“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.
