“Sheep!” she moaned. “Why are there sheep in Bedford Square at this time in the morning?”

Then she sat up and saw that the bed was a showy brass affair heaped with flounces, ribbons, and crocheted cushions, and she remembered that she was not in Bedford Square anymore.

She sighed. “Not a dream, then. What a pity.”

Chevie pulled aside the gauze drapes, climbed out of bed, and padded across a deep carpet to a purple velvet curtain with golden ropes and tassels.

Chevie stood in the tall sash window and looked down on a perfect Victorian mews, thronged with staff and traders, their industry hidden from the view of important people.

She remembered something Charismo had told them at dinner the previous night.

The Duke of Westminster, one of my society clients, lives nearby in Grosvenor Street, and I have a Farspeak line running directly to his office. All I have to do is pick up this receiver and one of the most powerful men in Great Britain listens attentively to whatever I have to say.

Whoever this Charismo guy was, he had all sorts of clout. Funny that the same guy would have one line to the Duke of Westminster and another to Otto Malarkey.

Something caught Chevie’s eye. An elderly gent was walking down the back lane, tugging four sheep on a string behind him.

Four, thought Chevie. I knew it.

Charismo had ordered a maid to remove Chevie’s clothing for burning, promising a selection in the room that would be suitable for a young lady about town. Chevie checked the wooden wardrobe and found that in the ladies’ half there was room for two dresses with their voluminous bustles, while the men’s side held a selection of suits and hunting wear. Chevie chose a pair of jodhpurs, probably tailored for a teenage boy, tucked them into knee-high riding boots, and topped the lot off with a crisp white shirt.

We need to get out of here, she thought. I don’t trust this guy: he is being too nice to us. And he knows far too much about the future to be from the past. I do not buy this spiritualist story for a minute.

She placed her ear to the door and could hear sounds of conversation from downstairs.

No doubt Riley the fan-boy is asking any question he can think of.

The conversation drifted up to her with the aroma of coffee and fresh bread. Chevie realized that she was starving, in spite of the feast Tibor Charismo had served up the previous night.

Chicken, guinea fowl, turkey, pheasant. How many birds can a person eat in one sitting?

She twisted the painted knob and found the door locked.

Odd. Why would our supposed benefactor lock me in?

As far as Chevie was concerned, this was simply another tick on the evidence sheet against Charismo.