His deep, gruff voice was comforting to her ears even though what he spoke about was not. She could hear that this came from a deep place for him by the rhythm of his breath and the slight quaver in his voice.

  “You have my sympathies on the loss of your brother.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Go on, please. And later, you will tell me what is a nine-eleven.”

  “It was a day. A terrible day,” he replied, sounding distant and sad. “But that’s another story. Clements and I had been investigating a homicide and got a tip on a guy who lived above a bodega uptown. We drove up there. We weren’t out of the car for five seconds when we heard the shots coming from the store. Someone ran out with a gun in his hand. Clements shouted for him to drop his weapon. The perp shot him. I shot the perp. It all happened so fast.”

  This was real. At least it was real to him. He used words Charlotte had never heard before. Words like bodega, uptown, and perp. But she understood that his closest friend was hurt or killed while trying to uphold the law.

  “Clements was down. He was who I cared about. I called it in, but I didn’t leave my partner’s side. He didn’t make it.

  “Neither did the killer. He was a sixteen-year-old boy. I ki…killed a…child.”

  “Oh, Michael,” Charlotte whispered. She didn’t know what else to say. This was tearing him apart. “That must have been very difficult.”

  “It was,” he answered quietly. So quietly she almost didn’t hear him through the wall.

  “It still is,” she added, wanting to go to him. She didn’t move. Perhaps it was easier for him to open up this way, without seeing the listener.

  “It still is,” he echoed. “I lost others after that, but that was the worst thing that could have happened. But you know what they say, time heals all wounds.”

  “Who says that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Why? Do you think it doesn’t?”

  “Do you still feel the same as you did when this tragedy happened?”

  “Some days I do.”

  “What is it that stops your wounds from healing?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think of me now, Miss Whimsey? Now that you know what I’ve done?”

  “You mean the sixteen-year-old boy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you know he was young before you shot him?”

  “No. Everything happened so fast.”

  This was what was stopping him from healing. He couldn’t forgive himself. He was ashamed and filled with guilt over what he’d done. “I think ’tis a very sad thing. Sad that a boy carried a weapon that could kill. ’Tis too much power for one so young. He likely would have hanged even if you had not shot him. I feel sympathy for his family, but I do not blame you for shooting someone who just shot your friend and would have shot you next.”

  “Yeah.”

  She thought she heard him make a sound as if he sniffed.

  She reached out with her left arm, the one against the wall and closest to the open door. “Michael, reach for—”

  He took her hand in his. She was expecting it, but she didn’t expect his warm, curious touch, and the way his big hand covered hers, to rattle her bones, her senses, her logic.

  “What about you?” he asked. “What makes you break the law?”

  She laughed. Ugh, she hated talking about it. But she guessed if he could do it, so could she. “I was forgotten.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An hour or so after my mother gave birth to me, my parents forgot me. My father continued to work, and my mother claimed to have a terrible headache. Too horrible to feed her newly born babe. So the servants did it—and kept me alive. It never changed. Whenever my parents were together, they fought, so they stayed apart. They came to visit me once in a while, but they never stayed long. I didn’t know who they were so every time they came near me, I cried. My father hated it. As I grew older, I cried harder just to prick him.

  “On Sundays he used to take me with him to the courthouses. We didn’t spend any time together. I used to wait outside for him. That’s how I met Preston. He became my friend.”

  “When did you start pickpocketing?”

  “When I six.”

  “What?” He swung his head around the doorway and looked into her room at her. “Six? Charlotte!”

  “I did what I could to gain my father’s attention.”

  He returned to his position against the wall. “So, this is all to gain his attention?”

  “I think it has grown into a bigger monster,” she admitted. “I’m so angry with my parents. I do not care if they live or die. They are strangers to me, especially my mother. It has left this wide hole in my chest, which no one has been able to fill. Not even Preston.”

  “Your father fooled me. He gained my trust by believing me.”

  “Believing you about what?”

  “The future, Charlotte. He believed me about where I came from.”

  She let go of his hand and sat up straight, her spine off the wall. “How could you think my father was a good man when he hired someone to watch his daughter who believed he traveled back in time?”

  “I did think it was odd,” he said, scooting around the doorway. “I still do.” He sat beneath the frame, now facing inside the room and in full view of her. “But I told him the truth. I don’t know why he believed me. I know it sounds crazy.”

  He didn’t seem like the kind of man who lied much. Unless he was so good at it, as she was, that he could fool even her. But why would he?

  “Tell me what you told him.” For this she wanted to look into his eyes. She scooted to the entryway and sat facing him.

  He told her a mad tale about a man named Mr. Green, who Michael believed was involved in another “case” of a missing girl. He told her about the fourth floor Miss Lancaster’s friends claimed had disappeared, with her. He told her about the old brooch and the name Pendragon. How rubbing the brooch and saying the name cast some kind of spell because he ended up here in the eighteenth century. “Are you real?” he asked her quietly, reaching his hand out to her.

  “Aye. I’m real.” She lifted her hand and touched it to his.

  “What if you’re not? What if none of this is?” he asked, intertwining their fingers, looking at them.

  She gave him a worried look. “Oh, but I must be real. I remember my life! I have scars and memories of how I got them!”

  His decadent mouth curled into a half-smile. “All right. You’re real.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and then laughed softly with him.

  “What in the world is this?” A woman’s voice from in the hall. Her mother.

  Michael sprang to his feet.

  Her mother’s tone changed. “Who are you and what are you doing in my daughter’s room and with her wearing nothing but a chemise?”

  “Oh, please, Lizette,” Charlotte drawled, standing up while her mother lifted her violet veil off her face. “Do not shame yourself with such insincere concerns for my well-being. Did you just drag yourself home? Go to bed. You look horrid.”

  She severed her gaze from her mother’s and settled it on Michael. She wanted to see his reaction, for Lady Lizette Whimsey was known as the most beautiful woman in England, even at the age of forty. She did not look horrid. Charlotte wondered if she ever did. She wore a close-bodied gown of violet damask with a pleated back and cool, full skirts of Indian cotton. Her hair was piled atop her head like a golden halo, and though securely pinned, some of her locks had come loose and fell around her shoulders beneath her veil. Her large violet eyes were surrounded by lush dark lashes that worked well with her coy smiles.

  “Are you not going to introduce me to your friend, Charlie?”

  Charlotte almost snarled at her. “If you must know, this is Investigator Pendridge. Father hired him to keep—”

  “—to keep her safe,” Michael finished for her and gave her mother an unimpressed smile—which meant nothing since he was impressed with very little. Charlotte appreciated that he did not want her mother to know why he was here, in this house. To watch her.

  Her mother gasped at Charlotte and then laughed, though it sounded more like a witch’s cackle to Charlotte’s ears. “It seems you are keeping her from Sutton, which will please her father.” Her gaze found her daughter’s and her laughter turned quickly into a pout. “The roads are so dangerous in Sutton, are they not, Charlie?”

  “Aye,” Charlotte agreed, trying to calm her heart. How much did her mother know about the Horsemen? Then she asked, “Have you been drinking?”

  Her mother’s expression changed to hot anger. “Of course not, darling. Have you been keeping yourself out of trouble?”

  Charlotte stared at her with traces of amusement and disappointment around her lips. Lizette Whimsey didn’t know Michael already knew about her criminal activities. She turned to Michael, motioned to her mother and, with a mocking tone, said, “The woman who birthed me.”

  “Seventeen hours you took to get out,” her mother sneered. “You have been nothing but trouble ever since.”

  Charlotte smiled at her, but it was difficult, perhaps because of Michael’s nearness, to keep herself from crying.

  “All right, that’s enough,” he said, stepping between them. “You’ve said enough, my lady. I think it best if you go wherever it was you were going.”

  “Oh, look at the shining knight defending his lady’s honor!” Her mother laughed again.

  “I can assure you,” he said in low voice, “I’m no knight.”

  “You are positively terrifying, Investigator!” Her mother giggled at him.

  He flicked his incredulous gaze to Charlotte. She was tempted to laugh. He had no idea what to do with her mother. Most men didn’t.

  Charlotte watched the panic in his eyes when she took a step away. “Why do I not go get Father and let him know you are here? Investigator, I’m afraid you will have to accompany me as my father ordered you to do.”

  “Charlotte, you go too far,” her mother scolded mildly, seemingly too tired to argue. “I know when I am defeated.”

  She winked at Charlotte then spun around on her heel. Two more pins fell out of her hair. She came toe to toe with Michael. She looked up. He stepped back. “Look out, snake charmer.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughter. “Charlotte is a most dangerous serpent.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Michael knew he should say something. But what? Oh, hey, your mother is a raging bitch? He blew out a short whistle instead. “She’s a real piece of work.”

  “Piece of work?” Charlotte asked, eyes narrowed. “I have heard the term here and there but what does it mean?”

  “Oh, sorry. She’s out there. Eccentric, you know?”

  “You are kind.”

  She returned to her room. He started to follow her, but she turned and held up her palm to stop him. “Unless you intend to marry me, do not come into my bedroom in the middle of the night.”

  He stepped back. He certainly didn’t intend to marry her—or anyone. Still, he knew the things her mother had said hurt her. How deeply he had no idea, and no idea why he wanted to help if he could. Strange. He was not one to go to when one needed comforting. But it was different with her. He found that he liked talking to her. He’d told her more things about himself tonight than he’d told anyone in years. He didn’t want it to end.

  “So then put some clothes on and come out here and talk to me.”

  She shook her head, smiling as an almost automatic response. “I just want to go to bed.”

  “Okay.” Was she telling him the truth? Did she just want to get rid of him? He gave her a reproachful gaze. “You’re not going to try to go out, are you, Charlotte? Your wall is fine to sit and talk against, but my back pleads for a bed to sleep.”

  She gave him a faint, more genuine smile. “No, I’m not going out. You have my word.”

  Did he trust her word? Was she a snake? She was beautiful but there was someone else behind her confident, unperturbed veil. Someone he started to get to know tonight.

  “Michael,” she said as he turned to go. “She does not know me well enough to call me a snake, but you are free to make your own judgments.”

  He pulled up his shirt, exposing his flat belly, tattooed with a large snake. “I like snakes.”

  Her smile widened and she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Michael!” one of his new hired men called out. Gerald, he believed was his name. He came into view hauling weak and woozy William under his arm. Michael ran to them and helped support him.

  “We were attacked,” William groaned, cupping the back of his head.

  “By who?” Michael asked him. “Did you see who did it?”

  “He came out of nowhere,” William answered.

  “You did not see who did this?” It was Charlotte, still in her chemise, but covered in a long, velvet coat.

  “No, Lady,” Gerald told her. “It happened too fast.”

  But there were two of them. “How did someone come up on you without either one of you noticing?” Michael put to them. Something didn’t feel right.

  “I do not know,” William said with a guilty frown. “He was just there.”

  “Who did he hit first?” Michael asked them.

  “Me, I believe,” William answered.

  “What does it matter, Michael?” Charlotte asked him, sounding impatient.

  He cast her a wry look. “I thought you said you were going to bed.”

  “That was before our men were attacked. Their wounds must be seen to. Who do you think will arrange that? That is correct! Me!”

  “All right,” he held up his hand. “Just keep quiet.”

  He didn’t turn all the way around when she spoke again.

  “How much longer do you think this will take?”

  He looked at William, grinded his jaw, and then continued. “So this person smashed you in the head with something and you fell unconscious?”

  “If you mean was I knocked out cold, aye,” William answered.

  Michael turned to Gerald. “What were you doing that you didn’t see or hear this in enough time to stop him from striking you?”

  “Perhaps there were two attackers!” Charlotte interjected.

  Michael thought she might be right. That would solve it. “What do you think, Gerald? Was there another man?”

  “Aye, Investigator, there had to be two.”

  “Aye,” Michael mimicked, then turned them over to Charlotte. “Go have your wounds seen to with Miss Whimsey. I’m going to look for our prisoner.”

  Charlotte stopped and turned to him with a smile fastened on her lips. It looked clownish and artificial. He smiled back.

  “’Tis dark out, Michael.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Wait until morning. I will—”

  “It’ll be too late,” Michael growled. “I want him back.”

  “But I may need you in the morning. My mother will be here, and I do not want to face her alone”

  He smiled. He surprised himself by doing it, but he did it nevertheless. “I’ll be back in time for breakfast. Now go, let me get done with what I must do.”

  She looked as if she had more to say, but she was wasting time. Every moment was precious.

  “I’ll be back in time.”

  She finally left the hall with Gerald and William. Michael watched them go. Who attacked them? Were the attackers friends of the captive? How did they know he was at the mill? They must have been with him when he shot at Michael. How had he missed them? He wasn’t used to fighting on horseback in a forest.

  He thought of the old saying, as thick as thieves. Thieves stuck together, didn’t they. This guy’s friends came and broke him out.

  Michael left the hall, eyeing the way she had gone. She was a thief. Who did she stick close to? Preston Bristol III, Viscount of Sutton.

  He hurried out of the large manor house and called for a stable hand to get him a horse. He’d get his attacker back and his friends as a bonus.

  How was he going to get them without a gun…or rather, with only one bullet in his gun? What happened to his Glock? Was it with his other possessions? Was that guy Green holding on to them? How would he get them back?

  The stable hand that brought him the horse was different than the first one. This guy looked like the owner of a well-polished genie lamp. He looked to be in his late forties-early fifties. He had long, black hair pulled into a ponytail and a beard that reached his collarbone. His eyes were large and dark. He was tall…or his demeanor exuded that of a big guy, not afraid of much.

  “Ah, you wanted a horse?” he called out, reaching Michael.

  Michael wondered if the horse was considered the first of his three wishes.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “What are you doing out here in the night, ready to ride off into the darkness?”

  Michael stared at him. Who was this guy? “I’m going to catch a criminal.”

  “Alone and with no weapon?”

  Michael’s expression grew darker. “How do you know what I’m carrying?” He didn’t tell him he had a pistol with a bullet in it.

  “I know many things, Detective Pendridge,” the man said with a side smile. “I know that you met Sir Gawaine, or as he prefers to call himself, Mr. Green, in this realm, and were brought here to the past.”

  Michael forgot about everyone else but this guy. He knew! He knew the truth!

  “Who are you?” He was tempted to grab him and shake him. “Who?”

  “Why don’t we go to the stable. We can speak with less chance of being heard.”

  Michael agreed and they walked together to the stable. “My name is Simeon. Roldan Simeon,” the man told him as they went. “I’m a time traveler.”

  Michael laughed and threw his hands up in the air. Great. His first sign of hope is a nutcase.

  “You don’t believe me?”