Chapter Twenty-Four
In its five years since completion, London’s showy Regent Street has distinguished itself as the city’s shopping centre. Arching from Piccadilly to Oxford Circus, the John Nash–designed thoroughfare boasts modern shops and exclusive craftsmen. Also new is the esteemed Royal Polytechnic Institution for Machinery and Mining.
Perhaps the greatest harmony of Regent Street is the road itself, which represents the boundary of affluent Mayfair to the west and working-class Soho to the east. This arrangement draws luxury shoppers from one side of the street and employs shop clerks from the other.
Polytechnic scientists, by and large, hail from outside the city.
Public street with shops open daily except Sundays, several with extended evening hours till five o’clock.
Royal Polytechnic Institution features a public exhibition hall with working models of machines and scales, a lecture theatre, museum shop, and tea room. Open daily, check postings for special presentations and frequent photography exhibits.
—FromA Noble Guide to Londonby Sabine Noble
The fervent need and passionate kisses of the alleyway did not, Sabine was disappointed to discover, carry over to the remainder of the day or the night. They had kissed against the wall until children ran past, laughing and jumping in a puddle that splattered Stoker’s boots and Sabine’s hem. Sabine had giggled and Stoker had muttered something in French, but the moment was broken. They had straightened their clothes and emerged from the alley a little disoriented but arm in arm.
Something about the meeting in Wrest’s dark, filthy townhome made them crave daylight and fresh air, and they’d elected to walk the distance to Belgrave Square. Stoker had tucked Sabine tightly against him and she’d held fast to his arm, but they did not speak, not really. More than penury at the old duke’s house, they’d encountered an alternate history of Stoker’s entire life. The whole of which had been recounted in one afternoon. So much talking, so many revelations, so much to think through.
And so they had walked in silence, and when they reached Belgrave Square, Stoker had sat behind the bedroom desk and began writing letters. Sabine had offered tea or even brandy, but he’d declined. He’d wished, she sensed, to be alone, and she left him for her own work.
When the sun set, he’d asked if she would join him out of the house for dinner—in a café or the dining room of an inn—and she had agreed. They settled on a public house not far from Belgrave Square, where the food was bland but fortifying and a little band of musicians entertained the room and removed the opportunity to talk.
When they returned home, Sabine hadn’t asked his preference for sleeping alone; she’d simply changed into her night rail and climbed into his bed. He’d scooped her up at once, burying his face in her hair. Sabine’s heart had soared. Her body strummed in anticipation of the passion and emotion that would, surely, invigorate their lovemaking.
But alas, no. After his first commanding gush of enthusiasm, Stoker seemed to take stock of himself and his passion, to steel himself, and then to gingerly undress Sabine and reverently, placidly, make love to her as if she was a fragile paper doll.
Sabine had been crestfallen and almost,almost, called him out on it, but she’d worried the revelations from his father had been enough burden for one day. It would have been overwhelming, she was afraid, to hear his wife heap on demands about the way he gave and received love in their bed.
She awakened in the morning, anxious to make progress with her own investigation. She would use the day to call on Regent Street and visit the young chemist, Dr. Birdall. There was more to learn there now that she understood the gunpowder plot. Considerable days had passed since she’d lurked about him in his laboratory or in the pub, eavesdropping about his work in explosives. He would not remember her; perhaps she could approach him. She was motivated to learn everything she could about the London network before finally making a journey to the Dorset coast to have a look at the Isle of Portland.
After she visited Dorset, she hoped her investigation could feel complete enough to be presented to the police, and she could wash her hands of it.
Stoker teased about how she would spend her time when she’d finally given the authorities the mural of damning evidence to which she’d devoted months of her life. She was a cartographer, she reminded him, not a detective. Besides, the thrill of vengeance against her uncle had waned considerably since she’d fallen in love with Stoker. His daily struggle to put all of his terrible past behind him had affected every part of her life.
Now her investigation meant only one thing to her: ousting Dryden from Park Lodge so she could return to her home, look after her mother, and restore her father’s body of work. And if she could continue to publish her travel guides—who could say, perhaps a rural England edition?—even better.
But thinking about returning to Surrey meant speculating about a future with Stoker there. Would he consider life so far from the ocean? Would Park Lodge be equal to this Portuguese villa he’d been endeavoring to buy? If not, would he consider taking her with him when he sailed on to find the home of his dreams?
Sabine could not say. And she would not ask. She could tell him of her plans for her own life, she could suggest openness to compromise, but onlyhecould declare his intentions.
Quietly, Sabine slid one leg from their warm bed, hoping to disappear from the room without waking him. Stoker made a lazy sound and crept a hand beneath the covers and caught her wrist. She went still, heart pounding, and waited. If he yanked her back, if he rolled her beneath him, if he made love to her in the same way he had kissed her yesterday in the alley, she would be delighted to postpone her morning in Regent Street to toss about in bed with him.
However, if he embarked on another of his light touch, gentle kiss, half-asleep sessions, she was afraid she’d have to beg off on threat of the day’s pressing schedule and the lateness of the hour. She might even claim she had a headache.
It pained her to avoid him; in fact, she wanted nothing more than to lie with him. But she could not tolerate the civilized...hesitancythat pervaded their lovemaking since they’d left the ball. The contrast between their first time and the following nights was so stark, they almost seemed like different activities. Last night he’d benignlyconvenedwith her (really, there was no other word) with more of the same. And now he wanted her again.
Better than nothing at all,she reminded herself, but she held her breath, waiting to see what level of “refinement” he would invoke in these early-morning hours. When he began to slide a faint, gentle hand up her arm, Sabine had her answer. She bit her lip, wondering if she could doze through another softly pressed ministration. When he slid a second hand beneath the covers to ineffectually massage her hip, like a groom polishing the side of a carriage, she tugged her wrist from his hand and stood up.
“Stoker,” she said, “I can’t.”
He sat. The look on his face was pure horror.
“Wait,” she said, “do not panic. It’s not what you assume.”
“Ah... how could it be any other?” A harsh laugh. “Please don’t explain. You are weary. Or busy. Ordisinclined.”
“I am not weary or busy or disinclined,” she said. “I don’t like the way you touch me.”
And now he was on his feet. He stared at her across the bed. “I knew it—”
