had to be an animal, he wouldn’t choose to be a squirrel or any other sort of nut collector. “What I’d meant was it’d been my pleasure to help you.”
She blushed, avoided his gaze and glanced around the room. A pile of slips and petticoats sat on the bed. Face paints and bottles of rouge scattered the top of the vanity. A pile of trunks, each bearing a woman’s name, lined the wall. A variety of wigs in a host of colors sat on pegs; they looked like a faceless audience.
“I suppose the cloak and dagger, or should I say breeches and felt hat, is the saner, more feminine approach.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to employ sane or feminine wiles, Mr. Michaels.” Then she asked in a smaller voice, “Whose room is this?”
“It’s the dressing room,” Trent said. “I know someone on the stage.”
She planted her feet and crossed her arms. “I’d like to leave before someone needs to change.” She dipped her head toward the door behind him. Beneath her breath she added, “Although some change might do us well.”
“You think I need to change?”
She shrugged and looked pointedly at the door.
“I’m not the one in costume,” he told her.
“I’m not in costume.”
He had his own agenda and plans for Steele’s room and he needed to know that Mercy wouldn’t get in the way. He couldn’t allow her to attract the attention of Steele’s henchmen, so he folded his arms across his chest and shook his head.
Mercy drew herself up, pushed the glasses higher onto her nose, and braced her shoulders. Although she had impressive height for a woman, he knew she couldn’t match his strength and he doubted that she would want to try. Chloe and her cohorts on the stage had to use paint to achieve this girl’s pale and rosy complexion. He frowned. Besides the glasses, something else had changed since he’d last seen her. “Your hair--”
She touched her hair, tucking the escaping curls back into its knot.
“Didn’t it used to be brown?”
“No.” She shook her head and her eye twitched.
Useful , he thought, smiling; she has a tick when she lies . “Yes,” he said, considering the curls and fighting the urge to reach out and touch a loose tendril. “I’m sure it was a honey color, a hint of red.”
“You must have me confused with someone else.” She tried to move past him and he stepped left to block her path. She stepped right and he followed. A sigh escaped her lips and her shoulders squared as she redoubled her efforts to out maneuver him. His smile broadened as he blocked her way. “But you consider yourself disguised.” He tipped his head considering her. “Why?”
She placed her hands on her hips. “Because I’m wearing glasses and I blackened my hair!”
He shook his head. “ Why are you disguised? That’s just one question. I’ve actually quite a few.”
“And I don’t have to answer any of them.”
“You will if you want to leave.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll call the constable.”
“No one will hear you over the noise below.”
She nodded towards the door. “The two men outside will.”
Trent leaned back against the door. “Are you seriously interested in their help? I happen to know they aren’t particularly nice men.”
She frowned at him, her hands clenched at her sides. “And I suppose that you are the king of polite society.”
“Perhaps just the prince.” He paused, grinning. “Prince of Polite.”
“Of course, the king would at least explain why he’s detaining me in a hotel.”
The smell of cosmetics filled the closed space, making the walls seem closer. Straining, he heard the heavy footsteps of Lector and Orson move down the hall, and let his breath out in a slow, inaudible whistle. They’d been lucky. He lowered his voice. “Why were you attempting to break into Steele’s room?”
Her eye twitched. “I thought it was my room.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve commandeered Steele’s quarters,” he
She blushed, avoided his gaze and glanced around the room. A pile of slips and petticoats sat on the bed. Face paints and bottles of rouge scattered the top of the vanity. A pile of trunks, each bearing a woman’s name, lined the wall. A variety of wigs in a host of colors sat on pegs; they looked like a faceless audience.
“I suppose the cloak and dagger, or should I say breeches and felt hat, is the saner, more feminine approach.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to employ sane or feminine wiles, Mr. Michaels.” Then she asked in a smaller voice, “Whose room is this?”
“It’s the dressing room,” Trent said. “I know someone on the stage.”
She planted her feet and crossed her arms. “I’d like to leave before someone needs to change.” She dipped her head toward the door behind him. Beneath her breath she added, “Although some change might do us well.”
“You think I need to change?”
She shrugged and looked pointedly at the door.
“I’m not the one in costume,” he told her.
“I’m not in costume.”
He had his own agenda and plans for Steele’s room and he needed to know that Mercy wouldn’t get in the way. He couldn’t allow her to attract the attention of Steele’s henchmen, so he folded his arms across his chest and shook his head.
Mercy drew herself up, pushed the glasses higher onto her nose, and braced her shoulders. Although she had impressive height for a woman, he knew she couldn’t match his strength and he doubted that she would want to try. Chloe and her cohorts on the stage had to use paint to achieve this girl’s pale and rosy complexion. He frowned. Besides the glasses, something else had changed since he’d last seen her. “Your hair--”
She touched her hair, tucking the escaping curls back into its knot.
“Didn’t it used to be brown?”
“No.” She shook her head and her eye twitched.
Useful , he thought, smiling; she has a tick when she lies . “Yes,” he said, considering the curls and fighting the urge to reach out and touch a loose tendril. “I’m sure it was a honey color, a hint of red.”
“You must have me confused with someone else.” She tried to move past him and he stepped left to block her path. She stepped right and he followed. A sigh escaped her lips and her shoulders squared as she redoubled her efforts to out maneuver him. His smile broadened as he blocked her way. “But you consider yourself disguised.” He tipped his head considering her. “Why?”
She placed her hands on her hips. “Because I’m wearing glasses and I blackened my hair!”
He shook his head. “ Why are you disguised? That’s just one question. I’ve actually quite a few.”
“And I don’t have to answer any of them.”
“You will if you want to leave.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll call the constable.”
“No one will hear you over the noise below.”
She nodded towards the door. “The two men outside will.”
Trent leaned back against the door. “Are you seriously interested in their help? I happen to know they aren’t particularly nice men.”
She frowned at him, her hands clenched at her sides. “And I suppose that you are the king of polite society.”
“Perhaps just the prince.” He paused, grinning. “Prince of Polite.”
“Of course, the king would at least explain why he’s detaining me in a hotel.”
The smell of cosmetics filled the closed space, making the walls seem closer. Straining, he heard the heavy footsteps of Lector and Orson move down the hall, and let his breath out in a slow, inaudible whistle. They’d been lucky. He lowered his voice. “Why were you attempting to break into Steele’s room?”
Her eye twitched. “I thought it was my room.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve commandeered Steele’s quarters,” he
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