“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 stoodat 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 tomefor 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.
