Chapter Eighteen
Stoker swore inwardly, and then reminded himself that of course Sabine would approach Phineas Legg. Stoker had an instinct for detecting maliciousness and threat, and Phineas Legg gave no suggestion of either, thank God.
No risk,Stoker said in his head, ambling behind Sabine. He promised himself he would not strike this person unless absolutely necessary. He would not cause a scene; he would not disrupt Sabine’s work; he would not be a raging jealous lunatic unless rage or lunacy were required as last resorts.
“...but have we been introduced?” Sabine was already trilling to the man at the drinks table. He cast an appreciative look up and down Sabine’s body and appeared overjoyed by her suggestion.
No risk,Stoker chanted in his head.
“Mr. Phineas Legg, at your service, miss,” the man was saying. He affected a sweeping bow over her hand.
“Oh, Mr. Legg, of course,” said Sabine, “of Southampton.” She made no effort to correct his “miss” to “madam.”
Mr. Legg chuckled, “OfPortsmouth.”
“Oh indeed? Portsmouth. But then perhaps we are not acquainted. I don’t believe I know anyone at all from Portsmouth. I am a resident of London these past five years. What luck for you to attend all the way from Hampshire.” She shot a glance over her shoulder at Stoker, her eyes bright with excitement. Legg looked up, noticing Stoker for the first time, and frowned.
“Yes,” Legg said haltingly. “And who do I have the honor of meeting?” His eyes darted back and forth between Sabine and Stoker.
Sabine fretted over her rudeness. “Oh, but do forgive me. I am Elaine Toble.” She extended her hand again. Legg smiled and descended slowly over her knuckles, casting another frown at Stoker.
Sabine quickly added, “And this is the man employed by my late husband to guard my welfare... when I am out of the house.”
“To guard you?”
“We own several businesses that claim some... notoriety,” she said simply, waving the notion away.
Stoker took a small step closer. Low risk or not, he did not relish being waved away, even as part of a ruse.
But now Legg was clarifying, “Yourlatehusband?”
“May God rest him,” said Sabine. The words were enthusiastic and dismissive at the same time.
Phineas Legg raised his eyebrows, a suggestive, knowing look. Sabine raised one of her own perfectly arched brows as they shared the look. Stoker bit back a growl.
“I assume your work is inshipping, Mr. Legg, like the other gentlemen here?” Sabine asked.
“It is indeed, madam,” Legg said, pleased by her assumption. He motioned to the punch bowl and procured two glasses, handing her one. “I run a fleet of ships from Portsmouth Point. Across the channel to France and back mostly.”
“Afleet,” marveled Sabine admiringly. She nodded to a nearby column, just steps away from the bar, and began to drift. Legg did not hesitate to sweep his hand beneath her elbow to guide her along. Long, pale fingers brushed the skin just above her glove, and Stoker’s heart lodged in his throat. Every muscle in his body went rigid. Even as they reached the column, Legg did not let her go. Sabine said something, but Stoker couldn’t hear; his ears had disengaged. Possessiveness was a roar in his head.
You knew all along she would invent some identity,he told himself. Over meals in her bedroom, she’d explained the roles she played to elicit information. She did not aspire to widowhood; she was not an accomplished flirt. She was not affected by this man’s hands on her.
Sabine tossed a glance in his direction, a casual tilt of her head, but the look on her face was very clear.Do not.
Stoker stared back, not blinking, not breathing, his gaze homing in on the place the young man held her arm. He stepped silently behind her.
“Your man is attentive,” commented Legg, narrowing his eyes on Stoker.
“He is very good at his job, I assure you,” Sabine said. “But tell me, what do you transport on these ships of yours...?”
She engaged him for a time, exclaiming over his answers like they were the most fascinating truths of human history. Legg gave teasing, one-word answers at first, clearly expecting female shallowness, but she skillfully led him down a path of specific detail and self-important boasts. Within ten minutes he’d rattled off the boring history of his five meager boats, his itinerate crews, and his end-of-quay dock, all of which he inherited from a cruel mother.
“The reason for my questions,” Sabine was now saying, “is that one of my late husband’s businesses is a staffing office that places seasoned sailors with boat captains. I am endeavoring to maintain the business, and we are in constant search for owners or captains who might benefit from our men. I can only guess that your location in Portsmouth means you compete with the Royal Navy for crew?”
“You are a... businesswoman?” Legg asked carefully.
Sabine shrugged. “I have many occupations.”
