He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. My brain never stops working.”

  He smiled a bit lopsidedly and she thought he might be drunk. Her father was serving his best wine tonight.

  “Did you know that if I want the man I put in jail to stay there, I have to pay for everything? Do everything?”

  “Aye, I know the law,” she told him and watched him down his hot drink. She cringed, but he didn’t seem to mind the heat.

  “I want to help them change it. Damn! That’s good!”

  “Oh?” she asked, her curiosity piqued. Her father never told her what they spoke about at his gatherings. “You want to help them change the law?”

  “Yes. You need more constables and prostitution.”

  “Pardon me?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You said we need more prostitution.” She grinned. “Is that what you told them?”

  He looked at her as if her nose or lips just popped off. “Prosecutions.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Pros-e-cu-tors! Yeah. That’s right! What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, Michael.”

  “People need to go to jail for their crimes,” he suddenly brooded.

  “Even me?”

  He looked down at her and she felt a little lightheaded from the tenderness of his gaze. “If I catch you doing something.”

  Disappointment dressed her features. So, he wouldn’t let her go, then. He was serious about this work. That didn’t bode well for her friends—or for her.

  She pouted and returned to her chair as she spoke. “Then I shan’t let you catch me.” She turned and offered him a sweet, yet challenging smile over her shoulder.

  She almost regretted leaving him when she reached her chair and saw that he looked lost amid the guests and the servants moving swiftly about. Where was he truly from? Why had her father lied about him being from Brittany? Why had her father wanted him with the guests rather than watching her? Something was going on.

  She looked over the faces and spotted Old John. She would speak to him later. She would find out.

  She heard the music of Cara Baxter’s laughter fill her ears. Cara’s sister Sara’s voice blended with it a moment later. She looked to find them flittering around Michael like butterflies around flowers.

  Too bad the color of Cara’s gown made her skin look ever paler. And Sara. Ha! Charlotte saw right through her charade of laughing, then patting his arm and keeping her hand there. In a moment, she would slip her arm around his. What would he do?

  His gaze found her while the twins spoke softly around his ears, one on either side.

  “You are making an impression on him,” Old John muttered as he came to stand behind her. “His eyes search for you while other women vie for his attention.”

  Hmm. It meant little. “He gives no one his full attention.”

  “Were you out with Preston?”

  “John, you will stop this talk immediately,” she warned softly.

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “And no. I was not with Preston,” she said quickly when everyone began to return to their seats. “I was suffering with a frightful headache and I hate to say, ’tis returning.” She gave him a hard look and he stepped away.

  Michael and the twins returned to the table. The girls were smiling. Michael looked as if his tight shoes had finally gotten the better of him. The twins either didn’t realize or didn’t care that he wasn’t enjoying himself and went on giggling until they were seated, away from him.

  “’Tis worse than I expected,” Charlotte said for his ears alone.

  “My ears are ringing,” he confided.

  She muffled her laughter with her fingers over her mouth.

  “Most men would be enjoying the attention of giggling women in their ears,” she remarked as she sobered.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t enjoying it.”

  Why would she feel the sting of such words from him? But she did, and she struck back. “Oh, then let me lend my aid.” She rose from her seat and hurried around the table to Cara’s chair. When she reached her, she bent to the young lady’s ear and set her triumphant gaze on Michael. “Dear, it seems the detective would like to meet you tomorrow night, here in our garden. Do you agree to such a meeting?”

  “Of course,” Cara said breathlessly.

  They whispered and Charlotte even giggled with her, though she wanted to be ill, afterwards.

  She returned to her chair and Michael’s frosty glare. “She has agreed to meet with you tomorrow night in the garden.”

  “Meet with me for what?” he demanded somewhere between a growl and a whisper.

  “Knowing her, whatever you like.”

  “Charlotte.”

  She could hear the effort it took for him not to shout at her.

  “Go back and tell her you’re insane, or that I have a week to live.”

  “I will not, and I take offense to you calling me insane.”

  “I don’t care.” He gave her a stiff smile of his own. “You got me into it. Now get me out.”

  “Oh, but the poor thing is fond of you,” she cried. “I just could not break her heart. Besides, you enjoy her company. You said so yourself.”

  “Oh, so you’re jealous?” he demanded, but thankfully in a low voice. He sounded a bit incredulous. “Is that what this is about?”

  She laughed in his face. “You are a clever man, Detective. Surely you realize how insane you sound right now.”

  One of his dark brows lifted for an instant as amusement hovered around his eyes. “Okay. I’ll meet with her. Who knows, maybe she’s the one.”

  “Maybe,” she sang without biting her tongue.

  He waved at the sisters and then turned to her. “Maybe I’ll have two.”

  “Hmm.” She took her drink and swigged the contents. She wanted to tell him to enjoy himself, but what she really wanted was for them all to roll around in poison ivy.

  She watched him down two more cups of wine. Good man. Get nice and drunk so I can get away from you again tonight. She had to check on Preston and see how he was doing. What would she do if Amanda was there? She slammed her cup onto the table, then looked around guiltily.

  She met her father’s admonishing gaze and looked away. Mostly because he looked blurry. She didn’t care if he was angry with her. Too bad for him that his daughter was disruptive! But she wasn’t a child anymore and her days of seeking his attention were over.

  She looked away and remained quiet because she didn’t want to appear to be a drunk. Especially not in front of the Baxter twins…or Detective Pendridge.

  She covered her cup with her hand when the server came around again.

  Michael did not. He spoke to the others just fine, but some of his words were a bit slurred. Most didn’t notice that his mood had grown grimmer and darker, since he was those things to begin with.

  But she noticed. And when he finally rose to bid them all a good eve, she noted that he seemed extremely distracted—and not by the twins.

  She watched him leave the dining hall. She wanted to leave as well. How obvious would it look if she followed him? He was her father’s guest after all.

  Her father put up a weak fight when she rose from her chair to go.

  He left her. He left his post and the dining hall where her father wanted him to be and walked out of the dining hall as if there were no more reason to stay.

  What she should she do? She could go see Preston without the detective on her tail. She could go find Michael.

  She stepped through the doors when she heard him.

  “Clements. No! Don’t go inside alone. Wait for me…wait for me…”

  “Michael,” she called out and hurried toward the shadows. He was there, at the bend of the corridor, in the darkness. Was someone with him? Was he asleep? “Michael,” she said again when she reached him. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Clements,” he said in a tone so filled with sadness it almost made her cry. “It’s Jimmy. I thought he had gone away. But he’s back.”

  She looked around. There was no one there with them. He’d had much to drink. He wasn’t in a good state of mind. “Is Jimmy a memory?”

  He was quiet. His breathing changed. She thought she heard his heart in the darkness.

  “Yeah,” he finally said and stepped forward into the light. She followed. His eyes were red, likely from all the drink…or from tears. She didn’t think he was the crying type.

  He stumbled a little and looked straight at her when she grabbed hold of him to keep him steady.

  She almost saw a glimpse of him in the deep well of his eyes, of who he truly was. Protective, patient, weary.

  “I’m sorry.” He sounded ashamed. He looked away as if to prove he was.

  “Why are you sorry?” she asked, helping him to the stairs.

  “For this. It won’t happen again. Things were feeling okay. I messed it up by drinking again.”

  “Again? Do you remember drinking often?”

  “Of course I do. It was just two days ago. Before I came here.”

  She smiled. “Of course,” she pretended to agree. “Do you remember your home, Michael?”

  “Yes.” They reached the stairs and began the ascent. “In New York.” His gaze darted to hers from beneath his lush, black lashes. “Brittany,” he corrected.

  They were both lies. And why would he call York, New York? Who was Jimmy? “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s my second chance. I don’t have a bullet.”

  She smiled. “Do you want one?”

  He didn’t answer right away but then nodded.

  She had no idea why a bullet would be his second chance, but it seemed as if he needed one. She pulled up her skirts and reached for the pistol tied to her thigh. She felt his eyes on her. Heavy, hooded eyes, watching her every move, staring at her thigh. Once she had the pistol in her hand, she emptied the contents and handed him a bullet.

  “Thanks,” he said in a thick, husky voice.

  She led him to his room, opened his door, and stepped aside to let him enter.

  Why was she here tending to him instead of tending to Preston? This was wrong. This man would see her or Preston hang.

  “Goodnight,” she said and shut the door. She certainly wouldn’t go inside the room and tuck him in. She had to change into her riding clothes and hurry out, before the guests began leaving.

  Of course she should be with the man she’d adored practically her entire life. If Amanda was there, Charlotte would fight for him. She was familiar with every feminine wile known to women…and men. Amanda had no chance against her.

  She kept that thought planted firmly in her head as she hurried to her room, shut the door, and began to change.

  Someone knocked. Old John? She pulled open the door in her chemise to find—it wasn’t John.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I can’t sleep.”

  She blinked up at Michael, stripped of his justaucorps and jacket. He couldn’t be here now, looking so appealing in his half-tucked in chemise, his black hair falling over his dreamy, bloodshot eyes.

  “I just left you! How long did you try to sleep?”

  He shrugged his wide shoulders, stretching his chemise across his chest.

  His gaze fell over her from head to foot in her bed clothes. His jaw tightened.

  “I was getting ready for bed,” she let him know, hoping he didn’t spot her muddy riding boots close by.

  “Oh.” His gaze fluttered to her bed. “Okay. Goodnight then. I’ll be outside the door if you need me.”

  What? “No, Michael, go to bed in your room please,” she insisted. “I will not be watched yet again. If I wanted to leave today, I could have gone.”

  He shook his head. “You know I would have caught you. I catch everyone I hunt. It’s what a detective does.”

  “I do not like the thought of being hunted,” she told him, covering herself up with her hands and arms. “You may find me, but I would never consider you anything but a most hated enemy. If that is what you want, then fine.”

  She shut the door in his face and turned for her bed. It was useless. She was not getting away from him tonight to see Preston, and she was afraid of him growing too curious of Preston if he followed her and perhaps found out more than he should.

  Just how good of a detective was he?

  She climbed into bed and sat up to stare at the door. Was he outside of it? Why did he take his duty so seriously? These days, no one else did. She should be furious—and she was. But another part of her didn’t mind so much. She liked the idea that he fancied her and that he might be so diligent because he wanted to be near her. But even Old John had agreed that Detective Pendridge was unlike other men. He wasn’t swayed by her wiles. They didn’t affect him. Or did they? She just wasn’t sure about him. About anything about him!

  She decided that if he was outside her door, she might as well turn it to her advantage.

  Slipping out of the bed, she hurried to the door and pulled it open. She didn’t see him right away. She looked left and then right and then looked down. He was sitting with his back against the wall on the other side of her room, just beside her door.

  “Looking for me?”

  “Aye,” she said, trying not to blush. “Why did you follow me home, Michael? Why did you come here and speak with my father as if you knew him, gaining his and Old John’s trust? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered quietly.

  “You have to know why you came here,” she insisted. “Why you followed me.”

  “I saw you pickpocket some guy in the crowd. My things were missing, too. I figured you took them.”

  “Your badge and your gun.”

  “Right. My phone and my wallet.”

  “I do not even know what those things are!”

  “I can tell you.”

  He could tell her. And just like that, they were speaking civilly to each other.

  “I cannot sit out here with you in my chemise and you cannot come inside my room without an escort.”

  “Sit on the other side of the wall inside the room,” he suggested. “We will keep the door open so we can talk and hear each other.

  She nodded, feeling like a fool, and hurried back into her room to do as he recommended.

  “You there?”

  “Aye.” She wanted to giggle. She didn’t know why. She felt childish and silly, but she didn’t mind this so much either.

  “Okay, my badge is a small shield I wear on my belt or around my neck to prove I’m a cop…police officer. My wallet is a small leather flap with pockets to hold my ID…eh, identification, money, credit cards.”

  “What are credit cards?”

  He explained them. They sounded delightful. So did he. She liked just hearing his voice and not seeing him. It emphasized things more clearly. Like his odd accent, his deep, breathy tones.

  There was nothing like his credit cards in England. What was plastic? A chip? Where did he say he came from again?

  “Brittany.”

  “You do not come from Brittany,” she challenged “Why are you trying to hide it? I will ask Old John. He will tell me.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “How do you know? Did my father believe you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it cannot be so unbelievable.”

  “Oh no?” he mocked. “I come from the future. From the year twenty nineteen, that’s two thousand and nineteen.”

  She was quiet, then she made a small sound like laughter. “You are drunk.”

  He laughed with her, but it sounded stiff and flat to her ears, and since that was all she had to go on, she didn’t think he was sincere.

  “An amusing story.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what too much wine will do.”

  She smiled and shook her head at him. But he couldn’t see. “So, what is next? Oh, aye, your phone. What is a phone?”

  “That’s a hard one to explain.”

  “Are you smiling?” she asked him.

  “Yes. How do you know?”

  “I can hear it in your voice,” she said, turning her ear to the wall.

  “I can hear it in yours, too,” she heard him say softly. Did he want her to hear him?

  “Funny,” he continued, “because I don’t smile all that much.”

  “I guessed that. You are infuriatingly impassive.”

  “That’s okay,” he mused. “You’re dramatic enough for the both of us.”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure I understand how to take your impression of me. No one has ever called me dramatic before. I know of some dramatic plays, but—”

  “Take it as a compliment and forget it.”

  “Dramatic. A compliment. Well then, thank you,” she offered.

  “Why did you leave Lord Nose-Up-His-Ass today?”

  She laughed softly into her hand at the name Michael gave Preston. “He angered me.”

  “What is he to you?”

  “Why? What does that matter to you?”

  “I told you, he’s trouble. I’m looking out for you whether you want it or not.”

  “He is important to me,” she confessed. “Only Old John knows how long Preston and I have been the closest of friends. Preston helped me get through some very lonely times. He taught me how to take care of myself. How to live. He was there for me when my parents forgot I existed…and then my father thinks to stop him from being in my life? What does he know?”

  “It’s not what he knows, it’s who. Your father knows a lot of judges and other important men.”

  She wanted to tell him that Preston knew important men as well. But the less Michael knew, the better.

  “Who do you know, Detective? Who is Jimmy?” She wasn’t sure he would answer or if it was too bold of her to ask. “You were quite drunk. Perhaps you still are. I do not mean to bring up—”

  “I’m not. I’ve sobered up some.”

  “And Jimmy?” she pressed gently.

  “I don’t like to talk about him.”

  “Why not? Do you only talk with him when you are drunk?” She smiled and hoped he did to on the other side. “He haunts you. Why? Who was he?”

  “Jim Clements,” he said, giving in. “He was a cop…a law keeper with me. My work partner for two years. My best friend. After I lost my brother, Geoff on 9/11, I was doing poorly. Clements helped. Kept me busy. I spent more time with him than with anyone else. We had each other’s backs.”