She breathed in and smiled at Colin. What were they doing here?

  “What are you doing back here, Detective Pendridge?” she asked as lightheartedly as she could.

  “I’ve come to interrogate my prisoner.”

  “Oh.” She grew serious. “Will it be painful for him?”

  “That depends on him.”

  “Shall I wait?” she asked, looking around, then giving him a wide-eyed stare. “He’s not going to scream, is he?”

  His gaze on her grew intense. He studied her for a moment, making her feel as if he were looking through her. “What are you looking for, Investigator?”

  “The truth,” he answered, and waited while she blinked and breathed.

  “The truth about what?” Could he hear her frantic heart beating?

  “Who’s your friend? The peacock I shot in the leg?”

  “Preston Bristol III, Viscount of Sutton.”

  “Why were you fleeing to him? What could he do for you?”

  “Do I get to ask questions next, Investigator?”

  “If you call me Michael. What’s your question?” he asked.

  “If you do not remember your past, how do you know you were an investigator?”

  “I remember my name,” he told her. “And Detective is part of it.”

  She stared at him, looking for the truth in his eyes. He smiled just a little and nearly melted her heart all over her bones.

  “Well, do you believe me?” he asked. Was that a hint of amusement flashing across his eyes?

  “Why should I not?” she threw back.

  “Because,” he replied as he grew serious. “Trusting people could get you killed.”

  She didn’t know if it was true or not. The only person she ever trusted was Preston and it hadn’t cost her her life. “Will trusting you get me killed, Michael?”

  “I hope not.”

  She smiled and covered her mouth to yawn. “I’m sleepy. Take me home.”

  He thought about it for a moment, then nodded and called out to Colin. “We’ll leave the interrogation until tomorrow. You and Liam can go home. William and what’s-his-name—”

  “Gerald.”

  “Gerald FitzSimmons is here?” Charlotte called out loudly around Michael’s arm.

  Colin nodded with a smile.

  Charlotte turned her most innocent smile on Michael. “May I ask him how his wife is?”

  “Tomorrow,” the investigator said and turned back to Colin. “William and Gerald can guard him tonight.”

  Colin nodded and promised to leave soon.

  Charlotte followed the investigator out of the mill and to their horses. William and Gerald FitzSimmons would be guarding John tonight. Perfect. It was in Gerald’s hands now. Many of the men in the village and nearby towns worked for Preston and his band of Horsemen. Gerald knew she would tell Preston if he did nothing to help his brother-at-arms. Perhaps she’d return to the mill later, just to make sure John was free and William wasn’t dead. Hopefully, her father’s hound dog would not be sleeping in front of her door again tonight.

  “How would your friend, Preston, get along without you tonight?”

  “Another of his friends will attend to him. Amanda.”

  “Ah.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He glanced at her and leaped onto his horse. “What?”

  “You said ‘Ah’. What are you implying? Do you think that is the reason I left him? Because even if it is, why should you care, as long as I left, correct?” She mounted her horse and gave the reins a gentle flick.

  “You say that as if to imply that I wanted you to leave him,” he muttered, passing her.

  “Am I incorrect?” she called out.

  He slowed and made a sour face, at which she smiled. “No. He’s bad news.”

  “You have a strange way of saying you think he’s no good for me,” she told him, catching up and keeping pace with him.

  “Well, I have been charged to keep my eyes on you.”

  “To spy on me.”

  “To keep you out of trouble. And he seems like he’ll get you into trouble.”

  How did he know so much about Preston after meeting him just once? She’d heard her father once say that investigators thought differently than the rest of us. He’d met enough of them in his early years of being involved in the law to know. Michael Pendridge didn’t behave like other men. He seemed completely unaffected by her wiles. He certainly dressed and spoke differently than anyone she’d ever known. If he figured out Preston so quickly, what did he make of her? She thought the best thing to do was be as honest with him as she could—without revealing too much. Anything else and he would see right through it.

  “I do not need help finding trouble, Investigator, as I have no doubt you will discover.” She slowed her horse. He slowed his and rode alongside her. “You will eventually have to cage me. You will have to, Detective. I cannot escape you. I do not know where you came from, but I think you came here to catch me.”

  He stared at her without saying a word or moving his horse. She guessed he was figuring things out about her. She was practically confessing to living a life of crime.

  “Why don’t you stop now then?” he asked, perhaps softer than he meant, for it almost sounded like a plea. No. Not from him. His jaw was set. His gaze hard and resolved.

  “Because then people I know would go hungry. Their children would go without care.”

  He blinked and his gaze actually warmed on her. She was glad she was sitting.

  “You steal…uhm…rob people’s things and then, what? Sell it to get money?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “All right,” he said quickly, looking around. “Don’t say anything else.” He let out a long, deep sigh, and then tugged his reins and trotted away.

  Charlotte watched him go. She hoped and prayed that she’d done enough to soften him toward her. Though there was a purpose for her words and actions, they were honest and true. They were the only things that would work on him.

  The trouble was they did something to her, too. She’d removed her mask for a moment and confessed to breaking laws. He could have taken her captive and brought her to a justice of the peace tonight. The prospect of it frightened the wits out of her.

  But he either chose the law or he chose her. She had to know. It was risky, but Charlotte wasn’t as afraid of risk as she was of commitment. She knew very little of it, having to rely on the goodness of the servants’ hearts to care for her while she grew up. She had Preston, but he had the things he loved to hate. He had his Horsemen. Now, he had Amanda.

  She had no one and she needed no one. She was needed by Rosie and others that she helped. That was all. She wouldn’t let them down, not for Preston, not for her father, and not for a clever investigator.

  They rode back to the manor house in silence. After a bit of awkwardness, the silence became comfortable. In fact, she wanted to stay with Michael and his comforting silence and not be traded off to her father.

  Was he going to tell her father?

  “Good day to you, Old John,” she greeted him at the door. “Are my parents in?”

  “No, Miss. They are out.”

  Relief filled her. It didn’t occur to her that they would be worried about her until Michael scowled and murmured to the old butler about a father who wasn’t up all night worried sick that his daughter was out alone or with a stranger in the dead of night.

  Charlotte gave him a thankful smile and then turned it on John. “I will freshen up and then we will eat.

  “Aye, Lady. I am glad you are well and unhurt,” John said and then shuffled away without another word.

  “Did my father show you to your room yet?” she asked him when they were alone.

  “Yes, last night. It’s way too extravagant.”

  “Would you rather sleep with the horses?”

  “No. I would rather sleep in a bed meant for one, not two…or three.”

  “Why?” she asked, looking up into his eyes. He was a curious one. “Why would you prefer a bed meant for one?”

  He raised his eyebrow at her as if he couldn’t believe she would ask such a question. He didn’t look like he wanted to answer, but she waited for one. He pursed his lips, drawing her dark gaze there.

  “I…uhm…I want to remain alone.”

  “Aye. But why?” she pressed delicately. “Which way is your room?”

  He pointed and she led him down the hall and to the left.

  “Why are you escorting me?” he asked her.

  “You did not answer my question, Michael. Why do you wish to remain alone?”

  “I didn’t know we were exchanging our life stories,” he mumbled and looked away.

  “Very well,” she sighed. “You will find it quite dull here. How long do you plan on staying?”

  “I don’t know. As long as I need to. As long as your father lets me.”

  Did she want him to stay? He meant danger for her and all her friends. She’d helped him today—well, she would have, that is, if her father had cared enough to know she was safe with him. But that was her father. Her mother was worse. Charlotte was lucky if she saw her.

  “This is it,” he announced, coming to a door she recognized. “My room.”

  She opened the door and looked inside. It was large with a king size bed and busts everywhere with silver wigs atop their heads.

  “It looks like this was my father’s room for his wigs,” she said, stepping inside.

  “He has a room just for his wigs?” he asked behind her. “And he sleeps in here?”

  She nodded, then shrugged, and then, before she knew it, laughter bubbled up to the surface, kicking masks and veils to the wayside. She held her hand to her mouth as if she could stop it. She couldn’t.

  But what was even more delightful than the rushing springs rising up in her was witnessing it happening to him, too.

  Oh, how glorious it was to watch his stoic features brighten and his shadowed eyes spark with life. The sound of him was another matter entirely. Could the sound of someone else’s abandon do odd things to the deepest chambers of one’s heart? She wanted to make it her goal in life to make him laugh. To make him feel.

  “Lady Charlotte.” Old John stood in the doorway of the room.

  She shook her head to clear it. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? What was she thinking? “Aye, John?” she asked, sobering up.

  “You should not be in here unchaperoned.”

  She nodded and rested her hand on his arm. “Well then, ’tis a good thing you are here, old friend. Aye?”

  “I—”

  “John, is this my father’s wig room?”

  “Aye.”

  “And does he sometimes sleep in here?”

  “He sometimes used to. ’Twas his dressing room, as well.”

  She set her gaze on Michael and let the hint of a furtive smile pass between them.

  “I can assure you the sheets have been thoroughly washed and bleached.”

  “It’s fine. Look,” the mysterious stranger said in his odd way, “I don’t want to impose.”

  “You are not imposing,” Old John assured him. “My lord no longer uses this room or these clothes, and if he put you here, then here is where he wanted you. Mayhap he wants you to grow accustomed to the clothes, the wigs and—”

  “I won’t be wearing any wigs,” their guest let him know, slipping out of his short jacket and tossing it on the bed.

  Strangely, Charlotte felt like giggling. Goodness, what had come over her? Was she feverish?

  “The clothes then?” dearest John pressed. “You cannot wear the same clothes every day and those are not from—”

  “This country,” the investigator said quickly. “I know. Okay. I’ll try something on.”

  Charlotte gave him an understanding smile when his gaze slipped to her. What was he hiding, and what did Old John know? She was going to find out. But first, she wanted to see Michael Pendridge’s calves in hose.

  Chapter Nine

  The Duke of Croydon had an endless wardrobe, all useless to him as it was all from his younger, slimmer days.

  “He has a new wardrobe three doors down,” John advised them, “but he refuses to get rid of any of this.”

  “Good thing for our guest,” Miss Whimsey…Charlotte mused as he stepped around a wooden screen with an olive-green bundle of clothes dangling over his arm. John trotted along behind him.

  “We’ll see about that,” Michael muttered and pulled his t-shirt over his head and arms.

  He decided not to look at her over the screen. It was safer that way. She mesmerized him. Cast a spell on him that compelled him to consider her more than his boss’ daughter. She made him forget. She made him feel heady, as though he’d been drinking. And she made him laugh.

  He shook his head as he bent to untie his boots. John bent and tried to help, but Michael refused his offer, not wanting the older man to hurt himself.

  He wouldn’t let her in. There were too many ghosts inhabiting his heart. There was no place for a vibrant woman.

  He grunted and pulled off one boot, and then the other. Why was he trying on eighteenth century clothes? Was he surrendering to this fate so easily? How had this happened? Didn’t he want to find out?

  Yes, but he couldn’t do it walking around like a twenty-first century man. He pulled down his pants and John gave his boxer-briefs a strange look.

  “What do you use for underwear around here?”

  “Breeches mostly, and something like this.” John held up something that looked like a diaper. “I’ll keep these on for one more day.”

  Okay, what did he have to put on first? Some kind of ruffle-edged, thin, linen gown that fell to his waist, green, woolen breeches that stopped at the knee. When he saw the white hose, which were more like socks, and square-toed shoes, he almost decided against the clothes and sticking to what he had. But his jeans would get him into trouble.

  Did they burn witches in this century?

  “The hose don’t fit,” he grumbled, trying to pull them over his feet and calves.

  “Just pull!” John advised, patting out the wrinkles in the embroidered jacket.

  Three pairs of hose later, Michael learned how to put them on without tearing them to shreds.

  “I don’t think these clothes fit me,” he said, looking over the screen.” I seem to be bigger than the duke was.”

  Charlotte smiled at him from her chair by the window. “We can have them altered.”

  “Great.”

  He put on his jacket while John tied the strings above his stockings. He looked ridiculous. He tucked in his chemise and put on his justaucorps next. The coat fell to his knees in folds of deep green and golden embroidery along the edges.

  He slipped his foot into a black square-toed shoe. The shoe was just small enough to squash his toes.

  “Bend please,” John instructed, “so I can brush your hair and pull it back.”

  “Are we going somewhere? Why do I have to look all fancy?”

  Someone was actually brushing his hair! Just when he thought he couldn’t take another moment, John tied his hair into a ponytail with a black ribbon at his nape and then stepped back to survey his work.

  “Very good, Sir,” the old man said, then moved in closer to whisper into his ear. “Now you look like one of us.”

  One of them. It made Michael feel like an alien, an outsider. It reminded him that this wasn’t right. It wasn’t his time. He might be sent back at any moment.

  John stepped out from behind the screen and then waited for Michael to do the same. When he did, his hostess’ eyes on him seemed to darken, from sable to obsidian. Her pupils were dilated. She sat up in her chair, her gaze taking him in from head to toe. “Oh.”

  He shifted under her scrutiny. “I don’t look ridiculous?”

  “Not at all,” she breathed. “Nice calves.”

  He felt his face burn a little. He tightened his jaw. “Thanks. It’s all a bit tight.”

  “It looks perfect,” she insisted.

  “I don’t think I can go out like this.” He wasn’t cut out for this kind of fashion. His trousers were too tight on his thighs and crotch. The fit was almost indecent. If not for the knee-length coat, he wouldn’t have kept it on.

  “There is an off-white justaucorps hanging in that wardrobe,” she said. “I think you should try that one on next. Just to see.” Her eyes widened along with her smile.

  He felt something in him—deep inside him—like a flutter, or a flicker. He didn’t know. He only knew it burned a little. And it scared the hell out of him. Why was she making him feel this…this warmth? How could he stop it?

  “Is there anything black?” he asked John.

  Miss Whimsey looked Michael over, as if she hadn’t considered black.

  John disappeared into another alcove and fidgeted around for a minute. He reappeared with a different black coat in each hand. One was heavily embroidered with bright reds and forest greens. The other had dark blue stitching and nothing else. He chose that one. It fit closely to his chest and waist and then flared out just a little, with a cut up the back for riding a horse.

  “There are trousers to match,” John let him know.

  Michael held out his hand.

  When he turned, ready to head back to the screen, he beheld a sight that branded itself into his head, his heart. Miss Whimsey was standing near her chair, wearing his leather jacket. She could have fit three more of herself in there with her. She smiled when she looked up and held her droopy sleeve to her cheek.

  “’Tis very soft,” she practically purred.

  He nodded and disappeared behind the screen before he told her how much he liked looking at her in it. He was sure he smiled at her like a fool at some point. He changed quickly and stood before her again—she had taken off his jacket—in black breeches and a black coat to match. His jacket underneath was dark blue. Much more his style.