Chapter Twelve
“Perry?”
Stoker heard the rapid scuttle of footsteps that he knew belonged to the harried maid. It pained him to shout through the apartments, but he knew of no other way get the girl’s attention. “Perry?” he called again, swearing in his head.
The girl had taken very seriously the edict that Sabine and Harley alone would manage his care. He’d yet to see more than the blur of her uniform zip by outside his open doorway, although a blur was more than he could say for how much he’d seen of Sabine.
Sabine.
He’d not seen her since The Lapse, as he had come to think of the afternoon of their kiss. Five days ago. She’d sent notes, apologies, forwarded letters from friends through Harley and even Dr. Cornwell, but he had not seen her.
It was exactly as he had expected. Actually, he’d expected immediate eviction, but perhaps she clung to some guilty notion of Christian charity. He was, as she said repeatedly, nearly dead.
But how near dead could he have been to erupt into a torrent of desire so stunningly aggressive, she’d kept away for five days? Stoker had devoted the solitary time to ruminating in utter misery, trying to second-guess how overwhelmed and... plundered she must feel. It was no wonder she’d not shown her face—despite her pride and her resilience. There was a possibility he would never see her again in this life.
No, stop.He reminded himself not to become operatic. Sabine was not a coward, nor was she missish. No doubt she’d tolerated the ministrations, but it would take more to compel her to actually flee from him. Instead, she had abandoned their easy regard. They would return to the thrice-per-decade in-person meetings, and she would be civil if not warm. Warmth, in particular, would be out of the question because she would not wish to encourage him. Little did she know (and thank God) how very little encouragement he required. Even now, even racked with guilt and anxiety, he wanted her still.
He detested himself for his own weakness and the ever-present strumming lust. What before had been an underlying throb had been elevated by her presence to the thunder of a thousand horses. His blood ran hot, his body was hard, and his mind drifted to private, unspoken things. Even before, when he was burning with fever and light-headed with lack of blood, he’d watched her in the most elemental way. His skin had buzzed beneath her most innocuous touch. How could he be expected to resist when she moved so very close, when she reached for his arm, when she bade him explain such base, torrid things?
When she’d passed along the letter from Joseph, and Stoker had realized he had no friend who could be bothered to leave his happy life to assist him when he was nearly bloody dead (he would address this with Joseph and Cassin at a later date), he’d vowed, then and there, to hire his own team of caregivers to move him to his own suite of rooms in Regent Street. But then Harley had mentioned Sabine’s plans for the week—stalking a chemist in Regent Street one day, followed by (Stoker’s throat still closed at the thought) poking around a bloody charcoal kiln in Hampstead the next—and he realized there was no way he could go. She put herself in too much danger.
Oh, the irony. She was in danger here, from him and his lust, just the same as she was in danger when she tailed suspected criminals around London. A fair comparison? Possibly, also possibly an overstatement. There was always the chance the chemist and kiln master were harmless.
I can resist,he told himself.I’ll not meet her half-dressed again. She won’t lean in, or rub my arm. I won’t give explanations for explicit things that invoke coarse words and vivid images.
She’d already kept away for five days, which proved his point. Her regret would be safeguard enough.
As to the London smugglers and her investigation, he could offer no effective security, invalid that he was, but at least he could track when she left, where she was going, and when she returned. And perhaps, by some miracle, she might have some question or theory urgent enough to supersede the damage caused by The Lapse. If she needed him, he would not be in Regent Street; if she needed him, he would be here.
Except not this afternoon,he thought, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.This afternoon I will walk around the bloody block if it kills me.
Stoker listened for the maid’s footsteps outside the door and called out again. “Perry?”
He heard a small intake of breath and faint throat-clearing.
“Perry, if that’s you,” he went on, “might I beg a favor?”
Silence.
Stoker squinted at the doorway. “Perry?”
Ever so softly, he heard four hesitant footsteps. He stifled the urge to shout, waiting instead. Eventually, after what seemed like five minutes, the slight, head-bowed profile of the young maid appeared in the open space of the door. She did not look up.
“Perry. Good. There you are. Ah, do you remember me?” he asked gently.
The girl nodded.
“Right. Harley tells me that you’ve come to London to assist Sabine. I’m grateful to you. I’ve arranged for a substantial bonus to appear in your wages for the month.”
“Oh, his Lordship the Earl of Cassin pays my wages, sir,” reported Perry, shaking her head at the floor, “and quite generously, I might add. A pension too.”
Stoker exhaled, thinking of his formerly impoverished friend Cassin, before the guano fortune rolled in. “Of course,” he said. “I presume too much. You honor the earl with your service, and you honor Sabine by coming all this way. If you’ve no use for an increase to your salary, I wonder if I might beg a favor outright?”
“A favor?” Perry said to the floor. Her voice was deeply suspicious.
“I’m suffocating in this bedroom and I should like to step outside, walk around the block or into the gardens of Belgrave Square. Harley has helped me dress, but I wonder if you might lend a hand to locate my cane. I’ll need a hat, if possible. You get the idea.”
“Oh no,” scolded Perry, shaking her head, “Miss Sabine has given strict orders that no one should look after you but herself or Mr. Harley. I couldn’t possibly—”
