samantha when I was shot and then a bullet hit her as well. Last thing I remember is seeing Samantha's face and blood spattered on the painting. Then everything went black. Next thing I knew I was here."

"And how did you conclude you're my descendent?" Phillippe inquired with dismay as he tried to consider the tale. "Your name is Newquay."

"In the future, I saw the ruins of this place-"

"Ruins?"Phillippe interrupted.

"It was destroyed in the Revolution in 1793-"

"There's a Revolution in four score and two!"

Sighing, Jack nodded and admonished, "Yes, but do cease interrupting me and allow me to finish my account."

"Sorry," Phillippe apologized, his mind reeling.

Pouring them each another glass of brandy, Jack took a drink before resuming. "I saw the ruins of the place, the only thing that remained where the ruins covered in roses and the Death Pavilion."

Phillippe took a gulp of brandy and bit his tongue to keep from asking about the death pavilion. The tale was incredible and impossible, yet it would explain much. How had the mademoiselle known how her blood and the mold would save Jack's life? And while his half brother loved the mademoiselle, he would have never braved a duel, but then the mademoiselle would have known better than to follow Gaspard onto the terrace. Was no longer herself as well?

"Shortly before the revolution, the Commerces abandoned their home in France and moved to England. Don't know much except Jacque the 3rd married Samantha Fraley amid a scandal in the early 1800's and they had a granddaughter eventually named Gillian. The Newquay name was acquired when Gillian S. Commerces married Black Jack Newquay, an outlaw and gambler in 1850 in during the Gold Rush in the west," Jack told the incredulous man.

After pausing to light one of his cigarettes, Jack exhaled a cloud of smoke and continued, "Only one Commerces painting survived the Revolution, a painting known as Portrait of Love. The painting was at the museum and I believe that it somehow was part of what transported us here and into the bodies of your half-brother and his fiancé. I had a scar on my thigh from a bullet wound back in Atlanta and it's gone and Samantha seems to have be uh- altered as well physically."

Phillippe drained his glass and moved his lips in an effort to speak as he poured himself another glass brandy and downed it in rapid succession. Unable to find his voice, Phillippe sat staring at Jack. The story simply couldn't be true and yet Phillippe could feel it was the truth. While the body before him was that of his half-brother, the man inside was not.

"May I ask you something now?" Jack inquired. When Phillippe nodded, Jack proceeded, "When did you know I wasn't your half-brother? And why the devil are you my valet?"

Now it was Phillippe's turn to be amused as he responded, "I knew something was amiss from the start, but couldn't quite place what was wrong. I'm your- his valet because I'm illegitimate. Our- my, is okay if I just say our? This is damn confusing."

"By all means."

Phillippe proceeded, "Our father, the Viscomte had an affair with his wife's ladies maid and I was the result. When Jacques' mother died in childbirth, less than half a year after my birth we were raised together. But Jacques never let me forget my place and always demanded I address him by his title."

"Ah, so you knew because I told you to call me by my name tonight," Jack ventured.

Phillippe nodded, "That and for the first time in my life, I actually liked you- him."

A moment later, Phillippe inquired, "Do you think this is permanent?"

"I'm not certain. For one thing I have no idea exactly how we ended up here other than that it's connected to the painting. Another problem is the painting won't exist until nearly a year from now. I can sketch a little but I've never been much of a painter," Jack informed him.

"Suits me just fine," Phillippe shrugged nonchalantly. While he'd pursued the matter out of familial duty, this was still family and to his mind, far more agreeable.

The pair sat in a companionable silence for a moment before Phillippe requested, "Tell me more of this Revolution and the Gold Rush you Mention. I should very much like to know and for that matter, what the hell is this Death Pavilion you spoke of?"

"Soon Phillippe, but first I need to find my Samantha and discuss the matter of our wedding night," Jack told him and left Phillippe to absorb all he'd learned...