Stoker is a very sick man... and I believe him to be planning his immediate departure upon recovery.
Finally, she settled on:
Stoker is a very sick man... and I am very busy.
Fondly,
Sabine
Before she could change her mind, she sealed the letter with wax and sent it upstairs to be posted.
Returning to her desk, she tried to focus on pinning notes to the wall mural she’d drawn to display all the evidence amassed on Sir Dryden. Every few minutes she would pause to listen for Harley. She’d summoned the footman to sit with Stoker as he took his supper, cowardly, no doubt. Perry had offered, but Sabine had meant what she said. She would manage his care. Although simply not... today. And perhaps not tomorrow.
Sabine was not ashamed or abashed about the kiss so much as... uncertain about how to proceed. And nervous, perhaps? Just a touch. She felt a little like she’d drawn a beautiful map to a magical location, and now it was in the hands of a traveler. She could, theoretically, ask this traveler how he enjoyed the map, but she was afraid. What if it had not been useful? What if there were wrong turns? What if he had been confused by the route? Worst of all, did he make the journey but hate the destination? Did he wish he’d never left home?
Sabine was also terrified that she’d somehow injured Stoker during their passionate... passionate—whatever it was. Passionatemoment. Passionateinterlude. It had been so much more than a kiss.
Her skin tingled at the memory of his hands in her hair and down her back and up the snug side of her bodice. Her stomach flipped when she thought of the noises he made, desire and satisfaction at once, exactly as she felt. And his chest. Bare and muscled and furred with hair, exposed to her searching hands. The tattoo had only been the beginning.
The memories mingled with her nerves and she kept away. Surely, he would call for her if she’d harmed him. He would tell Harley. He would send word that he needed the doctor.
Sabine shook her head, trying to return her focus to the evidence mural, when Perry bustled into the room with a tea tray, Bridget trailing behind her.
“Oh, Perry, you needn’t bring refreshment this time of night,” Sabine said. “I know you’re exhausted after your journey. Let us both stop for today and go to bed. Did you find your old room in the servants’ hall?”
“Oh yes, miss, just like I left it. But where do you sleep? Now that Mr. Stoker is—” and now she lowered her voice to a whisper “—in your bed?” Her face suggested an ogre in their midst.
“Oh, I’ve taken a guest room on the second floor. The Boyds have been so generous about Stoker’s convalescence. And he’s not so very bad. His condition is not contagious.”
“Well,” said Perry, pouring the tea, “he’s not contagious in any way that we know about.”
Sabine hid a smile. “Perry?”
“Yes, miss?” Perry shooed the dog off a chair and pushed it toward the tea service.
“Back in Yorkshire, at the castle...”
“We prefer to call it by its proper name,” corrected Perry, “which is Caldera. And there are certainly no dogs inside the castle.”
“Oh yes, I remember this from my visit,” said Sabine with a smirk, feeding Bridget a biscuit from the tray. She started again, “AtCaldera, does your work as Lady Willow’s personal maid require you to maintain a separate bedroom for Lady Willow? Or do the earl and countess share one bedroom?”
“Oh, they share the most beautifully appointed master suite you’ve ever seen,” reported Perry reverently. “With a stained-glass window and chandelier and a canopied bed the size of a barge.”
“Right,” said Sabine. “And Lady Willow sleeps in this room... every night?”
“Oh yes, every night,” assured Perry. “And myself and lordship’s valet? We are only permitted to enter when they ring for us or when they are out. They make their own fire and dress for bed themselves. They are very private and it is part of my job to protect their privacy from the upstairs maids and footmen. Well, mine and Marcus’s. That’s his lordship’s valet.” Perry rolled her eyes and repeated her colleague’s name with a haughty affection. “Marcus.”
“Oh yes, of course,” mused Sabine. “It sounds... exclusive.”
“Well,” sniffed Perry, making her way to the door, “they are an earl and countess, aren’t they?”
“Indeed they are, but Perry?” called Sabine, and the maid turned back. “Thank you. For coming all this way. I know life in the city is not your preference, and your work for Lady Willow at Caldera has great value. I’m grateful that you’ve consented to lend your time and talents back at Belgrave Square.”
The maid beamed. “You’re quite welcome, Miss Sabine. How could I not come, when Lady Willow explained how gravely ill Mr. Stoker was, and you here all alone, not able to abide his company.”
“Yes,” said Sabine, clearing her throat. “As I’ve said, he’s not so terrible.”
The maid paused. “Not so terribly sick or not soterrible?” She scrunched her face into an angry scowl and raised her hands like claws.
