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Ben sighs, still studying everyone around us as we slow our pace to walk back to the front of the hall and where our carriage is hopefully waiting. “The McKinleys are staying at a house here in San Francisco. Maybe I can get us in tomorrow morning to talk to someone about who he is.” He rubs his chin in thought. “McKinley will be assassinated in September—that’s the only reason I can think that someone else from the future would try to gain access to him. To save him? But why…? Teddy Roosevelt succeeded him.” He mulls on it in silence, probably weighing what he remembers about Teddy Roosevelt’s policies and the pros and cons. I don’t know whether to laugh at his history nerdiness or cry over losing our connection to the future—even if the man wasn’t eager to share the secret of getting home. I’m with Ben that there has to be something nefarious going on. Otherwise, why would he avoid me? He knows I’m from the future as well.

Is it possible he isn’t trapped like Ben and I are? Can he move through the mirror at will? The only explanation for why he wouldn’t want to share that with us is because he’s up to something sketchy.

By the time we return to Mrs. Guthrie’s, the emotional and physical toll of the night has hit me, and Ben escorts me up the stairs to my room with his arm around my waist like he did before.

“Even if we lost him, it was a wonderful night,” I tell him as we near my door. I don’t want him to think I’m too disappointed in the evening’s entertainment, despite my worries about the man and him avoiding us. “Thank you.”

Ben slips his hand from my waist to hold my hand. “You’re welcome. And it’s something. We’ll find him and figure it out. It’s a lead. Something to do.”

The hope in his voice thrills me. “Of course.”

He smiles down at me, his expression enthusiastic. “I’ll find a maid and send her up to help with your dress.”

“Oh.” I sigh and sag against him purposefully, making him laugh. “Would you just undo it? It’s been such a long day, and I don’t want to wait.”

“No problem.” He follows me inside, closing the door but leaving it open a sliver. Not that it would matter. If anyone came upon Ben inside my bedroom, that’s enough to ruin my reputation, let alone for him to be caught unbuttoning my dress. I bite my lips to keep from laughing about that. I turn and rub against my lower back. Carrying around such a heavy skirt is painful.

The amusement and thoughts about my hard life in period clothing fly from my head when Ben gently lifts the cascading curls to the side and his fingers brush over my neck. Layers of clothing stand between us, and my undergarments are more modest than any I’ve ever worn in my life. Only three days ago, he helped me do up the back of a dress, but the gentle pressure now, as he unfastens the small pearl buttons, is different.

It’s at that moment I get it—the rising expectation in one of the stories when the brush of a gloved hand during a dance makes the heroine’s heart skitter with anticipation. Mine is doing the samba, beating so hard Ben must hear it. I hold absolutely still as he finishes, afraid of melting into a pool at his feet if I don’t.

I turn when he’s finished, swallowing to gather a steady enough voice to say, “Thank you,” and it still comes out too hushed, too breathy.

His fingers reach up, brushing along the edge of my jaw. I stop breathing. We stare at each other for what feels like a lifetime before he lowers his lips to mine, bringing his other hand up to cup my face to hold me near him. The kiss is soft and gentle at first, but then he parts my lips with his, and I lean against him. His hands slide into my hair, undoing half of it so that it tips to one side. Then his hands trail down my neck, lighting the skin there on fire. He drops one hand to my waist to pull me closer, his other hand at the arch of my neck. He deepens the kiss further until everything starts spinning out of place.

Forget my ruined reputation. If anyone catches us doing this, I will definitely have to marry Ben. At least for appearances.

And maybe I won’t be mad about it.

When we pull apart, we stare at each other again, his fingers still tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck. He withdraws them slowly and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Wow. We really just met, didn’t we?”

I nod, then shake my head. “After everything … it doesn’t feel like it.” That kiss was intense, yes. But it doesn’t scare me because we’re moving way too fast.

“I know.” He takes a breath and then steps back. “I should be a gentleman.” He tugs my hand toward him, lacing our fingers together for a moment before he brings my hand up and kisses my palm. The exhilaration that pulses through me at that simple touch is almost as intense as the kiss.

This is why women were swooning all over the place. Believe me, it’s legit.

“Good night,” he says.

“Good night,” I manage to say. What I wouldn’t give right now to be back in the present. To be able to throw in a DVD and cuddle on the couch while we watch … or not. I hope more than ever we find the man we saw with President McKinley at Pioneer Hall, and heaven help me, that we can figure out a way to make him help us get home.

Chapter Eight

Ben lets me sleep in the next day, but he goes alone to the house across from Lafayette Park where the president and his wife have been while in San Francisco. I’m up by the time he returns, trying not to show my disappointment that he’s left me out. We’re in this together, and I can’t think of a reason why he wouldn’t wait and include me.

“Anything?” I ask when he strides into Mrs. Guthrie’s music room, where Mr. Allen has been fulfilling his promise to play more for us. I’m so anxious about Ben’s visit that the music doesn’t calm me.

Ben shakes his head and comes to sit beside me. “I couldn’t convince anyone to let me see the president, of course,” he says in a low voice, though Mr. Allen’s playing covers most of the conversation. Mrs. Guthrie is embroidering across the room, and the only attention she gives us is a sly glance before she turns back to her needlework.

“I was able to slip in and talk to some of the servants. None of them there could tell me who he is, though they’ve all seen him. He came to see President McKinley yesterday and was nearly thrown out until he convinced the butler to let him speak to the president’s personal secretary. They spoke for a few minutes, and the secretary took him right in to see President McKinley, and he’s been at his side ever since.” The contemplative look that Ben wore outside Pioneer Hall is back, the wheels turning as he tries to piece together the information.

“Was McKinley…” I drop my voice to a bare whisper, just in case. “… assassinated in San Francisco?”

“No. It doesn’t happen until September. I can’t figure out how this fits. Did our mystery man come back on purpose?”

I twist a piece of my dress in my hands. “He must have. There were handprints in the mirror. That’s what I was looking at when I came through,” I say. “They were probably his. What other explanation is there?”

“Then the question is: Is he here to do good or to do bad?”