The day dawned earlier than usual -- or at least it appeared so to Marguerite, who, not for the first time since their arrival on the plateau, was dragged from her bed instead of allowed to wake on her own.  However, it was not an exactly horrible trade-off since her “alarm clock” greeted her with a lingering kiss and cup of hot coffee.  She wasn’t truly certain which she appreciated more at that moment, but, suffice to say, both were welcome additions to her morning.

Having taken a sip of the brew and savored the flavor long after the liquid had disappeared, she groused, “What’s the damn hurry, Roxton?  So Challenger wants to go looking for some rare plants.  It’s not like we haven’t done *that* before.”

“Marguerite,” Roxton cautioned, drawing her name out slightly. 

Rolling her eyes, she threw back the covers and muttered, “Oh, alright.  I did promise.”

The hunter flashed her a cheerful smile as he tugged out her khaki breeches and a blouse from the makeshift closet.  Dangling the purple garment in front of her, he tempted, “Your favorite!”

She smiled behind her cup answering, “You would know better than I.”  Her mind, like his, returned to their day at the beach when she had almost shed the blouse in favor of skinny-dipping with the rugged hunter.

“Ah, yes,” he remembered, “but if I recall, we never reached the most interesting part.”  He pulled her closer, loosely caging her to him, the heat of his hands around her waist burned straight through her.  She caught her breath sharply as his fingers caressed her skin through the thin fabric.  His dark eyes filled with the promise of so many things.  She leaned into his embrace intent on raising the temperature in the room another notch only to heave a resigned sigh when the inevitable interruption occurred.

“Marguerite!  Roxton!” called Veronica from living-room-come-kitchen.  “Are you ready yet?”

Marguerite kissed him gently, his regret mirrored in her eyes, and answered, “We’re coming.”

***

“Ah, good, Malone,” Challenger remarked as the reporter handed him the last of the tools for the backpack.  “So,” he began, glancing around the room, “are we ready?”

Ned smiled and shook his head.  “Not quite, Roxton went in to wake up Marguerite and when he didn’t come back, Veronica went after him.”  He shrugged and packed a few more blank journals for the trip into his own bag.  “Maybe they’ll appear sometime tomorrow.”

“Dammit, Challenger,” Marguerite cursed as she entered the room.  She was now more displeased with the interruption than the reason for her early wake-up call, but was willing to take out her irritation on the easiest, and least damaging, target.  “Only you would pick the middle of the night to go hunting for plants.”

“And a good morning to you, too, Marguerite,” Malone offered, his smile widening at the sight of her death grip on the coffee cup. 

She shot him a dark look before topping off the cup and taking another long sip.  “You’re not much better...how can anyone be so damn perky this early?”

Veronica, having grown tired of the older woman’s complaints, interrupted, “Looks like everything’s packed; let’s go!”  Challenger and Malone followed her to the elevator and the trio disappeared a moment later.

Roxton grabbed another handful of bullets and buckled his pistols around his waist then tossed Marguerite’s belt to her seconds after she’d set the cup down.  “Better get a move on, Marguerite,” he urged at her flash of irritation, “wouldn’t want to suffer the wrath of Challenger if we reach the site and all of the best plants are already gone.”

She nodded and tossed a longing glance toward the still warm coffee, then joined him in the elevator.

***

Hours later, the group continued to pick their way through the brambled underbrush en route to the Zanga’s annual planting season celebration.  Every year, when the shaman blessed the fields, asking the Zanga god for a bountiful harvest, everyone was asked bring the most unusual plant that could be found and the winner was awarded a great honor.  Challenger had inwardly vowed to win the competition for a third year in a row.  It was a matter of pride after all. 

The only issue was that the winning plant was still in the ground.  “It’s just through here; I’m certain of it.”

“Challenger, I’m telling you, there’s nothing on the other side of that ivy,” Veronica warned.  “The flowers from that plant only bloom in direct sunlight.”  She raised a hand to shade her eyes and pointed toward a more likely location.  “You should check over the hill closer to the village.”

“Well, could it hurt to take a look?”  He combed through the tangled strands.  “Ah!  Here it is...I’ve never seen this genus before -- Malone, make sure we have enough cuttings so I can study it back at the tree house.”  ‘As well as win the award,’ he added inwardly.

The young reporter shrugged his shoulders toward the blonde woman, hoping to ease her irritation.  He, as well as everyone else, realized she had lived here longer than anyone and knew the terrain better, but the professor was not one to be deterred when his mind was focused. 

“What the...” Challenger breathed as he peered further into the dense branches. 
“Roxton! Take a look at this!”

The younger man shouldered his rifle and pulled the ivy further back to reveal a rocky outcropping that sloped gently down to a rich, green field.  However, it was not like any field he had seen in years.  Instead of the tall wild grasses of the plateau, it was short and well-kept, as if it were regularly grazed.  He could just barely see domesticated cattle in the distance.  Brow furrowed, he looked back at his companions, uncertain he believed what he was seeing. 

“My God,” breathed Marguerite, “can it possibly be true?”

Never having seen a cow in her life, Veronica stared at the trio as if they had gone mad.  “What’s so amazing?”

Malone chuckled with disbelief, then turned to grin at her.  “They’re cows, Veronica.  A whole field of normal, ordinary cows.” 

She shook her head, still unclear as to the significance.

It was Challenger who murmured the words that echoed in each person’s head:  “We’re home.”

****

Winning plant forgotten, the group eased through the ivy, down the outcropping, and into the world they had left behind more than four years ago.  The plains lay before them, disappearing into the horizon.  Hundreds of cows grazed peacefully as if it were an ordinary day and nothing miraculous had just occurred.  In the distance, gauchos moved a portion of the herd toward a barn and corral. 

Marguerite, unable to believe the sight, pinched Roxton.  “Ouch!  What was that for?” he cried, rubbing the offended arm.

“Just making sure we aren’t dreaming,” she replied without remorse.

“Well, if we are,” Malone interjected, “its one hell of a dream.”

Challenger gazed intently at their surroundings.  “If I’m not mistaken, I recognize this place.”

“Oh, well, then that settles it.  We’re definitely hallucinating,” Marguerite muttered.

“Challenger,” Roxton breathed, “I think you’re right.  That complex in the east and the grove just behind it...”

“What?” asked Veronica, still skeptical after having witnessed so many failed attempts to leave the plateau.

“This is Dupont Farms,” explained the professor.  “It was our first stop in South America before we hired Kappakochu and began our journey up the Amazon.”

Marguerite shook her head.  “That can’t be right.  We paddled up river for two days and then had a half a day’s hike to the launch site where we were attacked and the bearers were killed.”  She looked at Challenger and then to Roxton, hoping either would agree with her logic.  “There’s no way we could have traveled that distance already.”

Malone shrugged as he bent down and pulled a handful of grass.  “Maybe not.  After all, we don’t know how far off course the balloon was blown in those updrafts.”

“So, that means this place has been in our backyard all this time and we never knew it?” Veronica asked, as she folded her arms.

“It appears so,” murmured the hunter, “but we won’t know for certain until we take a look around.”

“Well, then, anyone else up for a trip down memory lane?” Marguerite asked as she walked toward the buildings. 

The others followed soon after her, but Veronica placed a staying hand on Malone’s arm.  He glanced at her curiously.  “What’s wrong?”

“I just,” she began only to pause, as if searching for the right words, “I just don’t want you to be disappointed, you know, if this isn’t the same place.”

Ned offered her a reassuring smile and covered her hand with his.  “Then I won’t get my hopes up.”

***

When they reached the barns a few minutes later, the gauchos had lassoed several of the cows and were pinning them to the ground.  The acrid smell of burning flesh permeated the air as the branding irons hissed melting the letters DF into the brown hides.  Marguerite wrinkled her nose at the sight.  “How could I have forgotten this place?  This is what they were doing the last time we were here.”

One of the gauchos, noticing the new arrivals, called out in Spanish, “Who are you? Can we help?” 

The heiress answered in kind, “We are visitors and have lost our way.  Can you direct us to the owner so we might ask for directions?”

Challenger nodded his agreement with her words and murmured in English, “Good 
thought.  No need to tip them off that we are any more than that, just in case this is another trick.”

The gauchos, appearing to accept her explanation, gestured to a large house a few yards away.  “Senor Dupont is at home.  He is waiting for the birth of his grandchild.”

****

As the group approached the hacienda, a slim man in a crisp butler’s uniform met them at the walkway.  His hair was slicked back against his scalp and the fine hairs of his mustache jutted out from his face like the haphazardly trimmed bristles on a broom. 

“We are here to see the Senor,” began Marguerite in Spanish. The little man bowed slightly and hurried into the house, leaving the guests at the front door. 

Malone, ever the journalist, took the opportunity to study their surroundings.  “Nice place,” he murmured.  And, indeed, it was.  When they had first arrived, the main house had been under construction with barely the frame and roof completed.  Now, well-maintained brown stucco blended beautifully with the huge trees that dotted the lawn while the wood trim was freshly whitewashed, accentuating the starkness of the black shutters.  In the back yard, a rather large gazebo held several domestic plants and flowers.

The butler returned moments later and gestured for them to enter.  Leading them to a room just off the main hall, he indicated they should sit.  He departed a few seconds later, but the group wasn’t alone for long.  A burly and deeply tanned man, whose hair had faded to more salt than pepper, pushed open the double doors and eagerly entered.  The bright glow of impending grandfatherhood lit his face leaving him with a boyish gaze.  “You must forgive Ricardo,” he began without introduction.  “He only speaks Spanish, and even then hardly says a word.  But he’s a good enough butler -- my God!”

Challenger smiled widely at the man’s shock.  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, old friend.”

“I have...a living, breathing ghost.  Challenger!  When we heard about Kappakochu and the others and then no word from you, we feared the worst.  It’s good to see you alive!”

“Yes,” agreed the professor.  “It’s been an amazing journey, one that the world should experience as well.  But, we understand that we have come at an inopportune time.  Your daughter is in labor.”

“Well, she was,” countered their host.  “My grandson was born not long before you came.  Mother and son are sleeping now so we have ample opportunity to catch up.  Marcus, my son-in-law, is in Manous, unfortunately.  He didn’t want to leave her, but there were supplies that needed his attention and he thought he would back in time for the birth.  He should be returning this evening...I would introduce you, but I don’t expect to see him for more than a second once he hears the news.”

The group laughed in agreement as they settled into the comfortable armchairs, which were attractively arranged in the room.  Roxton, however, chose to lean against the built-in bookshelf at the far side; the position allowed him to better see the entire party, plus the window nearby afforded an unobstructed view of the outside.   If their host noticed, he gave no mention of it. 

Instead, he rang a bell, which hurried Ricardo through the door.  “Have Maria prepare tea for my friends.  They must be parched.”  The butler nodded once and then closed the door, while Dupont continued, “And I absolutely insist that you stay for dinner and the night.”

“Oh, we don’t mean to trouble you,” replied Roxton who crossed his legs as he adjusted his position.

Dupont smiled widely and shook his head. “No trouble at all, Lord Roxton.”  The butler chose that moment to return with the tea and cakes for the guests.   “Now, we celebrate the birth of my first grandchild and the return of my friends!  Ricardo, make the arrangements and prepare rooms for them to stay in tonight.”

***

After a leisurely tea and entertaining conversation in which all were amazed at the changes that had been wrought in the world during their stay in the Lost World, the party was escorted to their rooms to freshen up for dinner and rest.

Veronica looked around her room, curiosity pricked by the unfamiliar items which lay at odd intervals on the dresser.  Having picked up a particularly interesting article, she folded it over in her hands and almost dropped it guiltily at the sudden knock at the door.  “Come in.”  She placed it back on the dresser and was nervously adjusting the position when a young girl peeked into the room.

“Pardon, Senorita, but Senor Dupont thought you might wish for a change of clothes.  The family dresses for dinner.”  She glanced away uncertainly toward the bathroom a few feet away.  “I will draw you a bath, if you wish.”

The blonde smiled wanly at the teenager.  Though Dupont appeared to be everything Challenger thought, she was wary.  The plateau had played more than one trick on them and part of her still doubted the authenticity of this place. For all they knew, they could in reality be back in the plains unconscious thanks to some type of spore from the plant the professor had been so keen on finding.  Taking a deep breath, she replied to the girl, “Yes, thank you, a bath would be lovely.” 

While the maid prepared the bath, Veronica picked up the blue and cream dress the younger girl had lain on the bed.  The material was soft and light weight, perfect for the humid summer days.  “The dress is beautiful!”

“Si,” answered the maid as she returned from the bathroom, “it is a dress of Senor Dupont’s daughter.  Since she isn’t able to wear it, he thought it might fit you.”

“Please give him my thanks.”  Veronica smiled as she heard Challenger’s booming laugh from beyond the door.

***

“So, tell me, old man,” Dupont began as they walked down the hall toward the wing of guestrooms.  “Did you really see dinosaurs?”

Challenger laughed heartily.  “On more than one occasion.  How is it that your land practically borders the plateau and yet, you’ve never heard so much as a roar?”

“Well, let’s just say there are some things one chooses to ignore, especially if those things would hurt his business.  The workers are superstitious to say the least and I’m too much of a businessman to worry about what might or might not exist.”  He flashed a wide smile toward his friend.  “That’s your job after all.” 

As they slowly walked further down the hall, past the rooms that had been set aside for the other explorers, Dupont grew thoughtful.  “There have been nights when the wind was light that we would hear noises no cow could make.  The gauchos would cross themselves and mutter something indistinguishable to Saint Mary and then go on.  No one goes over to that area; consequently, nothing has been seen.”

He paused at one of the doors, indicating it would be Challenger’s room.  “Dinosaurs, eh?”

The professor offered him an enigmatic smile in response.

Dupont nodded, and then said, “Well, see you in a bit.  Oh, and George, I *am* glad to see you alive.”

***

Marguerite gave a final shake to her hair, sending the dark curls tumbling down her back and over the pale blue dress that had been provided by their host.  Satisfied that she had maintained her usual level of appearance, even without her extra eyeliner, she opened the door and met Roxton outside just as he left his own room.  Roxton took in the sight of his love in an actual dress and smiled. 

“You have something to say, Lord Roxton?” Marguerite quizzed with mock superiority.

He cocked his head to one side and answered, “Only that the color definitely becomes you.”

Marguerite smiled bashfully at the unexpected compliment and joined him at the stairs. She glanced around trying to find another topic to steer away from the dangerous feelings that coursed through her.  ‘Damn the man,’ she berated.  ‘How does he always manage to throw me off kilter when I least expect it?’  Aloud, she murmured as she caressed the mahogany-paneled hallway, “Isn’t this wonderful?”

Roxton sobered instantly, all lascivious thoughts about the woman before him gone.  Marguerite gauged his silence and sudden aplomb with a measuring gaze.  “Roxton, you do agree that this man is Michael Dupont, right?”

“Yes, that much is certain.”

“So, then, what’s wrong?”

He offered her a half-smile, his eyes hooded and wary.  “It just seems far too easy, given our other attempts to leave the plateau.”

Marguerite threw her hands up in the air.  “Can’t you for once not look a gift horse in the mouth and accept the fact that we finally have a guaranteed one-way ticket off this God-forsaken plateau?” she whispered, mindful of the servants who hovered in the background.

“Nothing in this life is guaranteed, Marguerite,” Roxton muttered as he shot her a warning glance. 

“Yeah, except for death, taxes, and in this case, a way home!”  Seeing he wouldn’t relent, Marguerite gave up.  “Fine, have it your way.  Just allow me the pleasure, later, when we step on that steamer bound for London, to say ‘I told you so.’”

Roxton smiled fondly down at her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as he led them toward the dining room.  “Now, when have I ever denied you that right?  Especially when it occurs *so* infrequently.”

She shot him a dark look before sneaking out of his grasp and taking her seat next to Challenger.  Roxton soon joined her, assuming the chair on her right.  Marguerite took his hand under the table and gave it a reassuring squeeze.  She truly felt they would make it home this time and wanted her man to have the same assurance.  Roxton laced their fingers together and returned the squeeze.  ‘For you, my love,’ he thought to her, ‘I’ll put my concerns on hold.’

As the night wore on and the dinner plates were cleared in favor of cigars and brandy, the hunter began to feel the inner peace that Marguerite had already found.  This was truly the same Michael Dupont, a man whom Challenger trusted, who was open and honest about his endeavors in South America and his hopes for the future.  Every word coincided with what he remembered of the wealthy businessman.  Roxton caught Marguerite’s eye from across the room and nodded slightly, his gaze telling her that he had accepted her view of the situation.  Elated by his change of heart, Marguerite beamed with pleasure borne from true happiness.  If they hadn’t been in polite company, she would have kissed him then and there.

Dupont caught the look the two had exchanged and, correctly reading the obvious, pretended to stifle a yawn.  “My, my, where has the time flown?” he asked glancing at the grandfather clock on the other side of the room.  “You must be exhausted!”

“Yes,” agreed Malone, “it has been a rather long, though exciting, day.”

“Very well, then.  Let me bid you good night.  First thing in the morning, I will order your tickets for the next steamer leaving for London.  If you would like, I’ll have Ricardo take any messages you want to send into town and have them telegraphed to your families.”

****

The group had left early that morning with the promise to return the next day, ready to leave for home.  True to his word, Dupont had dispatched Ricardo at daybreak with telegrams and money in hand.  Of the four, Marguerite was the only one who had not sent a message home about her impending arrival.  At the time, Roxton had accepted -- was even gratified by -- her explanation of, “The only people I would want to tell are already here.”  But now, he realized just how lonely her life had been.

Veronica had sent word earlier to Assai of the news and bearers would arrive soon to help move all of the items they had accumulated over the years.  Roxton pulled two bags toward the living room; glancing at Marguerite’s room, he shuddered at the loads the heiress would be returning with and didn’t envy the Zanga men the task ahead.  He spotted the object of his search gazing into the forest from the balcony.

“All packed?” Roxton asked as he joined Marguerite on the porch.

She turned and smiled at him.  “Yes, just taking one last look around.  You know, as horrid as this place has been, I have to admit, I have some great memories.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do, starting with how you were the plaything of a half-man, half-lizard...”

Shooting him an affronted look, she rebuked, “Tribune was most kind to me, *and* you, thank you very much!”

Roxton continued on, undeterred, “Almost married a boy king and were nearly killed or captured on so many occasions you lost count.”

She whacked him on the arm gently before tossing him a saucy look.  “And what about you, Lord Roxton?  Going to tell dear, old Mom that you were a vampire for a short while?  I’m sure she’d get a kick out of that!”

Hearing her speak of his family, Roxton sobered immediately, his thoughts returning to the reason for his appearance on the balcony.  “Marguerite, before everything goes haywire when we return, I want to ask you something.”

Concerned by his sudden sobriety, Marguerite took his hand in hers and answered, 
“Anything, John.”

“I’ve thought about it for months now -- years, if truth be told -- and I’ve come to some conclusions, some things that must be said...damn.”  The man was babbling, and he knew it.  Taking in a quick breath, he searched for the words he had practiced, and had promptly forgotten, when the time came for the asking.  Finally, he closed his eyes then kissed her knuckles and asked, “Will you marry me?”

Stunned by words she never expected to hear, Marguerite simply stared up at him, speechless.  Roxton mistook her silence for reluctance and continued, desperate to reach through to her heart and win her consent.  “I can’t promise I’ll never let you down or not get angry with you, but I will promise you this: I’ll never break your heart.  I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Seeing tears well up in her eyes frightened the hunter all the more and he rushed on.  “If you’re worried about the manor, don’t.  We don’t have to live there year round.  We can travel, do anything you want...just please, say you will be there with me.”

Finally, when she realized that she wasn’t dreaming and John was actually speaking the words she had so longed to hear, she leaned up and stopped him with her lips.  Roxton responded with an urgency that reflected his continuing concerns and deepened the kiss, cradling her face in his hands and fusing their lips together, showing her what he thought he hadn’t told her. 

Minutes -- or hours -- later, they broke apart, the need to breathe outweighing their need for each other.  Still, unwilling to move too far apart, their lips clung for a few final seconds before Roxton pulled back to search her eyes.  Their breath mingling, he whispered, “Please tell me that was a yes.”

Marguerite grinned and brushed her nose against his.  “Yes, John, it was a yes.”  With a whoop of joy, the hunter swooped her up into his arms and swung her around.

Embarrassed, she ordered, “Roxton!  Put me down!”

His grin widened, if possible, and he laughed, a full rich sound speaking more to his happiness than his smile ever could.  “Not a chance!  Now that I’ve got you, I’m never letting you go!”

Smiling in awe at the joy she inspired, Marguerite cupped his jaw and gazed lovingly at him.  “You’ve had me for a long time.  I love you, John.”

The sincerity in her eyes moved him to set her back down.  He threaded his fingers through her dark curls and kissed her thoroughly.  A sharp cough broke them apart moments later and both turned to grin at the new arrivals.  Roxton, unable to contain his joy, gripped her hand in his and beamed.  “Marguerite has agreed to marry me when we return to London.”

A hail of well wishes, hugs and handshakes greeted the announcement.  Veronica hugged Marguerite and teased, “Well, we’ve heard this one before; you two are the real Marguerite and Roxton, right?”

The hunter merely laughed good-naturedly, while Marguerite, took offense at the slight.  Crossing her arms, she flashed the blonde a challenging look.  “Since you doubt my sincerity, where’s the Zanga’s shaman?  We can get married now.”

Roxton’s jaw dropped to the floor in surprise while Veronica gave Marguerite an appraising stare.  “You’re serious.”

The brunette nodded solemnly, a contented smile spreading over her lovely features.

The younger woman, convinced by the surety in the other woman’s eyes, if not by the words themselves, smiled back and replied, “I’ll book the chapel.”

***

The overwhelming scent of wildflowers filled the small hut, bringing to mind another time and another wedding, one that was not such a happy occasion. With nowhere else to look since her hair was being threaded with the small petals, Marguerite’s gaze landed on Veronica.  The younger woman looked almost sad.  Unexpected pangs of guilt stabbed at the future Lady Roxton and she opened her mouth to comfort the woman who had become more like a sister than a friend. 

Veronica looked over and murmured, “Don’t.  Let’s not dredge up the past.  It’s over and forgotten.”

Smiling with acceptance and thanks, Marguerite pulled a mirror from the folds of her dress and admired the women’s handiwork.  “Not bad at all, I’d say.”

“You look beautiful,” murmured Veronica as she took in the older woman’s serene expression and cream-colored gown. 

Marguerite’s eyes softened.  By the end of the day, she would be Lady Roxton and unlike her views of four years ago, she was more entranced with the idea of being John’s wife than she was at the prospect of being wealthy.  For she now realized she was rich in so much more than material things. 

She had never known the kind of love she felt for him.  Certainly, she had seen it in other people, but to experience it herself was nothing short of amazing.  As a child, she hadn’t believed in fairy tales and yet their time on the plateau had become a fable in itself.  Stranded in a lost world, their only hope for survival resting in each other, they were allowed the opportunity to forget the realities of their lives and act as normal people albeit under extraordinary circumstances.  They fought, they loved, but mostly, they lived.  And in the day-to-day exercise of simply existing in such a world, they evolved, became better than they were.  How appropriate that the handsome prince -- or lord, in this case -- continued the fairy tale and asked her to marry him. 

“It’s strange,” she murmured, remembering the assassin she had shot outside the 
Zoological Society’s building. “I owe all this to the Baron.”  Chuckling to herself at the irony, she waved off Veronica’s unspoken question with a “Never mind.”

A knock at the door forestalled any further explanation.  The door was pushed open and Malone stuck his head in.  “It’s time,” he said with a smile.

***

The beat of the tribal drums thrummed through her, matching the steady pulse in her veins.  There would be no struggle during *this* wedding, no half-heartedly spoken vows.  Today, Marguerite would bind herself willingly to Lord John Richard Roxton. She smiled at the traditional wedding dance being performed by members of the Zanga and could just barely see Roxton standing to one side of Jacoba, facing the shaman.  The painted and skull-bedecked man shook his medicine stick around the area in which Marguerite would soon stand, cleansing it from the evil spirits and welcoming their god to the celebration.

When the dancers finished and the last drumbeat faded, Jacoba stood.  “Bring forth the bride!” 

Marguerite easily evaded the sure grips of her escorts and murmured, “No need to force me down this aisle.”  Her eyes met Roxton’s as she stepped from behind the wall, searching for signs that he regretted asking her to marry him.  The only thing she found in the murky depths was a calm surety and a smile of welcome. 

She grinned back at him, and then walked forward, relishing the moment and memorizing every detail.  Once she had reached his side, he took her hand in the traditional pose.  Marguerite had already agreed to translate for the shaman, but as he began, she found herself struggling to maintain her composure. 

‘Damn,’ she thought as she wiped away a stray tear, ‘I’ve *never* cried at weddings -- especially my own.”

Roxton squeezed her hand, offering his silent support.  She swallowed once and quickly translated the beginning of the speech.  “The gods have called together this man and woman to join their lives.  We will honor and celebrate their decision.  Roxton, you will give your life for this woman?”

The hunter nodded and answered with the expected response, knowing it was true, “I would a thousand times over.”

“Marguerite, you will give your heart to this man?”

The brunette swallowed back the tears of happiness that threatened to overwhelm her and smiled up at the man in question.  “I have a thousand times over.”

“Then it is done.”  The onlookers echoed the shaman’s loud whoops, each offering their own wish for a bright future.

Roxton leaned forward to kiss his bride, but Marguerite stepped back, arching an eyebrow.  “Lord Roxton, that’s not part of their ceremony.”

“Humor me,” he murmured pulling her into his arms and kissing her.  The joyous cries of the tribe escalated at the sight.  Challenger laughed heartily while Veronica and Malone clapped with enthusiastic delight.

When the two parted, each more than a little breathless, Jacoba stood again and decreed, “Let the celebration begin.”  The dancers returned to the center of the gathering area as the newlyweds were escorted to a place of honor beside the chief.  The other explorers were seated further down next to Jarl and Assai.

Food and fruit wine flowed freely and the hours passed more quickly than the explorers imagined.  When the shaman indicated it was time for the couple to leave and begin their wedding night, Roxton flashed an uncertain glance toward Challenger knowing the group had planned to return to Dupont Farms in the morning.  The professor offered him an apologetic smile and Roxton nodded squeezing Marguerite’s hand indicating she should stand.  She eagerly agreed, until she saw the disappointment in her husband’s eyes.

She sighed as they walked toward the gates.  “Looks like we’ll have to forgo the traditional wedding night,” she murmured with regret as the others said their good-byes. 

“How about just postpone?” Roxton answered with a slow grin that heated her blood.  He glanced back over his shoulder and found the others still chatting with members of the tribe.  When he turned back his smile had become almost uncertain.  “I, um, don’t have a wedding ring for you.  We’ll have to take care of that when we return home, but for now...” he paused and tugged the family signet ring off his pinky finger. Lightly gripping her right hand, he slid the warm golden band onto her fourth finger.

The feel was electric and the fit, perfect. “John,” Marguerite breathed as the warmth encompassed her hand and spread through the rest of her body.  “Thank you.”

Malone and Challenger joined them a few minutes later, with Veronica close behind.  Realizing any further conversation would have to wait for a later time, Marguerite clutched John’s hand to her waist, relishing the promise of home and a new life. 

***

When the group returned to the tree house, Veronica, Malone and Challenger hastily retreated to their bedrooms to allow the pair some privacy.  John smiled at their obviousness, but welcomed it nonetheless.  Marguerite, suddenly nervous at the prospect of being alone with her husband, laughed lightly as she watched him cover the short distance between them. 

“Come here,” he ordered, the flame that had been banked in his eyes for most of the evening flared as his normally cultured voice deepened to a rough growl.  The combination sent a shiver of anticipation flying over her skin.

“Now, Roxton, just because I married you, don’t think I’m just going to start obeying your every whim.”

The hunter smiled at her, eyes twinkling.  “Oh, this is no whim, my dear.  This is one desire that has existed since we first met.”

Remembering a conversation from the early days of the exploration, she huffed, “So, I’m to be the trophy you take back to London?” 

“Not at all,” he murmured, closing the gap between them and kissing her lightly.  “You are to be my wife.”  Her tremble at his words propelled his already raging pulse to a new level.  Cradling her face in his hands, he lowered his lips to hers.  The sensation was like nothing he had felt before.  Maybe it was the fact that she was finally, completely his, maybe they both were now tasting the inevitable, maybe -- hell, he didn’t care the reason, he only knew that if he didn’t make her his own then and there, he would likely be a victim of spontaneous human combustion.

Unfortunately, though, a voice from the smallest unaffected portion of his brain screamed through the raging emotions and ordered his body to stand down.  They would be leaving for home in the morning, and good sense dictated that they would both need to be rested.  Weaning himself from the feel of her lips under his, he reluctantly pulled away.  “Marguerite, we --“ he began only to be interrupted by her finger against his lips.

“Shh, love.  I know,” she whispered.  She understood, though her disappointment was evident. 

He kissed her finger then grasped her hand and kissed her knuckles.  “Good night, Lady Roxton.  Sweet dreams.”

Marguerite bowed slightly, needing to maintain the subterfuge in order to calm her body.  They would soon be on a steamer home with nothing to do for two blissful weeks but sleep, eat and make love.  But tonight, they would have to be content with dreams of all the pleasures to come. “Good night, John,” she murmured as she turned and walked into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

****

Hours before the sun had even contemplated rising, Veronica stood in the kitchen.  This would be her friends’ last day on the plateau and a going-away party was definitely in order.  Unfortunately, her eyes kept blurring while she gathered up the ingredients and began to knead the dough.

“Damn morning mists,” she murmured as she swiped a doughy hand across her face.  She would miss them -- more than she realized -- and yet, they had to return to their world.  For the past four years, the tree house had been alive after a decade of the hauntingly empty quiet.  She hated the thought that she would soon be alone once more, but there was no alternative.  Her parents were still missing somewhere in this lost world and as long as she had hope, she knew she would find them. 

Jerking her thoughts away from the future, she forced herself to focus on the present, namely a wonderful farewell breakfast.  Coffee beans had been roasted, tea was brewing and the fruits picked yesterday were ready to be pared.  Veronica pulled out the bottle of champagne her parents had brought with them to toast their success and placed it in the cooler to chill.  She hummed softly to herself as she worked and barely noticed when Challenger entered the room a few hours later.

“Good morning, Veronica,” he greeted.  Startled, she whirled around.

“Good morning, Challenger!” she returned somewhat breathless.  “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby.  It’s a good feeling to finally be going home.”

She raised a questioning eyebrow as she watched him strap his pistol belt to his waist.  “Not going nest raiding, are you?”

The professor laughed heartily at the memory.  “I doubt Roxton would agree to a second excursion.”

“And what excursion would that be?” the hunter asked as he entered the room.  Plucking a piece of fruit off the cutting board and narrowly avoiding the knife Veronica wielded, he glanced between the two.  “Not the Pterodactyl again, George.” 

“No, no, old man, I won’t be taking any live souvenirs back with me.  We’ll have to save that for the return trip.”

“Who said anything about a return trip?” asked Marguerite welcoming the freshly poured cup of coffee that John handed her.

Veronica glanced at the other woman as she began to set the table.  “You *will* come back to see me, won’t you?”

Malone entered just as she had spoken.  “Wait, you aren’t coming back with us?”

The blonde smiled wanly at the man who had come to mean so much to her.  “This is my home Ned.  It’s all that I know.  And my parents...”

“Spare me the parents speech!” Malone retorted, turning on his heel and walking out.  “I think I still have some packing to do.”

Marguerite, seeing the flash of pain on the younger woman’s face, placed a reassuring hand on her arm.  “Give him some time.  He does understand.  We all do.”

***

A few minutes later, Roxton tapped lightly on the doorframe to Malone’s bedroom.  “Can I come in?”

“Sure, why not?” he muttered as he thrust a few shirts into a knapsack.  “It’s not like this is going to be mine much longer.”

The hunter remained silent and, leaning against the door, watched Malone with a studied disregard gauging the younger man’s mood and judging it to be more hurt than angry.  “Ned, you do love the girl, right?”

The young reporter sat heavily on the bed and nodded, tossing the remaining shirts aside.

“Well then, show her you love her and respect the decision she’s made.”  Roxton offered the other man a wry smile.  “It wasn’t something she settled on lightly.  If you force her to choose between you and her parents, you’ll lose, Neddy boy.  She’s loved them a lot longer than she’s loved you.”  He paused and glanced toward his wife, who stood in her own room gathering up the last remaining items.  “But if you allow her the opportunity to bring some closure to her life, she’ll love you all the more for it. And who knows where that will take you.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience,” Malone teased. 

Roxton’s eyebrows lifted once as he flashed an ironic grin.  “Let’s just say we all have our demons to slay.”

The reporter smiled his thanks, to which the hunter merely nodded and turned to leave.

***

Moving, no matter the distance nor the circumstance, always encompasses more than the party actually expects.  Inevitably, the movee has more possessions than he estimates and the process of packing and relocating all of the accumulated items becomes more of a hassle than a pleasure.   Even though each had brought a limited number of items to the plateau, based on the aforementioned scenario, the Challenger Expedition was nothing if not normal.  Fifteen warriors, instead of the requested ten, now bore the explorers’ packs through the jungle to the ivy-covered entrance back to the civilized world.  None would cross through to the other side, much to the irritation of one Lady Marguerite Roxton.

“I don’t see what the big deal is.  So they take a peek at our side of the world.  Who cares?” Marguerite griped as the group hiked toward the entrance.  “It’s not as if they’re going for an extended stay.”

Veronica sighed at the other woman’s complaints.  Maybe she wouldn’t miss them so much after all.  “Marguerite, the Zanga people are extremely superstitious.  It took a lot of effort on Assai’s part to convince Jacoba to allow the men to come at all.  Let alone carry the packs to the entrance itself.”

“Yes, Marguerite,” Challenger concurred, “we should be grateful they agreed to help.”

“I don’t think you would have been too happy with the prospect of carrying all of your bags by yourself,” muttered Roxton.  He tossed an amused glance back at his wife and watched as she struggled with one of the two packs that she had been forced to carry.

“Who says I would have carried them at all?  That’s what husbands are for,” she teased, thoroughly delighted by the startled look that crossed his features.

The group paused as they neared the bushes and the Zanga men began unloading and reorganizing the packs to ease the transition to the men from Dupont Farms who would help carry the bags to the house.  The organized chaos allowed Ned one last moment of persuasion.  “Veronica, come with us.”

“Ned, my parents...”

Malone searched her eyes, trying to ferret out the actual motive for her reluctance.  “Tell me the truth, do you really think your parents are still able to be found?  Are they the real reason you want to stay?  Or are you just scared of my world?”

Veronica glanced away from him then gestured helplessly.  “I told you a long time ago that my world was here.  I don’t belong in London any more than you belong on the Plateau.”

Malone squeezed her shoulders and murmured, “I belong with you.”

The hope that filled her eyes died as quickly as it appeared when he continued, “But I have a story to publish that’s been four years in the making.  I have to go back.”  He turned and watched the others as they moved their packs through the entrance and said one last goodbye to a world in which they had never thought they would survive.  “I have to go,” he murmured almost as if trying to convince himself of the rightness of leaving her alone.  As Dupont Farms appeared through the ivy, an idea struck him.  He turned quickly back to her, a surety in his gaze that had been absent only moments ago. 
Veronica shook her head, confused by his sudden calm. 

“I do have to go, but I will come back.  Now that we know the way...”  He thought for a moment.  His editor would want to review every account of their time in the Lost World and, with four years of writings stockpiled in almost one hundred journals; it could take a year before the first installments were published. 

“Give me four months.  That’s the least amount of time it will take for the stories to be reviewed and edited.  I don’t have to be there for the publication’s release.  Four months, and I’ll come back.”

“Ned!  I can’t ask you to do that!”

He placed a staying finger over her lips.  “Shhh...you didn’t; I want to be with you...any way possible.”

“Malone!” called Roxton.  “Are you coming?”

The reporter glanced over his shoulder to the others then quickly turned back to his love. She handed him his pack with a sad smile.  “See you in four months,” she whispered then kissed him sweetly.

“Take care of yourself,” he breathed.  Giving her a kiss that would last them both for the days to come, he then ran after the others.  Just before he reached the brush, he turned back for one last look.

“Ned!  I love you!”

He grinned widely and returned, “Me too!  Four months, Veronica, I swear it!” Then he disappeared.

***

As planned, the group arrived at the Manous port with plenty of time to load their bags and settle into their compartments well before it was time to cast-off.  “Good luck, old man,” Dupont bade as he slapped the professor heartily on the back.

“Thank you, again, for all of your aid in bringing us to this point.  We will be back sometime,” Challenger replied, shouldering his backpack.

“Back?” the entrepreneur asked.   “Why in the devil would you want to come back?”

“Yes, Challenger,” Marguerite agreed, “please elaborate on why, after four years of trying to leave, we would ever want to return?”

“The adventure has only just begun, Marguerite.  Imagine what marvels science could explain with the proper instruments and a more eclectic combination of trained minds.”

“I don’t think you could have gotten a more eclectic group than ours,” Ned said, glancing toward the rocky outcroppings that were shrouded by gray clouds, knowing that somewhere on the other side, Veronica remained, searching for her lost parents and waiting for his eventual return.

“True enough,” agreed Roxton who tossed a smile toward Marguerite.  “Besides, I didn’t get the trophy I came for.”  His smile softened as he added in a voice so low only his wife could hear it, “Even though I found something much better.”

She rolled her eyes, trying with little success to keep the grin of pleasure from bursting forth.  “Well, when you put it that way, there are still several caves whose geologic capacity remain to be tapped.”

The entrepreneur laughed and said, “Well, whatever the reason, rest assured, you will always have a place to stay at Dupont Farms.  Goodbye, my friends and Godspeed.”  He shook hands with each member of the party and walked down the boarding ramp to watch them cast-off.

“Professor Challenger?  Lord Roxton?” greeted a uniformed busboy.  “If you will, I’ll show you to your cabins.”  Leaving Ned to his reminiscing, Marguerite moved to follow, but an officer stopped her. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he apologized as he tipped his hat, “but we have strict rules governing fraternization aboard our ships.”

“Frat--“ Marguerite began, confused by the man’s explanation, “We’re not going to fraternize...”  She ignored John’s mumbled, “Well, at least not the *whole* trip,” and shook her head.  “We’re married.”

“I’m sorry, but according to your passports, you have no legal documents proving such a statement.  Therefore, we must operate under the belief that you are unmarried.”

“Oh, I don’t believe this!” fumed the newlywed.

“Now, my good man,” Roxton interrupted, steering the officer away from the near-lethal Marguerite.  “I hold a lord’s title and, upon my return to London, will have the option of taking my family’s seat in Parliament.  Do you doubt my word and honor?”

“My lord, I’ve heard this argument many times before, and from men much more esteemed than yourself.   The owners of the liner have drafted strict rules for this sort of thing and, even though you may indeed be as you say, I must err on the side of caution in order to maintain our spotless reputation.  If you are concerned about her safety, Miss Krux will be provided with a cabin near the captain’s quarters.”

“Oh, I feel *much* better,” she replied, her acidic tone rolling off the intended target with no effect. 

“Is there a problem, miss?” a tall, silver-haired man asked as he approached the party.  The stripes that banded the cuffs of his blue jacket indicated his high rank.

Marguerite flashed a winning smile.  “As a matter of fact, yes.  Your officer here is refusing to allow me to stay in my husband’s quarters.”

The man’s brow furrowed as he asked to see her passport and papers.  “I’m sorry, ma’am but your passport indicates that you are unmarried.”

“We were married by a village shaman...guess he was all out of certificates at the time,” she answered with ease.

“Without the proper documentation, I’m afraid Seaman Curtis is correct in assigning you to two different cabins.  The quarters near the captain are quite lovely and I’m certain will suit your needs.  If you’ll follow me, I’ll direct you to them.”

“Oooh, I *hate* this!  Four years have led up to what?”

Roxton pulled her close and lowered his forehead to hers in resignation.  “It’s alright, my dear.  When we return to England, we’ll go directly to the London house and I won’t let you leave the bed for a week.” His smile degraded to a leer as he added, “At least.”

“Roxton!” she cried, slightly pulling away.  “We’re in public!” 

“So?” His voice softened with love.  “You’re my wife, even if the liner doesn’t agree, we know it.”  She cupped his jaw and caressed his cheek with her thumb.  Raising a hand to cover her own, John kissed her palm, sending shivers of pleasure through them both.

The officer regretfully cleared his throat.  Having witnessed their display of obvious affection, he had few doubts that they were married.  After all, the lovers he had seen rarely exhibited the same simple caring that was evident in the scene before him. 

“Yes, yes, we know,” Marguerite griped. “Separate rooms.”

***

Four years, eight months, two weeks and five days later, the steamer sailed into the London harbor and the Challenger Expedition minus one returned home.  The welcoming party, while not as large as that which had bid the passengers of the fateful Titanic voyage good-bye still added to the teary-eyed effect of their first sight of London.  Big Ben loomed in the distance, a triumphant hallmark to the stalwart British resolve.  The four met at the starboard railing for one last uninterrupted conversation before the inevitable occurred. 

“Well,” said Malone as he shouldered his backpack, “looks like this is it.  Now what?”

“What do you mean, ‘now what?’” Marguerite asked.  “Now we make our triumphant return to the civilized world.  Challenger will be a hero, you’ll write the story of the century, Roxton will be hailed the greatest hunter alive, and I will disappear into obscurity as just another old married member of the peerage.”

Roxton snorted.  “After all the excitement of the last four years, I would have thought you would be more interested in a nice long bubble bath with plenty of good maid service than fame.”

“Who says I can’t have both?” she asked to the men’s answering laughter.

The ship bucked slightly jostling the group as it bumped into the side of the docks and forestalled any further conversation.  “Time to see what awaits,” Challenger said as the party moved toward the boarding ramp.  “Let’s all agree to meet sometime next week, after the fervor dies down.”

“Wonderful idea,” agree Roxton.  “Why don’t we meet at my London home...say 
Thursday afternoon around tea time?”

“Perfect!” answered the professor while the others nodded in agreement.  “Good luck to you, then.”  A crush of reporters greeted Challenger and Malone as they disembarked, while Roxton and Marguerite were pulled toward another section of the crowd. 

Grabbing her hand, Roxton forced his way through the well-wishers and amid the back slaps and hand shakes, finally found the porter who was now loading their bags into a taxi.  “John!” a cultured elderly voice called.  “John Richard!”

Roxton paid the porter and turned to see the dowager Lady Roxton, followed closely by her brother, making her way toward him.  “Mother!” he greeted, dragging Marguerite behind him.  “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, posh!” she cried, shaking the concerned hand off her shoulder.  “I’m fit as a fiddle and when I received the telegram that you were coming home at last, I resolved right away to be here to meet my son on his return.”

“I did try to stop her,” the tall, gray-blond man answered, his sharp blue eyes casting an appraising gaze toward Marguerite.  Lady Roxton realized that her son was not alone and looked at the beautiful young woman who stood next to him.  She glanced down at their joined hands and smiled. 

Hearing the unspoken question that hung in the air, Roxton placed an arm around Marguerite’s waist.  “Mother, I’d like you to meet my wife --“

“Marguerite Krux,” interrupted an authoritative voice, “you’re under arrest.”

Marguerite glanced from the officer to Roxton’s family and thought, ‘Hell of a first impression,’ even though in the back of her mind she had expected this.  Shocked, Roxton pulled her closer and blurted, “On what charge?”

The officer grabbed her arm, pulling her out of her husband’s grasp.  A split second later, he had swung her around and cuffed her wrists roughly.  “High treason.  She’s a German spy.”
****
 

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.  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 then 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.

****

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 pled 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.”

****

“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 replied 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.

****

“Yes, I understand.  Thank you, Lord Wallace, for the information...and, do extend my invitation to your wife for tea sometime next week.  It has been too long since we last spoke.”  With a resigned sigh, the dowager Lady Roxton rang off.  The last of her calls made and favors requested and still she had been unable to help her new daughter-in-law’s case.  Every MP she had spoken with had vehemently denied any foreknowledge of Marguerite’s arrest and was unable to offer any aid for her defense.  The only news that she obtained was the punishment should the young woman be found guilty: death by hanging.

Unwilling to cause her son further pain, and yet, knowing that she had to share the information with him, she pursed her lips, determining the best method would be tell him outright.  He had never wanted bad news sugar-coated, even as a child, and she was not about to begin to do so now.  At this moment, he was more than likely on his way home from the Yard.  She would know immediately if he had been allowed to see his wife just by looking in his eyes. 

She had always loved those murky greenish-brown depths, filled with mirth for most of his childhood and teenage years; they had only hardened after William’s death.  When she had met him at the port, the hardness was gone, replaced by the love he obviously felt for the woman beside him.  Yesterday, as his wife was taken away in handcuffs, the love was tempered by the hardness.  This time, however, she knew that if Marguerite was not acquitted, the harsh gleam would return in totality likely never to be erased again.

A murmur of voices from the hall stilled her thoughts.  John was home, and by the tone of the conversation, was mildly unhappy.  Certainly not the rage she had expected so she gathered the inspector had allowed some type of visit.  Without ceremony, he pushed open the doors to her solarium and entered.  She gestured for him to join her at the table and, with little introduction, related what she had discovered.

“She’s been my wife for little more than two weeks and she’s facing a death sentence?” he shouted, shoving his chair back and rising to stalk toward the window. 

His mother winced at the impotent violence of his actions, but offered no comment.  Now was not the time for decorum.  “John, if its one thing about you that I know, you’re very resourceful when it comes to the people you love.  You’ll figure out something.”

“And we’ll be here to help you,” interjected Malone from the doorway. Challenger stood just behind him.  Both were men a welcome sight; just as they could be trusted to do on the plateau, reinforcements had arrived.  Roxton glanced from his friends back to his mother.

“You didn’t think we would abandon you when we heard the news, did you?” Challenger asked as they entered the room.

Roxton shook his head, still unable to believe their unexpected appearance.  “You two have your own lives to return to.  Malone, what about your promise to Veronica? This trial is certain to drag out past the date you gave her.”

Malone offered him a reassuring smile.  “Veronica will understand.  She may not be too happy with me for a while, but she will understand.  Besides, I’ve found something that’s worth the wait.”

Challenger agreed.  “We’re a family, John, and families don’t disappear when difficult situations occur.”

Accepting the men at their word, John nodded and indicated both should sit.  “Well, then, since we’ve settled the particulars,” Lady Roxton said as she handed the professor a cup of tea, “do either of you know anything about Marguerite’s history?”

Challenger shook his head and grinned wryly.  “That woman keeps her secrets closer than her jewels.”

Roxton smiled in spite of the circumstances.  “In four years, I know little more about her past than when we were first lost.”

“There was one time, though...” Malone began, his brow furrowed with thought.  “Early on, a German pilot from the War got caught in the updrafts and crash landed.”

“I remember Summerlee mentioning that a German biplane appeared one day.  And you remember those visions we saw,” Challenger agreed. 

“Based on Marguerite’s reaction and later conversations between the two of them,” Malone leaned forward in the wingback, warming to the tale, “they obviously knew each other.  I never did figure out how, but his parting remark always made me wonder.”

Roxton, not having heard this story before, asked, “What did he say?”

“Something about us not knowing the kind of woman she really was,” the reporter answered, shrugging at the lord’s obvious curiosity. 

“Well, what the devil was that supposed to mean?”

“At the time, I didn’t have a clue.  Now, I wonder if he knew something about her history as a spy.  She later thanked us for protecting her from him, but never said a word more on the subject.”  He gestured helplessly uncertain if the information hurt more than aided the situation.

Challenger swallowed the last of his tea and set the cup aside.  “Do you remember the pilot’s name?  We might be able to contact him.”

Startled by the proposition, Lady Roxton said, “Won’t that help the prosecution’s case?  After all, you haven’t any idea as to what the man was referring when he mentioned Marguerite’s past.”

The trio turned to Roxton who had been silent for several minutes. “John?” his mother prompted.

The lord pursed his lips, carefully weighing all the options. After a moment, he spoke. 

“According to Wilkite, the evidence against her is almost insurmountable.  I don’t believe we truly have a choice in the matter.  If he has information that could clear her, we need to find him.”

Challenger offered him a supportive smile and nodded.  “Then we’d best begin.  Malone, you still have contacts from the War, correct?”

“Yeah,” he replied rising from the chair, “I’ll give them a call now and see if we can track him down.”  As he left the room, he paused and squeezed the hunter’s shoulder.  “We’ll bring her home, Roxton,” he murmured.

***

The next morning, promptly at eight o’clock, the Queen’s Court, the highest office of the British judicial system, was called to order.  Marguerite and Wilkite stood respectively behind the defense table, their actions mirrored by the prosecutor, a highly capable barrister by the name of Reginald Merriweather.  Both counsels wore the crimson robes and white wigs that were required of their positions. 

The Lord Chief Justice of England, head of the Queen’s Bench and the most senior judge in England and Wales, sat behind the bench, an imposing figure of a man whose ruddy complexion spoke of a quick temper and an impatience for courtroom shenanigans. 

“Due to the seriousness of the charges against your client, Mr. Wilkite, I have ordered that the trial proceed post-haste.  With jury selection complete, I expect we will begin immediately unless there is any issue?”  The judge’s dark look quelled any objections the defense counsel might have made and Marguerite felt her heart sink. 

By all appearances, she would be unable to use any of her usual tactics to free herself from the situation.  Not that she truly wanted to resort to such measures, but old habits did not disappear easily.  Sparing a glance for John, who sat in the front row of the gallery immediately behind her, she steeled herself to stay the course she had already resolved to follow.  Honor, as her husband had shown on multiple occasions, dictated nothing less. 

Accepting the silence, the chief justice nodded and instructed, “Mr. Merriweather, you may open.”

The prosecutor returned the nod with grave assent and rose to approach the panel.  “My lord, gentlemen of the jury, I wish to thank you for your presence today in a matter of utmost importance to the continued safety of our country.  Before you is Marguerite Krux, a woman of independent means and multiple talents.  She, who was born a British citizen and raised in our boarding schools, has showed no loyalty to her birth country.  She, in fact, is accused of spying for Germany during the Great War. 

“The Crown will prove this accusation brought forth by none other than a German citizen through the presentation of testimony and evidence that will illustrate the depth of this woman’s guilt.  Throughout this trial, I ask that you ponder how many of our men died because of her actions.  The defense will try to sway you stating that she spied for the love of her country.  But how, in any imagining, could such actions equate to love, I ask you?  She is a traitor of the first order. I know it, she knows it, and, by the end of the trial, you, too, shall know it and justice shall be served.”  The attorney offered a slight bow to the lord chief justice indicating his finish to which the judge waved a hand.

“Call your first witness.”

“My lord, please the court, I call Herr Wilhelm von Gutenburg.”

Marguerite moved slightly in her seat.  This was to be the first time since her husband’s funeral that she had seen her step-son.  If one could even call him that.  Having never known the boy while she was married to his father, she was shocked at the funeral to find him almost a copy of her dead husband.  Now as the young man walked into the gallery, she caught herself again at the startling comparison to Freiderich. 

Freiderich von Gutenburg, at one time, held the third most powerful position in the Kaiser’s government, that of the head of the Intelligence Department.  Trader had directed her that Gutenburg was to be her target throughout the assignment and was authorized to use any available tactic to get close to him.  It just so happened that marriage had been paramount on the man’s mind at the time. 

Her second husband under her cover name and in her real life, Marguerite had walked down the aisle to him with more than a little reluctance, but had also known her directives had been clear.  If the Allies wanted to win, then every measure was to be taken regardless of how unappealing to the agent. 

Shaking the memory away, she watched as her accuser was sworn in and the Queen’s 
Counsel stood to begin the examination.  “Herr von Gutenburg, will you please relate to the court your relationship to the defendant.”

The young German grimaced.  “She *was* my step-mother.”

“And how did she come about marrying your father?”

“At the time, I was with my attachment in Egypt so I’m not fully certain how they met. All that I do know is that I received a letter from my father in July 1916 stating that he had married and hoped to introduce us when I was next on leave.”

“And, did you meet her on your next leave?”

“After a fashion.  I met her at my father’s funeral.  He was supposedly killed by a stray bullet in a crowd.”  He shot Marguerite a dark, telling look. 

“At the time, did you know she was a spy?” 

The young man shook his head.  “Not until much later after she’d returned to wherever she’d come from.  I was reviewing several of my father’s personal belongings in storage when I discovered several papers that were not written in his hand.”

“And what did these papers reference?”

“Several suspected British camps in and around Syria.”

“My lord, I present Prosecution’s exhibits A through C,” Merriweather stated as handed a sheaf of papers to the bailiff, who, in turn presented them to the judge. “These are official, unclassified intelligence documents from the German government.  At the bottom, you will see the name Bettina Haasdorf penned in what is assuredly Marguerite Krux’s handwriting.  Thank you, Herr von Gutenburg. No further questions, my lord.”

“Mr. Wilkite?  Cross?”

“Yes, your lordship.”  Wilkite rose and walked toward the witness. “Herr von Gutenburg, did you see my client complete these documents or sign them?”

“That is impossible. As I stated previously, I was stationed in Egypt during the time of their marriage.”

“So, ‘no’ would be your answer then?  I thought as much.  Is it possible that these documents are forgeries?”

“Objection, my lord, the witness is not trained to determine authenticity.”

“Noted and sustained.”

“Herr von Gutenburg, it is obvious that you hold some sort of malice towards Miss Krux. Why is that?”

“I believe she is responsible for my father’s death. She was among those in the crowd that day according to reports. It would have been easy for her to hide a gun.”

“But what motivation could she possibly have?  If she was indeed spying for the 
Germans, as you claim, why kill her husband, who as the head of the intelligence division, was perhaps her greatest protector?”

“Women do strange things.”

“Was there any reason to suspect that she might have been spying for more than just the Germans?”

“As I said, I was not there at the time.  I only know what I have pieced together from my father’s personal belongings.”

Knowing he was stymied but hopeful that he had at least placed a grain of doubt into the jurors’ minds, Wilkite indicated he was finished with the witness.

“Mr. Merriweather, call your next witness.”

“The prosecution calls Herr Rudolf Himmler.”

The man was duly sworn in and the prosecutor began his examination.  “Herr Himmler, what was your position during the war?”

“I was attached to the German Intelligence Agency and served as a code-breaker for much of my time there.”

“At any time were you given orders regarding the attainment of intelligence from the field?”

“The German Intelligence Agency was given direction by the head of the department that we should expect to receive information from a new source regarding British activities.  I assumed at the time that our previous contact had been killed.”

“Did you ever meet this new contact?”

“Yes, on multiple occasions.  She always forwarded the news in person, in her own *special* way.”

Marguerite stifled an outraged shout at the man’s subtle inference which allowed the jury members’ minds to surmise what they would.  Behind her, she could feel Roxton bristle at the insinuation.  She leaned toward Wilkite and whispered, “He’s lying.  I *never* slept with him!”  The barrister nodded, but was unable to object to the witness’ testimony since the comment had been so vague.

“And do you see that person in the courtroom?”

“Yes, it is the defendant, Marguerite Krux.”

****

After several more prosecution witnesses, each, it seemed, more damaging than the previous, the trial had been halted for the night.  Wilkite was scheduled to begin his defense in the morning and had left the interrogation room a few minutes earlier after a brief review of the evidence with his client.  They had agreed that she would not take the stand in her defense since no hard evidence had been located to corroborate her story. 

Wilkite had determined there was no need to risk undermining an already shaky case and make her an easy target of the Queen’s Counsel, who was by all accounts a man who enjoyed tearing down defendants.  Marguerite leaned back against the cold stone wall and wondered for the hundredth time how she had reached this point.  Then she remembered: the explorers had found a way off the plateau. 

A knock interrupted the woman’s turbulent thoughts.  “Lady Roxton,” greeted a startled Marguerite as the older woman was escorted into the interview room.  Expecting the family barrister, the brunette ran her hand through the masses of tangles trying to straighten them only to give up the effort when the dowager smiled and placed a staying hand on her arm.

“It’s quite alright, my dear.  I wouldn’t imagine you to look your best under these conditions.”

Marguerite offered a wan smile that didn’t reach her eyes.  “Please, um, sit down,” she invited gesturing to the rickety wooden chair in the corner. 

Lady Roxton gracefully lowered herself as if she were about to sit on a Louis XIV chair paying little attention to the humbleness of her surroundings.  Marguerite admired the woman’s aplomb, knowing that she probably had never been near Newgate prison much less visited a prisoner.  Uncertain why the dowager was here, Marguerite cleared her throat.

Taking pity on her son’s wife, Lady Roxton flashed a benevolent smile.  “Since my son has requested that I not appear in the courtroom, I feel somewhat cut off.  Besides, we haven’t yet had a chance to visit.  John is very forthcoming about your attributes, but he has hardly mentioned your past. What prompted you to fund the expedition?”

Marguerite stifled a surprised cough and answered with artful finesse, “Well, I had some extra cash lying around and wanted a vacation.”

The dowager cocked an unamused eyebrow to which the heiress rolled her eyes and added, “It is partially true.  I did have the funds, but the vacation was taken more by force than free will.  I had amassed...a debt...if you will and the claimant was insistent upon...repayment...at a time when it was not possible.”

Though it was obvious the older woman was not convinced by Marguerite’s explanation, she made no comment otherwise and instead asked, “Had you not met John prior to the expedition?  I realize he isn’t often in town, but you would travel in the same social circles.”

The younger woman shook her head.  “No, we hadn’t met at the time; I was busy settling a family estate after the death of my husband.” 

“You were married?”

“Yes, he was, um, killed during the war.”

“Oh, my dear, I am sorry.  Then I am doubly glad that you’ve found happiness again.”

Marguerite smiled warmly, though she didn’t elaborate on the circumstances of her husband’s death.  She could never admit to the truth that Wilhelm only surmised, namely that she herself had pulled the trigger when it became obvious Freidrich suspected her of being more than she claimed. 

Wary of further pursuance of the topic at hand, the heiress sighed and changed the subject. “As much as I hated being stranded there, I must admit, the plateau was the best thing that could have happened to me.  Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to come home more than anyone else, but my idea of home was the place I had left, not this one where I’m public enemy number one.”

“My dear, I do understand the luxury of being able to begin life as another person.  When I married John’s father, I wasn’t from a noble birth.  I came from an upper class family, but my father was a heavy gambler and squandered most of my inheritance at the track or at the gaming halls.  When he died, we were nearly penniless. 

“Edward and I had been neighbors and friends as children, but family duty took him away and we hadn’t seen each other since that time.  I was surprised that he remembered me, when we met up in town, but he did.  Later, he said that he had loved me for a long time.  He had just been too scared to go against his father’s wishes at the time and ask to court me.  When I told him about my father and that I had no dowry to offer, a shocked look appeared on his face and he took my hand in his and he said, ‘I only want you. That’s dowry enough.’”

Marguerite chuckled.  “So that’s where John’s silver tongue comes from.  There are times when I could kill him and then a moment later, he says something so totally unexpectedly sweet that it throws me off guard.”

“Yes, he’s always had a way with the ladies, though I don’t believe he has much experience with love itself.  I must say, I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.  And he does love *you*, my girl, never doubt that for a minute.”

The younger Lady Roxton nodded thoughtfully.  “I know.  I think I’ve known all along.”

***

When court reconvened the next morning, Marguerite found herself bolstered by the surprising support of John’s mother who had braved her son’s anger and now sat beside him in the gallery.  The dowager smiled reassuringly at her daughter-in-law as the guard released her to her seat behind the defense table.  Marguerite returned the smile with slight hesitation though she warmed noticeably when her gaze moved to Roxton. 

As soon as the Lord Chief Justice entered and took his seat at the bench, he nodded to Wilkite and the defense’s portion of the trial commenced.  “My lord, gentlemen of the jury,” began the Roxton family barrister, “my client, Marguerite Krux, has done many things in the past that she is not proud of.  As, I am certain, have several of you.  But one of her mistakes was not spying for the Germans during the War.  She, in fact, was under direct orders from the Crown and any undertaking she took part in was in the hope of a betterment of the Allied position. 

“You cannot convict my client on what will appear to be fact, but, in actuality, is merely coincidence.  We will not present a lengthy case before you because I believe that you, the jury, are able to ascertain what is the truth from what is obviously fiction.  Marguerite Krux is an upstanding citizen of Great Britain who has proven her loyalty to her friends and her country on multiple occasions and, thus, is wrongly accused of the charges.”

“Call your first witness,” the Lord Chief Justice ordered. 

“Please the court, I request the appearance of Professor George Challenger.”

Challenger walked through the gates and tossed a reassuring smile toward Marguerite.  Having been called as a character witness, he was certain his testimony would only aid in her defense.  After being duly sworn in, the professor turned to Wilkite.

“Professor Challenger, what circumstances brought about your introduction to my client?”

“Four years ago, I was presenting evidence of a lost world at the monthly Zoological Society meeting.  She offered to fund the expedition when it was clear the Society had neither the desire nor the funds to do so.”

“And was her funding contingent upon anything?”

“Only that she be allowed to join the expedition.”

“Once you had compiled the team and all the necessary items had been obtained, were you able to get to know her any better?  That is to say, did you ever discover the reasons behind her monetary donation?”

“She only stated that she had recently come into a measure of wealth due the passing of a relative.  I honestly didn’t question her motives.”

“While you were on the plateau, in this Lost World of yours, did she ever give you reason to suspect she was more than she seemed?”

“Marguerite is very secretive, and at first, self-preservation was her ultimate goal, but after a few months, she began to change and over time looked at our group as somewhat a surrogate family.”

“Do you trust her?”

“Implicitly.  She’s saved every member of the group’s lives multiple times.”

“So, is she, in your opinion, capable of severing all ties with her birth country and betraying it so heinously as the prosecution infers?”

“Marguerite Krux is capable of many things.  She’s a learned scholar who graduated from Oxford, is an exceptional linguist and possesses an amazing talent with gemstones.  However, when she gives a person or thing her loyalty, though hard-won, it is theirs forever.  So, no, sir, I do not believe her capable of spying for the enemy.” 

“Nothing further, my lord.”

“Mr. Merriweather?”

“Yes, my lord, I do wish to cross.  Professor Challenger, you stated that you never pressed the defendant for further information as to how she obtained this fortune other than she had inherited it, correct?”

“That is correct.”

“Would it surprise you to note that while a large sum of money was deposited into a Swiss bank account in her name, it wasn’t on or around the time of your presentation nor subsequent departure for this so-called Lost World?”

“People die every day, counselor, that doesn’t mean their estates are settled as easily.”

“Quite so.  But if you will refer to Prosecution’s exhibits D and E, will you read the date of the largest transaction?”

“November 18, 1916.”

“And what significance does that date possess?”

Challenger looked from the document to Marguerite, stunned by the possibility.  “Its two days after General Haig declared defeat at the Battle of the Somme.”

“That is correct; a four month battle during which Great Britain lost roughly 400,000 men and also in which, Sir Henry Rawlinson had received assurances by intelligence that there would be no German resistance.”

“Coincidence.  It must be.”

“Do you think so?  Please reference Prosecution exhibit E.  What is the date of the largest deposit?”

“May 31, 1917, the day Haig’s forces withdrew from the offensive at Arras.”

“Is that, too, a coincidence?”

“Objection, your lordship, the professor is not a military figure nor was he involved in the intelligence portion of the War.”

“Objection noted and sustained.  Mr. Merriweather, please refrain from asking for opinions from the witness when he is not in possession of sufficient knowledge to give credible testimony.”

“Yes, my lord.  Given the evidence that I’ve presented to you, Professor Challenger, do you still believe that Miss Krux happened to inherit such a substantial amount of money based on the death of a relative?”

The question was greeted by silence. 

“No further questions, your lordship.”

“The witness is excused.”

Challenger stepped down from the witness box and glanced at Marguerite with new eyes.  He hadn’t thought it possible that she would betray the world to the Germans, but remembering her behavior prior to being lost on the plateau and the subsequent months, he began to doubt his convictions.  Marguerite smiled wanly at him, reading the disappointment and reservation in his gaze.  As a man of science, he would, first and foremost, place his belief in fact and she knew that the incontrovertible proof had already been laid at his feet. 

“Mr. Wilkite, call your next witness.”

“If it pleases your lordship and the court, the defense requests the appearance of Herr Hans Dieter,” Wilkite requested.  The rear doors opened and the former World War I flying ace waltzed nonchalantly into the courtroom. 

He tossed a sardonic smile toward Marguerite and a whispered, “Liebschen, just where I always knew you would end up.  Do you feel the noose slowly tightening about your neck?”

The woman swallowed the urge to return the insult knowing it would not help her case.  Instead, she turned away and faced the judge, completely ignoring the pilot.  A dark chuckle answered her as he continued through the low gates that separated the barristers from the gallery.  He ascended the steps to the witness box and patiently waited for the questions to begin.

“How do you know the defendant?”

“I met Frauline Krux at a party given by the German military officials in celebration of our victory at Jutland in May, 1916.  The German head of Intelligence introduced her as Frau Bettina Haasdorf, a recently widowed Belgian citizen.  Apparently, she had been in German society for some time prior to that.”

“And what is your association with her?”

Dieter smiled coldly.  “We were lovers for a short time.  She liked men in uniform.  German uniforms to be exact.”

“Did you on any occasion witness Miss Krux divulging British military secrets?”

“I did.  Once, right before the attack at Sinai, I saw her with the secretary to the Intelligence Division.”

“You did say she liked German officers, could they have been discussing other things besides the War effort?”

“No, I overheard her mention the railhead specifically and that British troops were stationed there.  As you know General von Kressenstein was dispatched to the area not long after to engage the enemy.”

“Now, correct me if I’m in error, but wasn’t that skirmish easily won by the British troops?”

“No, you are correct, approximately 5,000 Turkish men under the general’s command were killed that day while the British only lost 1,100.”

“I wonder, given the supposed advanced knowledge that the German forces had, that the British were still able to defeat them?”

“I believe the saying goes, ‘Ours is not to wonder why, ours is but to fight and die.’”

“If it please the court, I would like to return to this subject at a later time.  Were you ever, at any time, given cause to speculate as to Miss Krux’s loyalty to the German state?”

“I’m not certain that I understand your question.”

“Did you ever suspect that she might be leaking German intelligence to the Allies?”

“No, never.”

“Not at any time?”

“That is what I said.”

“Asked and answered, my lord,” interjected the prosecutor.

“Quite right,” agreed the Lord Chief Justice.  “Move along, Mr. Wilkite.”

“I have no further questions at this time, your Grace.”

“Very well, if the Crown does not wish to cross-examine, the witness is excused.  We will break for lunch and return at two o’clock when we will hear the remaining witnesses and closing arguments.”

Outside the courtroom, Roxton grabbed Dieter by the shirt collar and shoved him up against the wall.  “You lied!”

“Of course I did.  After all, why should *we* try your wife for aiding the enemy when *your* own people are so eager to hang her for treason?” 

“Roxton,” cautioned Malone who glanced surreptitiously from the lord to the police officer just down the hall, “now is not the time.”  He shook his head at the quelling look John shot him and placed a restraining hand on his arm.  “Later, most definitely, I’ll even hold him down for you.  But right now, Marguerite needs you. If you get thrown out of the courtroom...”

Cursing silently, Roxton shoved the pilot once more against the wall then released him. 

“So once again, you make the wrong choice and protect a woman such as that. I do truly pity you, especially you, Lord Roxton, for marrying her.”  Dieter flashed them an insincere smile before turning and walking down the hall. 

“There may be another way, Roxton,” Malone soothed as the older man gave his jacket a sharp tug, pulling it back into place.

“I’m listening.”

Malone shook his head.  “Look I don’t want to get your hopes up...it may be nothing.”

“Fine, fine.  Just whatever you do, do it fast,” Roxton bit out in a brusque tone.  Stifling the urge to ram his fist through the mahogany paneled wall, he continued, “This trial is little more than a sham as it is; regardless of how many witnesses Wilkite is planning on presenting, judging by the jurors’ faces, Marguerite will be convicted today and hang tomorrow.”

****

“Hey, Malone!” one of the news desk boys yelled.  “Ya’ got a visitor!”

The young reporter stifled a sigh and tossed aside the folder of documents.  He had been getting nowhere in his research for someone who might have known about Marguerite’s agreement with Trader.  “Might as well take a break,” he muttered as he rose from his desk and walked toward the News Desk.

He stopped suddenly when he saw his visitor.  “Veronica?”

The blonde woman grinned and spun around, her blue and white dress fanning out into the air around her.  “Do I look civilized to you?”

Dumbstruck, Ned could only nod his agreement.  Veronica, however, spared him from further thought when she continued, “I found my parents.  Or at least what was left of them.”

“What?  How?” he asked leading her back to his desk and indicating she should take his chair.  He leaned against the corner of the desk itself. 

“The day after you left, Assai came by to check on me.  She also brought news that some of the warriors had come across a cave filled with human skeletons.”  Veronica looked down at the small journal she clutched in her hand.  “Assai said they found several things there, but the most important was this.”

Ned took the journal and opened it to read the inscription.  “’To our darling, Veronica.’  You mean...”

She nodded with a sad smile.  “It’s my mother’s handwriting.  Apparently, she and my father had been exploring the cave when some type of earthquake occurred and they were trapped by the fallen rock.  The journal tells everything that they had been doing -- even mentioned how they had constructed a balloon to better survey the area. But mostly it says how much they wished that I would not have to grow up alone.”

“Veronica, I’m so sorry,” Ned began as he lightly clasped her hand.

Shaking her head, she answered, “Thank you, but I found my parents and gave them a proper burial.  That’s all that matters.”

“So you hopped the next steamer to London just to tell me this?”

“Well, yes and no.  I missed everyone and, with my parents found, it seemed rather futile to wait four months before I could see you again.”  She glanced away shyly, uncertain if, now that he had returned to his world, Ned still felt the same way.  To cover her embarrassment, she added, “Besides, you, Challenger, Roxton and Marguerite became more my family a long time ago.”

Malone started at her mention of Marguerite realizing suddenly there was no way she could have known what had happened.  “Veronica, about Marguerite...”

***

The jury had deliberated only forty-five minutes when word was announced that they had reached a decision.  Roxton looked from the bailiff to Wilkite and asked, “Is this good or bad?”

The barrister shook his head. “To own the truth, John, I’m not quite certain.”  The panel filed quickly back into the courtroom and a hush fell over the occupants as a woman’s fate passed from the hands of the head juror to the Lord Chief Justice.  The judge nodded once to the juror and read the verdict. 

“Marguerite Krux, you have been found guilty of the charge of espionage against the Crown.  Tomorrow morning your sentence will be carried out:  death by hanging.”

“No!” cried Roxton, who leapt across the railing to reach his wife.

Marguerite merely hung her head.  When the bailiff came to escort her from the courtroom, she turned and lifted her eyes to Roxton and whispered, “I’m sorry, John.” 

The hunter, despair plainly carved into his features, cupped her jaw.  “No, no, love, don’t even think of it.  This is not the end.  I’ll find a way.”  The officer allowed the couple a brief, pain-filled kiss before leading her out of the courtroom and back to her cell.

“Dammit, man!” Roxton cursed the barrister, his eyes glued to the retreating figure of his wife. “You’ve got to do something!”

“John, the court has made its decision; there’s nothing left to be done.”

The lord shook his head unable to accept Wilkite’s words.  Instead, he turned to the one man who had always managed to find reason where the illogical ruled.  “Challenger, any luck with the files?”

The professor shook his head.  “Sorry, Roxton, but Malone hasn’t been able to find anything.  The location of the files is something that it appears only David Trader knows.” 

>From the back of the room Thomas Riley looked on, a pillar of silence and regard, as he watched his nephew sink into the courtroom chair, defeat sagging his shoulders.  A man unaccustomed to the feeling of compassion, Riley felt it surge through him.  John Roxton was a good man who, by all accounts, had fallen in love and married a woman with a past.  Not completely unheard of, though it was enough of a concern to raise the eyebrows of society’s mores.  However, Marguerite Krux was a chameleon; a fact which allowed her to easily transition between two worlds.  Even the most hard-nosed of blue bloods would welcome her as one of their own.  Had the trial ended differently, she would have had the opportunity, of that he was certain.  And if they would do so, perhaps he could do the same and finally bury the memory of a woman whom he had loved. 

****

Marguerite stared at the food on the plain metal tray and wished that the lobster would disappear and be replaced by raptor meat.  Having been given a death sentence, the warden had promptly moved her from the communal cells into solitary confinement where she spent the night and ate her last meal -- or, at least, was supposed to eat.  She picked at the scrumptious lobster tail surrounded by a bed of fresh Romaine lettuce and a deliciously light rice pilaf.  The prison’s cook had outdone himself; it was too bad his customer had little appetite.  Funny thing that, she inwardly mused, while on the Plateau, she would have given her left arm for food such as this.

Pushing the tray aside, she rose and paced through the cell.  Part of her yearned to feel her husband’s arms around her and hear him whisper reassurances against her temple.  And yet, the other part was glad that he wasn’t there to see her in this state.  It was bad enough that he would be there for the hanging. Marguerite started at the thought.  Would John attend the execution?  Did she even want him to do so?

She wrapped her arms around herself, steeling against the sudden cold chill that swept over her.  What would her death do to him?  It had taken years, several of which had been spent in a Buddhist temple, for him to recover from his brother’s death.  And, knowing Roxton as she did, he would not view her demise as anything less than his fault. 

“Oh, John, of all the different scenarios, why did it have to end up this way? Why did I agree to Trader’s request?  Jail time would be infinitely more bearable than death.  He might have even sent me on an all expenses paid trip to Australia to work off my sentence in the labor camps.  At least there I would have had a chance to escape.”

A sudden knock interrupted her rant and she answered, “If it’s the Grim Reaper, you’ll just have to wait a few more minutes.”  When the door opened, a mousy-looking man stared dumbly at her and mumbled something about taking her tray if she was finished.

“Yes, yes. Take it,” she bit out irritated at the guard, at the whole situation.  She was married to the only man she had ever truly loved and would die before their vows could be consummated.  Fate’s wicked sense of humor caused her to grimace rather than laugh. 

Thinking back over the men in her life, she realized how much time she had wasted on girlish fantasies of the notion.  Certainly she had thought she loved Phillipe and had followed him from Monaco to Shang Hai on the rush of feeling she felt in his kiss.  Determined that she could make him love her just as she loved him, she had followed him around for two years living in a notch above squalor all while he swore that good fortune was just around the corner.  One more deal would solidify it.  When he told her she had to sell herself on the street because they needed the money, she finally realized the truth that had been present all along.  She had left the next day bound for Paris and had met Adrienne her first night in town.

Then came the millionaire with the ‘two mistresses and an overdraft.’  A mistake of grandiose proportions, though certainly not the last.  Several dignitaries and businessmen figured into the years between her marriages to the millionaire and later to von Gutenburg, all minor dalliances, though she had loved none of them, each had his place in molding her into the woman she was now.  And for that she offered them silent thanks. 

The man who had taught her the true definition of love had not appeared until years later when they had been stranded in the middle of no-man’s land.  “John,” she murmured caressing the fourth finger of her right hand where his ring had so recently been placed.  The inspector had removed it ‘for her own good.’  And, having seen her cellmates for herself, she was glad he had. They were not the type to respect personal property, especially if it consisted of gold. 

Pounding her fist against the cement wall, she cursed, “Dammit, this wait is killing me!” then laughed harshly at the ironic phrase. 

***

“Commander John Davies, please.”

“Who might I ask is calling?”

“Tell him it is the Seaman Spy.”  Riley heard the confused pause and then was assured that his call would be transferred immediately.  He heard a soft click and then a mumbled response.  After a moment, the phone was picked up again.

“Yes?” the man on the other end of the line asked, his tone laced with doubt. 

“I am a wayward sailor man whom the Crown sent out to sea.”

“And for the Crown I’ll sail my days, my death soon to meet.  My, God, what in bloody hell happened?”  The voice became terse as soon as the requisite code had been stated and responded.

Riley smiled.  John Davies was nothing if not succinct, a trait he had often admired in his commanding officer.  “The woman, Marguerite Krux; we both know she’s not a traitor. But she will hang today if the proof is not presented.”

Tense silence reigned and for a moment, Riley feared the line had been disconnected.  He could hear Davies take in a deep, assessing breath.  “What is she to you?  Why risk everything?”

“She’s my nephew’s wife and the woman he loves.  She is his Mary Anne.”

Davies didn’t respond and all Riley could hear was the occasional crackle in the phone line.  “Alright, I’ll get them.”

“One more thing, you have to bring them to the judge.  I can’t be connected to them otherwise everything will be suspect and they’ll hang her anyway.”

Riley could picture the other man pursing his lips, judging the veracity of his request then agreed, “Very well.  Give me an hour or so.  I can’t guarantee that they are still where we left them.”

Riley nodded though Davies couldn’t see it then rang off.  As soon as the line cleared, he picked up the phone again.  “Operator, please connect me with the International Herald Tribune.  I need to speak with Mr. Ned Malone.”

***

The ominous clang of the steel gate opening resounded through the tense prison atmosphere.  Executions, thankfully, had been moved inside the prison walls some time ago, so the only persons in audience were Roxton, his mother, Challenger, Wilkite and various prison personnel. Though unnecessary in her mind, Marguerite spotted the judge in the background.  ‘Guess he wants to see for himself,’ she thought dourly. 

She offered each of her visitors a slight smile, the tense lines around her mouth and eyes making her face feel as though it was about to split in half.  Her gaze snagged Roxton’s and held.  As much as she wanted to offer him some type of reassurance, her smile disappeared under the weight of the knowledge that she would be dead in less than a half hour.  Blinking rapidly to dry the tears that clouded her vision, she stepped toward the gallows. 

John, for his part, had never felt so powerless in his life.  Even his brother’s death could not compare to the agony that now gripped him as he watched his wife ascend the wooden steps.  They had gambled and lost.  She had counted on him to find some way to clear her name, but he had failed and now she would pay the ultimate price.  Roxton cringed as the hangman pulled her roughly into position behind the noose. 

Challenger placed a steadying hand on his arm, but as the rope was tightened about her neck, the lord struggled against the hand in the vain attempt to try and save her.  Marguerite’s gray eyes pleaded with him to accept the outcome, but she knew her husband would fight to the death to protect her from harm.  Even when the exercise was futile. 

“Marguerite!”  The pain-filled cry ripped from Roxton’s chest.  “Challenger, *damn* you, let me *go*!”   The lord struggled against the older man’s firm grip and when he discovered his friend would not relent, Roxton jabbed a sharp left hook into the older man’s stomach and jumped the short row of benches intent on saving his wife.  The sharp click of a pistol being cocked stopped him as the guard pointed his service weapon at Roxton’s temple.  The Dowager Lady Roxton, overwhelmed by the sheer immensity of the scene, screamed at the sight of her only son in the direct line of fire.

“John, don’t!” Marguerite’s cry stilled his movements and locking his gaze with hers he shook his head, unwilling to accept that their love would end in this manner.  She raised her bound hands toward him as if to caress his face, to bring him comfort.  “It’s alright,” she said through the tears that trailed down her cheeks.  “We knew that this could happen.”

The hangman, who had paused a moment to allow her a few last words with the man who so obviously loved her, pulled a black hood from the scaffold wall and moved to cover Marguerite’s face with it.  Tearing her eyes from John, Marguerite shook her head vehemently at her executioner.  “No, I don’t want it. 

“Yer sure, miss?” he asked, startled by her unexpected response.  He had never hanged a woman before and already she showed more courage than most of the men who had felt his knot.  Though she had been condemned a criminal, his respect for her rose a notch.  “Alright then,” he answered then hung it back in its place knowing she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.  He glanced surreptitiously toward the man who still struggled in protest. 

Roxton, pain deeply etched into his features, shook his head, eyes filled with the fear of losing her.  “If the prisoner has no further last words,” began the jailer with a harsh regard for the scene before him.  He let his voice trail off and waited for Marguerite to shake her head, then nodded to the hangman who, with little ceremony, flipped the lever that held the trap door in place. 

Marguerite first felt the drop and then a moment later the excruciating pain of the rope cutting into her neck.  Vaguely, she could hear Roxton calling to her, but the air in her lungs had disappeared and she was left with only the tears that coursed down her face. 

“Roxton!” called a familiar voice.  Malone broke through the guards and rushed toward him with Veronica and an unknown man in tow.  “Roxton, I’ve got it!” 

John, tearing his gaze from his wife, recognized the reporter as the words filtered through his brain.  With his next breath, he ordered, “Stop!” and frantically wrestled with the officer for the gun.  Veronica, seeing the bluish tinge of Marguerite face darken to purple, pulled her knife out from under her skirt and threw it, slicing the rope cleanly, dropping the older woman to ground. 

“MARGUERITE!” the lord yelled as he elbowed the officer out of his way and raced to the fallen body of his wife.  He grabbed Veronica’s knife, which lay a few inches away from him and sliced through the thick rope.  The drop itself was enough to break her neck, but as he gingerly felt along her nape, he determined she was still alive, if only unconscious.  Malone hurried the unknown man toward the judge opening the file of papers that he held tightly. 

“Marguerite, love, come on, wake up.”   Roxton combed her long dark hair away from her face, wincing at the purplish bruises that were now appearing around her neck.  Brushing a kiss on her forehead, he whispered, “I kept my promise...we found the evidence.  Now you have to keep yours.  You swore you would stay by my side through everything.  Don’t leave me now, not when we have another chance.” 

After a moment of tense silence, Marguerite’s eyes fluttered slightly.  “I didn’t promise you anything,” she murmured to her husband who joyously rained kisses over her face.  “You were the one who promised not to leave *me*.”

“Details, details,” he replied bringing her more snugly into the circle of his arms.  He eased her up so that she could watch as the new evidence was presented to the judge.

The stranger stood stock still, almost at attention, his military bearing evident to all.  The Lord Chief Justice paged through the file a moment and then looked up at the man.  “And you can verify all of this?” he asked, his forbidding tone softening.

“The Battle of Jutland was considered a strategic victory for the British, but had they not obtained the intelligence provided by Miss Krux, the Royal Navy would have easily been destroyed and German naval supremacy would have been assured.  If that had occurred, we could well be under the Kaiser’s rule at this very moment.”

“Miss Krux, why did you not testify to this?”

>From her half leaning position against Roxton, Marguerite cleared her throat and answered, “My operation was under the strictest confidence; had the information been released that I had been the spy who provided the German offensive plans, I would have been killed instantly and Trader would have lost his ace.  During the trial, all I had was my word and, based on all of the other witnesses, I knew that no one would believe me.”

“How do you explain the deposits in your Swiss bank account?”

“They were for just the reasons that Mr. Merriweather stated.  I did leak information regarding the British forces at the Somme and Arras, but only as I was directed to so by David Trader.  As for the money, it wasn’t like I could give it back.  The Germans were paying me for information.  If I didn’t accept the payment, then my cover would have been destroyed and I would have been just as dead.”

“It is bothersome that you still took the money, however, I do see your point, Miss Krux.”  The Lord Chief Justice pursed his lips as he studied the files more closely.   “Based upon the evidence contained herein, I must reject the jury’s sentence and declare you to be innocent of all charges against you.”

Roxton laughed in astonishment as he hugged Marguerite tighter.  She glanced up at him, relishing in the smile that softened his features then turned her gaze to the others.  “Thank you,” she mouthed to Malone and Challenger who both nodded in response.  “Veronica?” she asked, puzzled by the other woman’s unexpected appearance.  “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story,” she answered with a smile.  “I’m just glad to see that you’re alright.”

“Yes, my dear,” agreed the Dowager Lady Roxton, “I believe we all are.”

****

Later that afternoon, Marguerite found herself ensconced in the master suite of the Roxton family home.  John had ordered her to bed as soon as they had reached the London house, a command to which, while she was all to ready to obey, she mounted the expected argument against.  Unfortunately, an ill-timed yawn negated her words and she sheepishly followed the housekeeper off to the room. 

By all rights, she was tired, but having prepared for bed and drunk the tea provided by the ever-efficient Mrs. Pringle, a surge of energy infused her and, curious about her new home, she pulled on her silk robe and eased out the door, careful of any lingering servants.  She heaved a relieved sigh when no one appeared to usher her back to bed.  Glancing left, then right, she cocked a curious eyebrow toward an open door just up the hallway.   Her steps, muffled by the soft bedroom shoes, quickly brought her to her goal and she eased open the door to reveal a richly appointed library.  Never having figured Roxton to be such an avid reader, she assumed his mother had compiled the book selection. 

Curiosity somewhat abated, she lifted a leather-bound tome from its place on the shelf and flipped through the pages.  “You’ll never know how much he loves you,” came a voice from the shadows. 

Marguerite jumped, startled by the unexpected presence of Thomas Riley.  Gathering her wits about her, she felt her lips spread in a wry smile.  “Oh, I doubt that.”

“Then you know, if it came to it, he would give up everything for you, for your love.”  The man languidly rose from his seat in the shadows of the room and approached her.  “I once had to make that choice myself for a woman I deeply loved.  I took the other path and left her.  At the time, I rationalized the decision, factoring my heart out of the equation but, now I believe, I chose wrongly.  Having seen the devotion clearly evident in my nephew, I wonder if I could have been him all those years ago.”

Marguerite, clearly fascinated by the conversation, remained silent, allowing Riley the opportunity to speak his fill. 

“By betraying the secrets of the Crown and helping you to gain your life, I hope to find some sort of absolution for abandoning her when she needed me,” he murmured indicating the headline of the London Times which screamed, ‘Krux Innocent.’ 

Awareness dawned as she mentally pieced together the statement and the paper.  “You were the one behind the release of Trader’s papers.”

He smiled thinly and nodded.  “Yes, I admit that I was.  But then, as ‘a wayward sailor man whom the Crown sent out to sea’ you must have known that I would, Mrs. Haasdorf.”

Marguerite smiled as her memory aged the man who had been her contact when behind enemy lines and found that it matched the figure of Thomas Riley.  She shook her head and answered, “No, I didn’t recognize you when we met at the docks.  I only knew you as John’s uncle.  But now that I do, I remember how loyal you were to David Trader.  If he supported my efforts, so would you.”

Riley nodded in acknowledgment of the truth of her words and moved toward the door, certain the conversation was finished once and forever, knowing neither would ever mention it again.

“My only complaint?” she asked in an almost rhetorical fashion, smiling with decided amusement as she raised her hand to the alarming bruises on her neck.

Riley paused with his hand on the doorknob.  “What is that, my dear?”

“You’re timing could have been much better!”

***

Downstairs in the parlor, John, Challenger, Malone and Veronica toasted the mysterious caller who had located the Trader files.  “So, he didn’t identify himself at all?” Challenger asked taking another sip of the brandy.

Malone shook his head.  “He just said that he had knowledge of Marguerite’s activities during the War.  The evidence of her innocence was being retrieved and would be forwarded as soon as it had been located.”

“Very strange,” murmured the professor, “very strange indeed.”

“Well, strange or not, I’m just happy with the outcome,” Roxton interjected lighting a cigarette and taking a quick puff.  After a moment, he coughed roughly, his lungs now unaccustomed to the tobacco smoke.  The others smiled at his obvious discomfiture.  “Hmm, well, it was a nasty habit anyway,” he murmured, stubbing out the offending item in a nearby ashtray.

“So, Veronica, how do you like London?  Is it all that your parents described?” 
Challenger asked turning their attention to the blonde.

She wrinkled her brow and answered, “Well, it’s more than I expected, but not as bad as I’d feared.”

Ned chuckled and leaned forward in his seat. “There are more surprises to come, I assure you.”  He flashed a wide grin and thought of his plans for tomorrow.  Robert and Amy Montross had planned a huge welcome home party for her and he had been sworn to secrecy.

“Which begs the question,” she answered, her gaze settling on Challenger.  “Are you still planning a return expedition to the Plateau?”

The professor straightened in his chair and fingered the brandy glass thoughtfully.  “Now that is a good question.”

Roxton cocked a sardonic eyebrow and prompted, “Marguerite and I do need a honeymoon destination.”  The sudden tension in the room eased a bit, but all still waited for the older man’s response. 

“At one time, I had thought to make my career on the back of the successful conclusion of the expedition.  But now I find myself curiously desperate to protect the Plateau.  Though the world already knows of its existence, we should let the location be our own little secret.”

“That is a change,” Malone murmured surprised by the visionary’s conclusion.

“Ned, I’ve seen enough of this world since our return to realize that a place of such innocence should be protected if at all possible.  I would like to return, but only for personal reasons.”

Roxton nodded his agreement.  “I’ll have a t-rex head mounted in the tree house yet.”

Smiling, Veronica at long last felt a surge of contentment.  Having left the Plateau to follow her friends, she nonetheless had feared what would happen if her visit to the civilized world turned out to be permanent.  “Dupont did say that none of his employees ever venture over to the entrance.”

The professor glanced at her, his gaze comforting.  I’m sure he can be trusted to keep silent on the subject.  I’m sorry, Ned, but your story will have to be published as a work of fiction rather than an unabridged travel journal.”

The reporter smiled easily.  “Not a problem.  Half the stuff that my editor read he didn’t believe anyway.  It’ll read better as an adventure series.”

“Not in those ‘penny dreadfuls’ you’re so fond of, I hope,” Roxton added with a teasing grin.  The group laughed good-naturedly, the largest concern settled and talked long into the night content to relive old memories and eager to create new ones. 

***

“Thank you, Marshall,” Roxton murmured.  The butler placed a cup tea, double brewed, and milk on the table in front of him.  He could smell the freshly prepared breakfast from the kitchen as the scent wafted its way to the dining room each time the double doors opened and closed.  Having already eaten his fill, Roxton prepared the tea and opened the morning paper, curious to see if Marguerite was once more in the headlines. 

The doors behind him opened and he tossed the paper aside to turn and greet his wife. “Good morning, Marguerite.  How did you sleep?”

She smiled smugly.  Though they still had not consummated their Zanga wedding vows, she found that sleeping alone was infinitely preferable to sharing a cell with five other women.  “Like a baby,” she replied, settling into the chair next to his.

“Dream about anything?” he asked, leaning closer to her so that their lips were mere millimeters apart.  The mischievous light in his eyes urging her to play the game they both loved.

“Only about tonight,” she whispered, closing the distance between them to lock her lips to his in a sweet kiss.  Per the Dowager Lady Roxton’s request, the two would be officially married later that day in a small ceremony at the Roxton family estate in Avebury. 

John threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck and pulled her closer, thoroughly intent on deepening the kiss when a sharp, “Ahem!” broke through the air.

Resigned to yet another interruption and inwardly vowing to bar any and all from their wing of the manor, he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers.  “Good morning, Mother,” he muttered.

“John, Marguerite,” she greeted as she walked fully into the room and took the seat opposite them.  “It’s nice to see that you’re recovering so well from your traumatic experience, my dear.”

Marguerite had the good grace to blush at the underlying tone in the Dowager’s words before whispering to Roxton, “This is all *your* fault!”

John shot her an innocent look then returned his attention to the paper.  “Well, my dear, you got your wish.”

“And what wish was that?”  Marguerite tossed him a skeptical glare before digging into the plate of food Marshall had silently placed in front of her. 

Roxton’s lips lifted in a sly grin.  “Maid service and fame.”

Marguerite chuckled wryly as she buttered her toast.  “Not the sort of fame I’d hoped for.”

“Not to worry,” chimed in John’s mother with a knowing tone, “by tomorrow eve the scandal sheets will have found someone else to trash and you’ll be ancient history.”

“Looks like they already have,” Roxton murmured as he turned the front page of the paper over and indicated the headline.  “’Jungle Beauty Returns Home.’”

“Oh, poor Veronica!” Marguerite murmured.  “I would have thought that Malone’s connections would have kept her identity quiet.”

“Mmm...apparently not.  Seems that her mother’s siblings are eager to meet her and learn more about her.”  He paused a moment and glanced to Marguerite over the top of the paper.  “No doubt that’s what Malone meant when he said that he’d found something that Veronica would deem worth the wait.”

“And you, Lord Roxton?  Have you found something worth the wait?” she asked reading the softening in his gaze.

Unconcerned that his mother looked on he replied, “Four years worth?”  He flashed a grin that made her bones melt.  “Most definitely.”

***

Their second wedding was a quiet affair with only John, Marguerite, the Dowager and Thomas Riley in attendance.  Though the rest of the expedition had voiced their unmitigated support of the ceremony, they agreed that this time was private and the two should celebrate alone.  As such, each had had remained in London, Ned and Veronica to visit her mother’s relatives and Challenger to plan his next course at the University.

After the “I do’s” had been said, Roxton led Marguerite out of the chapel and into the manor’s extensive gardens.  Marguerite’s two-carat diamond engagement ring caught the afternoon sun and flashed brilliantly. John took her hand in his and raised it to his lips brushing a kiss over the stone. 

“This was Mother’s engagement ring.  She wanted you to have it and asked that you give it to our son for his bride when the time comes.” 

Startled by the gift, Marguerite raised their joined hands to his jaw and murmured, “I would be honored.”  Roxton leaned forward and trapped her lips under his, the first of many kisses to come in the next hours and years. 

At length, they broke apart.  As John placed one last kiss to her temple, he spied something in the distance that tickled his memory.  He looked down at his wife, eyes narrowing in mock severity, and said, “Now, about those fairy rings...”
 

THE END