Chapter Six
Five hours later, as the setting sun cast long shadows on Belgrave Square, Sabine hurried home from interviewing the scurvy-ridden sailors in Greenwich. Her boots struck a confidentclip, clip, clipon the walkway, and Bridget scuttled to keep up. She’d made such progress in one afternoon. Names, dates, the port from which they sailed, the barrier islands they’d dropped anchor—the details crowded her brain like unmarked roads on a map.
Her instinct had been correct; Sir Dryden was furnishing her father’s channel-island maps to seasoned smugglers. Together they were sneaking illegal goods into England, and on a grand scale. The sailors could not have been more clear. She now knew Dryden’s particular interest was to a barrier island off the Dorset coast called the Isle of Portland. It was only a matter of time before she learned what they smuggled and how the newly mapped Isle of Portland came into play. Then she would have solid, actionable proof of illegal smuggling, including names and dates. His certain imprisonment would be her freedom. And her revenge.
When Sabine reached home, she clipped down the cellar steps, bypassing the Boyds’ front door. She typically spent a few minutes chatting with the older couple when she returned for the day, but not tonight. Tonight she had pages of notes to transcribe and consider. She’d jotted down a few things while she was interviewing the sailors, but not every word. She’d visited them under the guise of charitable caller, visiting the sick, so most of the visit had been spent tsking and fawning and allowing them to play with the dog. But they spoke so very easily about their role in the last smuggling run, the conversation had been a veritable goldmine of evidence. She wanted to get down every detail while it was still fresh in her mind.
Sabine unlocked her door with haste and flung her satchel and scarf in the direction of the bench. Bridget was hungry, yipping at her feet, but she ignored her, tugging off her gloves as she made her way down the corridor to her study.
When she passed the bedroom containing the inert Jon Stoker, she shot him a quick glance, certain he would be asleep, and hurried on to the—
Sabine stopped so quickly, she nearly stepped on the dog.
Jon Stoker was not sleeping or inert. He was gone.
The bed containing Jon Stoker contained no one at all. Jon Stoker appeared to be gone.
Sabine blinked twice, pivoted, and stared into the room. The empty bed was lit by the last orangey ray of sunset. The crisp sheets were folded back like a carefully opened envelope.
She let out a little gasp and scanned the room. The chair by the bed was vacant. The desk unoccupied, the window unobstructed, the bookshelf clear. She looked back to the front door. The entryway was empty and the small parlor adjacent to the bedroom was—she spun around—empty.
“Stoker?” Sabine called, her voice hollow. She felt an unexpected surge of something like panic.But could he have actually gone?
The wordsNot yetformed, unbidden in her brain. He was still so ill, his friends would surely be rushing to his bedside at any hour. And she was going to tell him about the sailo—
But no,she thought.
He couldn’t have managed to drag himself away. He couldn’t even hold a spoon. He—
“I’m here,” said a gravelly male voice from the study.
Sabine’s head shot up. She was flooded with a strange rush of emotion.
Relief?He had not gone.
No, not relief. Anger.
How in God’s name had he managed to leave the bed?
She looked at the door to the room down the corridor.Herroom. No, so much more than a room, hersanctuary. Sabine had taken over the room as her study when Tessa and the baby had gone. She slept in the bedroom, she took meals with the Boyds, but her life and future were carefully drawn in her study. She’d moved in a proper desk and leather chair, castoffs from the Boyds. She’d assembled shelves and bought a used drafting table.
She used the study for her cartography and writing and, most recently, her growing evidence against Sir Dryden. She didn’t want anything disturbed, she wanted to come and go at all hours, and she did not want anyone looking at her evidence. Even the maid was not allowed inside.
It had been one thing to install Stoker in her bedroom, but it was quite another to discover him inhabiting this, of all spaces.
“Stoker?” she called. “Are you there?” She strode down the corridor, swiping a glowing lamp from the sideboard. The dog darted ahead.
“Stoker?” she repeated, her voice all business. “I am not—”
She paused at the threshold. There was an open-flame candle on the desk, illuminating the study with an eerie yellow glow. In her desk chair sat Stoker, freshly shaved, hair trimmed, wearing a dressing gown and breeches she’d never seen before. Even in the shadowy candlelight, she could see his face was as white as cold ash. He appeared to be five seconds from rolling to the floor.
Sabine held up her lamp. “You’ve left your bed. You’re dressed. How, in God’s name?”
He turned his head slowly, an old man in pain, and studied her. With the beard gone, she could see the gauntness of his face. His lips were thin. His shoulders were hunched.
“Your footman, Harley,” he said simply.
“You’ve paid Harley to serve as valet?”
