Sabine laughed and turned back to their hosts. The Courtlands smiled uncertainly, clearly as unsettled as Sabine and Stoker.
“May I introduce myself,” Sabine asked Mr. Courtland, trying to move the moment along, “Sabine Stoker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Her introduction interrupted the odd moment and propelled the couple into apologies and handshakes and sentiments of general delight. They ushered them into an adjacent parlor and sent a servant for tea.
“How beautiful your home is, Mrs. Courtland,” Sabine remarked, taking in the soaring ceilings and lavishly furnished rooms. Bright fires warmed the large parlor.
“I insist you call me Elisabeth,” she said. “And thank you. Denby House belonged to my aunt. I came to live here as a young woman, after my parents died. Bryson and I were in a lovely home in Moxon Street when the children were born, but then Denby House went up for sale a second time—my aunt and her husband live in the Caribbean now—and Bryson bought it as a surprise. It’s useful as the children grow and so much better suited to entertaining. Throwing parties is a necessary evil for charity work, I’m afraid, but Bryson relishes these events. We’ve a ball next week, in fact, don’t we?” She looked at her husband with a scrunched nose.
“The twenty-five-year anniversary of my shipyard,” Mr. Courtland replied. “A cause for celebration, if ever I’ve heard one.”
“And you hear many,” Mrs. Courtland replied. She went on, “But this is the house where Stoker first came to me and we began our infamous association as brothel raider and—” she laughed at Stoker “—and whatever role I played.Charity Administrator, I suppose.”
“You are the one who changes lives,” Stoker said. “I merely knocked heads and ran in the streets after dark.”
Mrs. Courtland winked. “Do not listen to him. Stoker cut a far more dashing swath through London because heismore dashing—in every way. Even our first meeting. He climbed up the rose trellis outside my room and tapped on the window. The first of hundreds of times. I daresay you’ve never entered this house through the front door before today, have you, Stoke?”
Stoker gestured to a sofa, settling Sabine and then eased himself uncomfortably beside her. “Who can say?” he said.
If Sabine expected him to slide into a reverie of remembering days gone by, she was mistaken. He seemed far brusquer and less willing to elaborate than usual, which was saying a lot.
“But you must tell us the nature of this injury of yours?” Mrs. Courtland asked. “What happened? Where were you? My God, I was beside myself when I read your note.”
Stoker apologized for the alarm and gave a brief description of the wound and ensuing infection. He and Sabine had not discussed what he would say, and she was surprised to hear him leave out key details. He said nothing of his suspicions about the Duke of Wrest and, more affectingly, he did not relate Sabine’s role in discovering him. Instead of the great coincidence of the morgue and theDreadnought, Stoker simply suggested that he “went home to Sabine” in Belgravia to recover.
Sabine listened quietly and said nothing, turning to smile at the Courtlands as they clucked and sighed, clearly horrified by the unbelievable story. Stoker dismissed their obvious concern, insisting he was nearly fully recovered. Sabine, too, listened quietly, contributing little to nothing. She simply sat beside him and, in some small way, cherished the knowledge that the two of them had their own secret version of the story.
She wanted, suddenly, to settle her hand on his leg, to scoot closer to him on the sofa. Quite out of nowhere, she felt bold enough to make the small physical overtures that had escaped her for the past week and a half. She refrained, of course, but she did relax. She sat back and relished the hot tea in its beautiful, delicate cup. His friends were lovely, just as he’d promised. He was not their son or their brother or their nephew—he was simply Stoker, and he did not belong to them any more than he belonged to her. And yet, there was something that he and Sabine shared... some undefined, unspoken bond that tied them to each other and their shared history as they sat across the tea service from his friends. They did not touch, they did not explain, but they were... united. At least for now.
Sabine glanced at Mrs. Courtland and saw her watching them over the rim of her teacup. Sabine smiled and blushed a little. She was suddenly very glad she’d not given in to her impulse to touch him.
“Sabine?” Elisabeth said. “Would you like me to show you some of the work that I do?”
“Oh,” said Sabine, nearly dropping her teacup, “that would be lovely. Thank you, Mrs. Courtland.” She’d prepared herself for Elisabeth Courtland to steal away with Stoker, but she had not expected the older woman to require time alone with her.
“Elisabeth—please,” the older woman corrected, kissing her husband on the cheek. “Just a short little turn about the house,” she said with vague promise, leading the way to the door.
