He looked at her from beneath his dark brows. Did she still approve? What did he care? He hadn’t changed much from his own clothes. At least, not the color, or the lack of it. Of course, before, he didn’t wear hose or shoes with heels on them that pinched and rubbed with every second that passed.

  She was smiling. Was it genuine? With her, it was almost impossible to tell. No, that wasn’t true. He knew her laughter with him earlier was authentic.

  His was, too. His. He’d laughed. He was still trying to get over it in his mind. He hadn’t laughed in three years. He hadn’t found anything humorous enough to make him laugh out loud in that long. What had she done? It was as if she pushed a button and exposed his soul to the sun.

  It felt wonderful. He wanted more, but he realized everything could change again in the blink of an eye. And even if he did stay here, if he gave her his heart, he would likely lose her as he lost the others.

  He couldn’t go through it again—or even take the chance of going through it. But, oh, looking at her was like looking at a summer sunrise over Manhattan. She was beautiful and mysterious, with a pulse all her own.

  “Detective, I fear that you are going to suffer the demands for attention from many different women tonight.”

  “What’s tonight?”

  “Wednesday,” Miss Whimsey informed him as she slipped out of his jacket. “All the judges of the different districts gather together here for dinner. I do not usually attend but I wouldn’t want to miss my father explaining you to his haughty friends…and their wives and daughters.”

  “So you wish to be amused at my expense,” he quipped, slipping his foot out of his shoe to find some relief in stretching his toes.

  She graced him with a confident, slightly provocative smile that made his blood judder in his veins and his legs feel weak. “I must confess, I do.”

  “John,” he said as he turned to the old man. “Are there any shoes that might be bigger?”

  “I will check, Detective.”

  “Thank you.”

  He watched the butler set about his task. His gaze slowly swung back to her. She was no longer smiling at him. She had gone to the window and was looking out.

  “I should be going,” she said softly, without turning to him.

  He wanted to ask her what she was thinking about at that moment when her gaze seemed so distant, so set for the unattainable.

  “Are you planning to run away again while I’m at this gathering with your father?”

  She turned to look at him. “No, but now that you bring it up…”

  “I would find you.” He didn’t mean for it to sound so husky. This wasn’t some romantic thing. He worked for her father. He wanted to earn his bullets.

  “Only if I wanted you to,” she countered.

  He examined her from foot to crown and chewed on his words before he let them go. “You would. You wouldn’t stop me.”

  Her eyes opened wider on him. “I should storm over there and slap your face for your bold gaze alone.”

  His mouth curled at the corners. “Threats are weak, Lady.”

  She did her best to harden her smile, but she failed. “You mock me,” she said softly on her way out of the room. “Everyone mocks me.”

  “Charlotte, wait.” He stepped forward and stopped her with his hand on her arm, easily falling for her feigned somber mood. “I’m not—”

  She turned with her fist already flying. She caught him in the nose, striking with all her might. It felt wonderful for all he’d put her through. His head snapped back. When he brought it forward, he was clutching his bloody nose.

  “Threats may be weak, Investigator.” She smiled victoriously. “But I am not.” She turned on her heel and left the room without another word.

  She had said enough. She wasn’t weak. Holding his bloody nose, he believed her.

  His smile began slowly and widened at the door through which she left. She was a hellcat. Could she get any more perfect?

  *

  Richard Whimsey, Lord Croydon, spared no expense for his little gathering of judges.

  The large, linen-covered table in the dining hall was heavy with silver goblets filled with red wine, with silver bowls and plates to match. The flatware looked to be silver also. The spoons were shaped like leaves and the forks were long and two-pronged.

  There were dozens of dishes being set down on the table. Michael was there early with the duke and John. The servers were preparing for dinner. Michael didn’t care what food was being served, he wanted some wine.

  He tried to keep his mind off the duke’s daughter and the shape of her lips. It was difficult.

  “We have some time before everyone arrives, Detective,” the judge said, “why don’t you tell me a little bit about the future. What is the law like?”

  It was a bit jarring how easily the judge believed him. He’d put Michael in charge of his daughter. She was right. What kind of father was he? This went beyond simply taking Michael at his word or liking a good mystery. It seemed as if Whimsey knew something—like something certain. But how?

  Michael told him about the law in the twenty-first century and the judge seemed genuinely fascinated.

  “What is it that you know, Your Honor? That makes you trust me? If someone came to me with my crazy story—”

  “Oh, come and meet Robert Adarely, Lord Epson. He has arrived early.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more beneficial if I was making certain Miss Whimsey was still in her room getting ready?”

  Her father stared at him for a moment. Long enough for Michael to think he might agree and send him away to check.

  “Aye, it might be,” the duke replied with a growing smile. “But you know nothing about the laws here. Tonight, you will learn.”

  Michael had to admit that if someone should know how the laws worked here, it was him. Keeping the law was in his blood, no matter what it cost. But sitting with a bunch of old judges listening to lectures was not appealing in the least.

  “Remember,” the duke continued, “I must tell them you are from Brittany. If you claim to be from York, you should know the law. The French have a different judicial system than we. It will make sense when you hear ours.”

  Why was the judge doing all this for him? Lying for him?

  “Epson!” Whimsey greeted with a wide smile. “Always the first to arrive,”

  Michael wondered how he was supposed to greet people these days.

  Lord Epson was a short, stout man of about fifty-five, maybe older, receding hairline, sharp nose, gray eyes. Michael thought he looked a little like Napoleon.

  They spoke briefly about the spreading lawlessness and how things needed to change.

  Michael wondered how the law worked and what could be done about changing it, but he was whisked off to another man as this one stepped into the dining hall.

  The hour had come. The guests were arriving. There would be twelve in all, including three judges, the duke, and him. Three of those men had a wife and two of them brought their daughters, the Baxter twins, Miss Katherine Longsley, and Miss Whimsey. The daughters were younger than Miss Whimsey, maybe six or seven years younger than him. Too young to pay any heed to their sparkling eyes and glowing smiles when they addressed him at the dinner table, after they were all seated.

  He hadn’t been paying attention, too caught up was he on why Charlotte was late. Her empty seat was to the left of her father’s and his was beside it. Dinner was about to be served and she hadn’t arrived. Was she in the house? Where would she have gone? Back to Preston? It didn’t make sense. If she wanted to be with him, she wouldn’t have left him today.

  He looked toward John. Did he know anything?

  When it seemed even her father was tired of waiting, he stood up and looked over the table at them all. “Allow me to introduce to you my new detective, Michael Pendridge of Brittany. He is here to help Croydon in its quest to keep the law under control. But he does not know our laws or how our justice system works.”

  He motioned for Michael to stand. Michael hated this spotlight type of thing, but he stood quickly and then sat again.

  “What, exactly, is a detective?” asked George Baxter while he dug into his meal.

  It smelled like fish. When he was served, Michael had to admit it looked delicious. There was fowl and lamb and other kinds of meat, even meat inside cakes and pies. And endless wine.

  “He is an investigator,” Judge Whimsey continued. “He has pledged to keep the law in Croydon and since he did it in Brittany, I trust that he could do a fine job here.”

  “What will he be doing?” Epson looked up from the bread he was buttering.

  “Catching criminals,” the duke told them.

  “And after they are caught?” Lord Longsley asked. “Who will try all of them?”

  “Longsley, why do you not explain our laws to Detective Pendridge? Then he will know what he can do.”

  Lord Longsley chewed his food then sipped his wine before he spoke. “How much do you need to know?”

  “Everything,” Michael answered.

  “Do you know any of our cities or towns, where any place is?”

  “No,” Michael answered honestly, realizing he might have bitten off more than he could chew.

  Longsley stared at him, sizing him up and then looked at the duke for reassurance, which he received in the form of a nod. “Our system is badly broken.”

  “But there are many judges who do not agree,” Epson muttered.

  “If someone is robbed or the crime is petty thievery, the thief is usually never taken in. There are not enough constables, or men on the streets to keep them safe. Constables do not get paid, so there is no incentive to risk life or limb. If the thief is caught and taken in, it is up to the victim to prosecute, the cost of going before the local magistrate comes out of their pockets. They must then present evidence to the grand jury, and if the grand jury finds true bill, the victim, who is now the prosecutor, will provide evidence for a trial.”

  Michael sat quietly listening, growing more stunned as Longsley spoke. Finally, he could stand it no longer. “This is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard, not to mention completely reprehensible. There is no justice making the victim pay for his or her own trial.”

  “We agree,” the duke told him, motioning to himself and the others. “Most times, the thief goes free. For crimes like murder and other serious offenses, we impose only two sentences on the convicted. Either we turn them loose or we hang them.”

  Michael shook his head. It was almost too primitive and unjust to comprehend. Why not turn to a life of crime for its benefits when you would probably never be punished for it while you were alive? As long as you didn’t kill anyone, you were good.

  “The law breakers are out of control.”

  Michael sat back in his chair and gave a short laugh. “I’m not surprised.”

  “We do not know what to do,” the duke admitted. “I heard you captured a man who shot at you and my daughter today in the woods and you put him in a sealed room at the mill.”

  “That’s right,” Michael said. “And now you’re telling me he goes free if I don’t go to a magistrate, then hope the grand jury thinks I have a case, and if I do, I have to become a prosecutor.”

  “You see the problem then,” Epson said, barely looking up from his plate of chicken fricassee and carrots.

  “Yes, I do,” Michael agreed. “You have many of them.” The duke had one of his very own. Where was his daughter? She couldn’t be fixing herself up for this long. No. She was out somewhere, doing whatever it was she did. Would he have to arrest her?

  “We want to improve the system. But before we do, we need advice on what needs to be done to improve it.”

  “To start,” Michael began, “you need police—constables on the streets, and they need to get paid. Second, you need prosecutors. People who know the law, and they need to get paid, too.”

  The men all looked around at each other. None of them noticed Charlotte stepping inside the dining hall. Her dark eyes found him immediately and she smiled. Real or not, it beguiled him.

  He felt like smiling back.

  Chapter Ten

  Charlotte had stood at the bottom of the stairs in the manor house a few moments earlier and ran her palms down her tight, satin stays then fanned out her skirts. She hoped she looked presentable and not like she recently returned from the mill on a frothy horse. She’d pushed the poor beast, but Kevin, the stable hand, had vowed to take extra care of it.

  John deVille was free, Gerald FitzSimmons would keep quiet about her and what he’d done when he pretended to wake up from also being struck on the head, beside William sleeping soundly on the floor in the mill.

  She’d made sure he wasn’t dead before she left. She’d arrived at the mill after it happened. She hadn’t stayed long. John was gone, and Will and Gerald were alive. It had been a successful night.

  She’d made it back home a short while ago and managed to freshen up and look half-pleasing. At least, she felt that way when she stepped inside the dining hall and Detective Pendridge set his eyes on her. His stoic expression hadn’t changed, but his breathing had. She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back but his gaze warmed on her. Did he suspect?

  Her gaze fell next to the Baxter twins, Sara and Cara, fawning all over him. She didn’t blame them. With his raven hair pulled back from the strong angles of his face, and his long, black justaucorps, strong thighs and shapely calves, he was a sight to behold.

  John hurried to her side. “He has been growing more and more fidgety all night, looking to me for answers as to where you were.”

  “Ah, now did I not tell you ’twas better that you did not know where I was going?” She patted his arm and smiled onward at her father.

  “Father,” she said as she held out her hands. “Please forgive me for being tardy. I began to come down and was struck by a terrible headache. I had to call Anna so I could lie down.”

  “My dearest daughter,” he certainly didn’t say for her benefit. “I’m so glad to see you feeling better. As usual, you look beautiful.”

  Her well-practiced smile remained.

  “Just like your mother.”

  Her merry expression vanished and she walked to her seat and sat down. She wasn’t sure if she was grateful that her chair was next to Michael’s or not. Why would her father compare her to her mother? He knew she hated all things to do with Lizette Whimsey. Charlotte was nothing like her! She looked nothing like her! Once again, Charlotte sat staring at an empty chair across from her. It was as if her mother had abandoned her without leaving for good. Charlotte wished she had left for good.

  She could feel Michael’s gaze on her. And then it was gone. She breathed and reached for her cup. She wasn’t sure why she had come. She glanced at the man beside her. His presence helped. Oh, aye. She’d come for him.

  “Have my father’s friends been boring you all night talking about the law?”

  The men laughed. None took offense.

  “I, for one,” Lord Longsley said, “was just about to ask the detective what dialect he speaks. I have heard nothing like his speech before.”

  “Nor have I, my lord!” Charlotte agreed, smiling and turning to the detective.

  “From where in Brittany did you say you came?” Longsley asked.

  Brittany? Charlotte’s smile widened as the detective’s face went blank. Hmm, why would her father tell the others that Michael was from France?

  “Pendridge,” Epson said, eyeing him the way a cat would size up its prey. “Do you not know where you come from?”

  “Dinan,” Charlotte answered and blinked at the detective. “Is it not?”

  “That’s right,” he said, raking his gaze over them all. “Dinan.” He rested his diamond-hard gaze on Epson. “Anything else?”

  The short baron shook his head and continued on with his meal.

  Charlotte flicked her gaze to the baron and offered him a stiff, yet comforting smile. She wanted him to know it was insincere. She didn’t like him. She’d never seen him show kindness to anyone.

  “What brought you to our shore?” Lord Baxter asked next.

  “I invited him,” her father interjected. “After hearing about him from a friend of mine, I wrote to him, inviting him to come to England to meet with us.”

  “What do you think of our glorious land and its people so far?” Baxter held up his hand to her father, but there was no need. No one could answer the question but Michael.

  “I’ve only been here for a day. I haven’t seen much.”

  “And its people?” Longsley pressed.

  His sapphire eyes shifted to her for a moment. She was looking at him, so she saw.

  “Courageous and courteous,” he answered.

  Lord Longsley laughed, almost as if to mock him. “Aye, and beautiful, no?”

  “Aye,” Michael said under his breath. He nodded and reached for his cup.

  “Tell me—” Lord Baxter began from across the table.

  “Oh for goodness’ sake,” Charlotte interrupted. “Let the poor man eat his dinner!”

  Everyone was quiet after that and enjoyed their three-course meal of chicken fricassee, stewed carrots, ham sliced cold into thick cuts, meat pie and pastries, and venison. The second course consisted of custard pudding, roasted vegetables, and smoking hot potatoes with melted butter.

  They rested before dessert, everyone agreeing on the deliciousness of the food. Especially the rare potatoes. Her father was praised for serving other delicacies as well, like asparagus and venison. The duke soaked in his accolades, knowing his prestige gave him power.

  Charlotte excused herself from the table, as had some others, and went to stand by the window. Agnes, one of her parents’ servants, brought her a hot drink made of roasted oranges, sugar, and port. It was delicious.

  “Where were you tonight?” Michael’s voice came up behind her.

  “I already told my father. I was overcome by a headache. Would you like to speak to my maid, Anna?”