Elisabeth shook her head. “The man who held her captive in his brothel pressed a burning torch to her face each time she refused to accommodate customers. A terrible story. One of many, unfortunately. But she has done so well since. She has so much talent to give and she enjoys her work. I wasn’t exaggerating about her exploits in the kitchen. We are lucky to have her.” She climbed a few more steps. “We are lucky to have every girl. Some might consider the cost of helping them to be very high. Bryson takes my work in stride and loves me for my conviction, but it was never the life he envisioned. My children have always had to share me with my commitments to the foundation. And Stoker—Stoker has witnessed the worst of humanity firsthand. I see degradation and despair when the girls are delivered to me, but it is nothing compared to what Stoker had encountered when he entered these establishments to extract the girls. It could not but take its toll, especially on the way he views men and women and sex. He has so much love to give, of this I am certain, but there may be some... some memories to overcome.” She turned to Sabine and gave an apologetic smile. “Not to impose undue pressure.”
Sabine laughed. She felt more resolved to help Jon Stoker find love with every breath.
Elisabeth laughed, a clear, musical sound. They spilled from the stairwell into the great hall, wiping their eyes and fanning for fresh air.
The men were still in the parlor, their voices louder and more relaxed than the stiff, formal conversation of before. Elisabeth rushed in.
“Stoker, I must congratulate you on your wife,” she said, sitting on the arm of her husband’s chair. The men scrambled to stand. “Sabine has my wholehearted approval. I adore her.”
“This comes as no surprise,” Stoker said simply. Sabine drifted to his side. She wanted desperately to take his arm, to throw her arms around him, but she hovered instead.
Mr. Courtland said to Sabine, “Stoker tells me you wish to look in on the Portsmouth ship owner, Phineas Legg?” He retook his seat.
“Oh yes. Stoker said he might be of your acquaintance.”
“Well, I knowofhis family. The ships from my shipyard are beyond their means, I’m afraid, but he has inquired after retired equipment and even out-of-service boats that we sell at a reduced price.”
“When Stoker is well enough,” Sabine said, “I intend to travel to Portsmouth to look in on him. I’m not sure what Stoker has said, but I believe him to be working with my uncle at something not entirely legal. I am determined to have them reported.”
“Yes, Stoker has told me,” said Mr. Courtland. “But rather than travel to Portsmouth, why not bring Legg to London? As I mentioned, Elisabeth and I are hosting a ball next week. Most of maritime London will be invited, as well as mariners from other port cities. I had not included Legg on the guest list, but he would be an easy addition. The crowd will represent a step up from Legg’s usual acquaintances, if I had to guess. I cannot imagine he would turn the invitation down, even at last minute. It would allow you to get a look at him here in London before taking yourself off to Portsmouth. Would this be useful?”
Sabine was nodding before he finished. “Oh, but that would be a huge convenience and great benefit to us—er, to me. Thank you so much. Are you certain you don’t mind?”
Mr. Courtland looked at his wife. Elisabeth made a dismissive wave of her hand. “What’s another wealthy sailor staggering around the ballroom? You know I have no opinion about the ball, except to complain about having to attend it.”
Mr. Courtland turned back. “It’s all settled. I will invite Mr. Legg this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” breathed Sabine again, and now she did reach out to wrap her arm around Stoker’s biceps, clinging tightly. His muscle tensed under her hand, but she did not let go. She glanced at him. Stoker and Bryson were sharing a look. Sabine realized that perhaps the invitation to Mr. Legg had already been decided. The men had solved the problem of Portsmouth and dear Mr. Legg while she’d been in the cellar with Elisabeth. How clever they must feel, but two could play this game.
Sabine cleared her throat. “But Mr. Courtland?”
“Bryson, please,” the older man corrected.
“Bryson,” she continued. “Would it trouble you terribly to add just one more unexpected guest to the party? That is, if it really is a large affair and hangers-on won’t be noticed?”
“Not at all. How could we be of service?”
“Our research has also brushed up against an old aristocrat living in Chelsea—the Duke of Wrest? Do you know him?”
Sabine could feel Stoker tense beneath her arm.
“Wrest...” mused Mr. Courtland. “I cannot say that I do.”
“He’s rather old and not out of society,” said Sabine. She hurried to finish, “Even so, would you consider including him, as well?”
“Consider it done,” said Bryson, and Sabine let out a satisfied breath. She released her grip on Stoker’s arm. Smiling, she reached for a second cup of tea.
