Page 62 of His Sinful Touch

He went utterly still, concentrating on his hand. The sense of her was palpable. And here, at last, he drew a feeling of her emotion. There was fear and eagerness and sorrow, too, and laced through it all was a dominating thread of determination. She was bent on finding out...something. That part was vague, but Alex was even more convinced that Sabrina was backtracking, hunting for the thing that had impelled her to escape.

There was no more to be found; he would only be wasting time here. Telling the maid to pack a few things of Sabrina’s—he had seen her case sitting atop the wardrobe, so she must have set off with nothing—Alex hurried to his room and threw his shaving kit and a few necessities into a leather valise. He added a sheaf of bills from his lockbox. It would be enough...as long as Sabrina had remembered the pouch of money. He hoped she made it to Paddington without incident, that no man decided to take advantage of her, seeing she was a woman alone. Would she be able to find the ticket office? The right train? Paddington was so large and confusing, and she—

Oh, the devil, he was acting like an idiot. His mother would box his ears for thinking a grown woman couldn’t do anything for herself. He didn’t really think Sabrina couldn’t handle the trip; obviously she had managed to escape the Dearborns and make it to London on her own, even hurt as she was. It was just that...well, he wanted to do those things for her, to help her and hold her and make sure she was safe, to ward off any fellow loitering about the station who dared to ogle her.

Nor could he help but feel a stab of hurt that she had not trusted him to protect her, that she had felt it necessary to flee. She hadn’t even told him she was going! That sentiment was equally silly, he knew. She had done it out of too much concern for him, not a lack of it.

Irritated with himself, Alex buckled his case and left his room, picking up the carpetbag Milly had packed for Sabrina, as well. He trotted down the back stairs and out into the garden, releasing some of his pent-up energy by running along the winding path to the far end of their estate. There a spreading oak towered over the wall, offering a convenient escape route to anyone willing to crawl out onto a limb, drop onto the top of an eight-foot stone wall and climb down the other side—which, of course, he and Con had been willing to do.

He hadn’t made the climb in years, and he found it was a more difficult proposition when one was carrying two bags. There was also the problem that the wall did not seem quite as wide as it had to him ten years ago. But the height of the tree made it possible to search the area for anyone watching the back of the estate. He saw no one, so he dropped the two bags on the other side of the wall, then swung down to hang for a steadying moment from the limb. Letting go, he landed in a crouch on the top of the wall, then walked like a man on a tightrope to the spot where he and Con had long ago found the best handholds and toeholds for climbing down.

The small juts of stone were still there—though they, too, seemed to have shrunk over the years—and he clambered down. Picking up the bags, he hurried down the street, forcing himself not to attract attention by breaking into a run.

Two blocks down, he was lucky enough to spot a hack, and he hailed it. As the hansom rattled up the street, crossing the intersection of the street where Broughton House lay, he looked out the window. There, a block away, were two women and a man, strolling along, talking, with a carriage trailing some distance behind them. His mother, God bless her, was carrying her umbrella propped on her shoulder like a rifle. Even in the midst of his worry, Alex had to smile.

Woe betide the man who tried to grab Miss Holcutt while the duchess was there. Alex hadn’t seen his mother slam Con’s cricket bat into the head of an intruder when the man knocked a ten-year-old Con to the floor; he had been busy at the time running for help. He could imagine it, though; his mother had always been something of a warrior queen.

Traffic was thick and Alex’s progress slow. Alex fidgeted on the seat as they crawled toward Paddington, and when they came to a complete halt at a snarl involving a wagon filled with barrels, an omnibus and a carriage drawn by a fine set of grays, Alex abandoned the cab altogether. Jumping down, he tossed the driver the fare and set out at a lope for the train station.

He went straight to the ticket office, glancing around him all the while for a sight of Sabrina. At the ticket office there was a queue, which tried his patience further, but he used the time to crane his neck all around, looking for Sabrina. He suspected everyone around him was beginning to think he was a fugitive fleeing Scotland Yard.

“Next train to Newmarket leaving at two forty, sir,” the agent told him cheerfully. “That’s three minutes. Platform seven.”

“Yes.” Alex thrust the bills at the man and grabbed his ticket, then whipped around and picked up the cases.

“’Ere, now, don’t you want your change?” the agent called, but Alex had already loped off.

He wove through the other passengers, trotting when the space was open and slowing to a swift walk when it clogged. Ahead he saw the platform, the train still sitting there, steam billowing up from the engine. Then, with a clang and a jerk, it started forward.

“No! Wait!” Alex broke into a run. It would be the height of frustration to have come this close and missed it.

The wheels turned slowly, gradually picking up speed. Waiting passengers turned to stare at him. One man let out an encouraging “Halloo!” Legs pumping, heart pounding, Alex drew tantalizingly close to the rear car. Only a few more feet.

He transferred the handles of both cases to his outside hand and, putting on a last extra burst of speed, he reached for the metal railing. His fingertips touched it. He wrapped his hand around the pole, taking a last desperate leap. His foot landed on the step and swung up. For an instant he teetered there on the edge, the tracks rushing beneath him at a dizzying pace. Then he swung the bags up and over, and the momentum carried him forward onto the platform.

Wrapping his arm around the pole, he leaned against it, catching his breath. He’d made it.

Now...he certainly hoped Sabrina was on this train.

Chapter Twenty-One

SABRINA HURRIED DOWN the back staircase, carrying the small sack that held her few necessities. It was easy enough to get through the kitchen and out the door. The servants, used to unusual behavior, barely gave her a glance. She paused in the small alleyway outside the door, surprised at how much it hurt to leave. She had known it would be hard, but she hadn’t expected to feel like a vise was closing around her heart. For an instant, she thought of turning around and going back. Staying with Alex.

Stiffening her spine, she started up the walkway. She was doing the right thing, however much it might make her chest ache. Until she knew what had happened, it was folly to be with Alex. Worse than folly, for she was endangering him and his family by doing so.

As she approached the street, she saw that the man who had been watching the house was no longer there. A quick glance the other way told her that he had gone to the next block and stood beside a carriage, and he was talking to someone within. Quickly, she lowered her head and turned the other way.

Her instinct was to run. She hadn’t seen anyone in the carriage, but she feared it was Mr. Dearborn to whom the man was reporting. Sabrina had counted on her disguise fooling the watcher, who had never seen her in person and would be relying on a physical description, at most a photograph or drawing of her. But the Dearborns knew her well. They would be much more likely to recognize her if they were careful enough to look beyond the cap and dress of a maid and actually see her.

But to run would guarantee getting their attention, so she forced herself to walk forward briskly, as if she were on an errand, but not so fast she looked as if she were escaping. She kept her eyes on the sidewalk in front of her, shoulders tensed, listening for the sound of running footsteps or the roll of carriage wheels.

Nothing came and she turned at the corner, casting a sideways glance back down the street. The carriage remained where it was, and the man had disappeared. She stopped once she was out of sight, knees trembling, and caught her breath. The side street was deserted, no sign of a hansom cab, so she started walking again, finally finding a busier street.

She tried to hail a cab, but two of them rolled past her without even a pause, and it struck her that her disguise, while quite useful for slipping away from the house unnoticed, was anything but that for getting a vehicle. Dressed as a maid, she was immediately dismissed as a nonpaying customer. She marched on. No chance to change her clothes until she got to the station. What would a maid do if she needed to get to Paddington?

Omnibuses. She had been quite intrigued when she saw one of the long vehicles filled with people the other day; it would be exciting to actually ride in one. But how was she to know which one to take to get to Paddington?

She found a clot of people standing at one corner, obviously waiting for something. She studied them for a moment. There was a young woman about her age, dressed in a practical suit much like the ones Megan wore, and she had the look of someone who knew what she was doing.