“Your father is in the library, Lady Charlotte.”
“And Mother?” she added, stepping past him into the large foyer.
He shrugged his bony shoulders and shut the door. “She left this morning. She did not inform me as to where she was going.”
“Well, don’t tell Father I’m here. I’m going back out.”
“Would you care to tell me where you are going, my lady?”
“To Sutton. But, John, you shall not tell my father that either, hmm?”
“If that is your wish.”
“That is what I wish.” She smiled at him, then headed up the stairs. She knew he would do as she asked. He always did. All the servants in the house adored her, helped raise her. They would never turn her in.
She hummed a little melody and headed to her room. When she got inside, she didn’t call for Anna to help her dress but bolted the door and prepared herself for the rest of the day…and possibly the night.
She trusted no one with where she went and what she did.
Like her mother, she came and went with the wind. Her parents didn’t notice.
Chapter Three
Michael hopped offthe back of the carriage and rubbed his eyes after looking up at the rich, country estate house before him. Where was he? What was going on? The constable had been no help. When Michael asked, he was accused of drinking. Michael wished he had been.
None of this was real. It couldn’t be. He must have stumbled onto the set of a huge movie lot. He was dreaming. Or dead. Something.
But everything looked real, sounded real, smelled real. They’d traveled a good twenty minutes to get here. No lot on any set was that big.
He wanted answers and he wouldn’t get them in jail, so, when he saw Lady Charlotte Whimsey, for she was hard to miss even in a crowd, hurrying toward a horse-drawn carriage, he escaped the actor playing the constable and stepped up onto the back of the coach and hitched a ride to wherever she was going.
He wanted the things she’d stolen from him. His gun, his badge, and phone, and his wallet. She either had them or she would know who did. She was a skilled pickpocket and an even better liar, but he would get the truth from her, right after he got back his gun.
This must be where she lived. With her husband?
He rubbed his jaw. He needed time to think things through in his head. Nothing was right. Nothing made sense. He looked around and surveyed the area. There were gardens and trees surrounding the house. He would go sit for a minute and think about what to do next.
He assumed, while he hurried for the safety of cover, that someone wanted him to believe he was back in historic England. But why would anyone go through all the trouble? He must have been hurt, maybe shot. That was it. He was lying in a hospital bed somewhere dying…or recovering. This was all a hallucination. It would end as soon as he woke up or died.
In the meantime, there would be no baseball, no movies. There were no phones, or internet, or over-the-counter pain medicine.
He rubbed his scruffy face. Were there razors?
He sighed through his grinding jaw. Why would someone do this to him? Who was Mr. Green and where was he now?
Hell, the sun was shining, and bees were perched on flowers that scented the air. It all felt so real.
He heard a sound and looked to see the heavy wooden front door opening and Charlotte Whimsey stepping out. She went to the stable on the right side of the house. Should he follow her?
She still wore her riding gown and her hat was back on her head but now she carried a large satchel with her. He watched her disappear into the stable. He was about to step out of his hiding place and go after her, but she suddenly barreled out of the structure on a white and brown horse. She sat sidesaddle but she still traveled with speed. He knew how to ride, having taken lessons since he was eight and his best friend Richie Nolan had signed up for lessons, but he wouldn’t catch up and he had no idea of where he was going. Best to remain here and wait for her to return instead of getting lost.
He eyed the stable. Another day, if God forbid, he was still here.
“May I help you, Sir?” someone called out.
Michael looked toward the house. An older man with gray hair stood in the large doorway waiting for his response. What was he to say? He guessed the truth was best.
“I’m afraid I’m lost.”
