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I was doubting now that he had—he’d probably given up on hearing back from me. I couldn’t fix things even if Ezra sent me back right away. That I was sleeping in this strange bed instead of a strange hotel bed didn’t seem worth complaining about. But I’d felt sick as a dog and was still wobbly from the effects of my little trip. That, I could blame Ezra for, and did.
     
    The slew of excuses I expected didn’t come. Ezra plucked at a loose thread on the coat sleeve, avoiding my gaze. He finally conceded, “I hadn’t considered it, but I do think you’re right. I owe you something.” He looked up at me, dead serious. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much to offer.”
     
    A thought went through my head and I immediately stomped it down. That was about the last thing I needed. Just because I was missing home and Reese and things familiar was no reason to jump into a one-nighter, even if Ezra was amenable. Anyway, he was engaged, at least for the time being.
     
    I took off my gun and put it under the pillow, still not prepared to be separated from it. I’d stripped down to my pants before it occurred to me I’d be sharing a bed with a man I hadn’t been intimate with. Pajamas might be called for. “Do you have anything I can wear to sleep in? PJs? Sweats? I’ll take anything.”
     
    “I believe so.”
     
    “And one more thing,” I said as he started for the door. “Where’s the head?”
     
    He threw a bemused look back at me. “Whose head in particular are you inquiring after? You appear to be still in possession of your own.”
     
    I swallowed down a smile, refusing to like him or his sense of humor. “The head. You know. The john? Bathroom? Lavatory?” I was running out of synonyms. “Outhouse—”
     
    “Yes, I’ve caught on, thank you. The water closet is two doors down. I’ll get you a nightshirt.”
     
    I didn’t like the sound of that. “You have anything with pants?”
     
    There was a knock and Derry slipped into the room and closed the door. “Ezra, you’ve got company downstairs. Mrs. Hastings.”
     
    Ezra’s smile vanished. “She’s Henry’s client, not mine.”
     
    Client? Since when did museum employees have clients?
     
    “She wants to see you,” Derry said with gentle emphasis.
     
    Whoever Mrs. Hastings was, Ezra clearly intended to be stubborn about it. “She’s paying Henry.”
     
    “She’s upset, the poor dear.” Derry sat on a chair and proceeded to remove his boots. “Kath has her in the parlor with some tea. No doubt that will soothe her nerves and she’ll be on her way home soon enough.”
     
    “She’s upset?” Ezra frowned. “Very well. I’ll go, then. And I hope you’ll explain to Henry when he comes after me with a fire iron.”
     
    “I’ll have only good things to say at your wake,” Derry promised, and I saw the sparkle in his eyes.
     
    Ezra glared at both of us. “Mr. Nash needs a nightshirt,” he said and shut the door energetically.
     
    Derry chuckled. “The poor love. Henry won’t be half livid.”
     
    “Yeah? Over what?” It had to be more innocent than the conclusion I’d drawn.
     
    “A nightshirt you were needing?” Derry got up and went to rummage in the wardrobe.
     
    I wondered what he was suddenly hesitant to discuss. “They’re not involved in anything illegal, are they?”
     
    His protective instinct kicked in, just as I’d hoped. “Ezra won’t take a shilling, Mr. Nash. Not a shilling. He’s got the gift, but he’d never harm a soul with it.” Derry produced a neatly folded article of clothing and shook it out. “Here you are. Will this do?”
     
    A goddamned nightgown. But I couldn’t sleep in my briefs; I didn’t think Derry, even as friendly as he was, would be too wild about the idea. I thanked him for the nightgown and with a resigned sigh put it on. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser, I was for the first time glad to be more than a hundred years from home. The