Sabine thought about this. “But gunpowder wasn’t on the list of things smuggled into this country,” she said. “I’m not aware of any tax on gunpowder at all.” She tried to stop walking, but he ushered her along.
She went on, “Where’s the great profit in that?”
“There isno profitin importing gunpowder, because it’s against the law to bring it into the country. The government stiffly regulates the gunpowder trade. There is an abundance of it in Britain, but the crown controls who makes it, how much, and who may buy it. It’s nearly impossible to procure it if you are not a trained expert, cleared to work in mining, in the army—or...”
And now she did stop walking. They were at the edge of the ballroom, near double doors that led to the family rooms of the Courtlands’ house. Sabine strode out of the way of lingering couples to a dark spot behind a large potted fern. She waved him over.
“Or...” she said, almost giddy, “unless a high price is paid to smugglers?”
He stepped up to her, shoving a palm frond out of his face. He was breathing hard after winding their way across the ballroom. “It’s more than smuggling, Sabine, it’streason. Concocting illegal gunpowder and distributing it outside the bounds of crown regulation is considered treason in England. You have them.”
Her expression opened up, happiness and relief and justification shining in her eyes. She raised both hands and squeezed, like she wrung victory from the air.“Treason,”she marveled. “Of course. I never dreamed of a result so damning. My uncle... my uncle might be hanged. But to prove it and turn them in might save lives.”
“Undoubtedly it will do,” Stoker said. His hands slid to her waist and he fought the urge to pull her to him. He wanted to peel off her gloves and fling them away; he wanted to touch her everywhere that Legg had touched, imprinting her with his own hands.
She looked up, happiness and satisfaction and something like expectation in her eyes. She seemed to be holding her breath. She let her hands fall and moved backward deeper into the small forest of ferns. He could either follow or leave her to her personal triumph. He followed.
He was just about to let himself let go of everything but her. She was so very happy and he’d played some small role in that. The moment felt pure and almost sacred. He could kiss her to celebrate. He would not let it get out of hand—
“Johnny?”
Stoker froze at the sound of the name he had not heard in more than thirty years. Sabine jumped.
“Johnny Stoker? Marie’s boy?”
It was a male voice. Close. Too close. Sabine scuttled up beside him.
“Are you the son of Marie Stoker?”
The familiar intonation of his mother’s name filled him with a hurt and a longing he’d worked a lifetime to block out. He squeezed Sabine against him.
No,he thought.Not here, not now.
He shut his eyes.
“Johnny Stoker?”
Of course he could not have a single moment of sweetness with Sabine without some intrusion. It had been far too much to ask, just one kiss.
“The note from Bryson Courtland said he’d invited me on your behalf, so I know it’s you,” the voice said again. “Come on, give us a look. Don’t try to hide it.”
Stoker was a coward not to step into the light, but he found himself unable to move. He was a boy again; he was Johnny. The street-hardened toughness of Stoker had not yet locked around his body or his heart.
A very old man with white hair and pale green eyes stepped heavily toward them, squinting into the ferns. Sabine sucked in a little breath. The sound broke Stoker’s reverie and he slid his hands from her and stepped away. He was not a boy, hewasbattle-hardened, and the only man who scared him was himself.
Stoker considered the man. He’d known, of course, who he was. The voice was unmistakable. The childhood name he invoked. This was Sauly New, one of his mother’s old customers. What he was doing here, at a society ball, Stoker could not guess. Stoker had seen him often enough as a boy, although he looked so very old now. He’d dressed finely once upon a time, but now his suit was faded and tight.
Stoker told him, “I have no business with you, sir.”
Sabine stepped to his side. “Stoker?” she whispered.
Stoker made a low wave, trying to push her back.
“Stoker?”she persisted, her voice still low. “Do you know who this is?”
“Yes,” he sighed.
“Youknowhim?” Sabine tried to confirm.
