Lucia walked toward him, putting out her hand. The mouse startled and scampered away. “There, there,” she soothed. “You see, the poor wee thing is more frightened of you than you are of it.” She put her arm around him and ushered him toward the bedchamber.
“I’m sorry, Lucia. It’s no wonder you don’t want to marry me. Who would want to marry a man afraid of mice?”
She smiled in the darkness as she led him to his side of the bed and helped him out of his robe. She lifted the heavy goose-down comforters, eased him onto the bed, and pulled off his slippers and his cap as he lay back. She walked around to her side, kicked off her slippers and climbed in, crawling under the blankets until she was beside him, facing him nose to nose.
“What am I going to do with you, Jessup Stowe?”
“I don’t know?” he whispered.
“A man afraid of mice.”
“I know, I know. An Englishman afraid of mice, no less.”
She slid her arm around him, nuzzling his neck. “You know, there really is only one thing to be done with such a man.”
“And what would that be?”
“Marry him, of course. After all, there’s got to be someone in the household who can chase away the mice!”
Jessup laughed and rolled over, pinning her to the mattress. “I love you, Lucia,” he whispered in her ear.
“I love you, too, you old goat. Now roll over and get some sleep. Only one go-round per night for us old folks, you know.” She kissed him and they rolled over onto their sides, snuggling against each other, warding off the winter chill.
Blake stood at the rail of the balcony in his overcoat and let the snow hit him directly in the face. At least the cold, wet sting made him feel like he as alive.
He stared down into the darkness and at the twinkle of the occasion light in the harbor. There wasn’t much moving on the water tonight. Any sensible sailor was snug in his house or beneath battened-down hatches. It was nearly Christmas and Father Winter was bearing down on Boston.
He thrust his gloved hands into the pockets of his black wool overcoat. He’d received reports tonight from two separate agents he’d hired to search for Sapphire, and neither had been good. That was six in the past two weeks. Six reports and more than two hundred dollars, a fortune by some standards. Not that he cared about the money—hell, he had more money than he knew what to do with.
No one had seen Sapphire. She had just disappeared from Boston. From his life. She was gone. Vanished into thin air, as hard as that was for the private agents he hired to believe.
And yet, in a way, it wasn’t hard for Blake to believe. They didn’t understand her the way he did. Sapphire was so determined. It didn’t surprise him that once she decided to rid herself of him, she’d just done it. Didn’t surprise him a bit.
Blake heard a knock at the door, a knock that became a pound when he didn’t respond. “Mr. Thixton?” a voice called from the bedroom door.
“What is it?” he barked, having to almost shout for the maid to hear him above the howling wind. “I told you I didn’t want any supper.”
“Mr. Lawrence is here to see you, sir.” Molly dropped a curtsy and hurried out of the room as Manford walked in, still in his overcoat.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Blake said, leaning back against the rail.
“Didn’t think I needed an invitation.” He walked to the open doorway, buttoning up his coat. “What the hell are you doing? It’s freezing out here.”
Blake turned to stare into the darkness. “It doesn’t feel that cold.”
Manford was quiet for a minute. “Listen, Blake. I know this isn’t any of my business, but this girl you told me about—”
“You’re right. It isn’t.”
“This is getting a little silly, don’t you think? I mean, honestly, she was just a serving girl. She—”
“Don’t you say that! You understand me?” Blake spun around, raising his fist. “Don’t you ever say that again or I swear by all that’s holy, I’ll—” He stopped himself before he drew his fist under Manford’s chin and let it fall to his side. He looked down and scuffed his boot in the snow. “God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Manford. I’m sorry.”
Manford clamped his hand on Blake’s shoulder. “How about a scotch? One inside, out of this snow. Maybe a little something to eat? You’re wasting away, old friend.”
“Maybe a drink,” Blake agreed.
The two men stepped into the bedchamber and into the light. Manford closed the door behind them, shrugged off his coat and walked to the table to pour them both a drink. “So she’s not just a servant. Tell me about her, then. You never even told me her name.”