Chapter Four
SABRINA’S JACKET OVER his arm, Alex left the house, walking through the gardens and back into the almost sylvan piece of land beyond. A high stone wall blocked off the noise of the city streets, rendering it peaceful and quiet. Alex had discovered long ago that his “reading” of an object was far easier outside, away from the clutter that filled most buildings.
He sat down on a stone bench and took out Sabrina’s possessions, laying them on the bench beside him. Closing his eyes, he held the cloth in both hands, trying to empty his mind of everything but the rustle of the leaves in the trees around him, the chirps of birds.
There was very little of Sabrina in this jacket. Very little of anything really, other than a vague masculinity and perhaps a sense of anger? No, too mild for that, more resentment perhaps. That told him nothing. He folded the jacket and laid it aside, then picked up the objects one by one.
The money pouch, like the jacket, held only a trace of Sabrina. There was that same masculine feel, along with a mingling of different feelings. That would be common for money, passing through the hands of many people, as it did. But what was interesting was the strong sense of another male presence besides the one from the jacket.
He had never really noticed this ability to pinpoint the presence of one person or another, just as he had not realized he could separate a feminine presence from a male one. Was it something new or had it always been there beneath the surface, something he’d ignored? He was inclined to think it was the latter.
What had always jumped out to him was the stark emotion attached to a piece, and he had not examined the subtleties. He had generally thought of the person who had held it as a man or woman, but that had been because he knew for whom he searched. Today when he met Sabrina had been the first time that he had sensed the identifiable presence of a certain person—apart from his twin.
That had made it easy to feel the same sensation in the objects. Her necklace, for instance, had been swimming with it. Picking up that thread had made it clearer that one of the other strands was also a lingering remnant of a different entity.
Suddenly he was discovering a whole new way to look at his ability—as a multitude of strands, some vivid, some dull, each one carrying its own distinct quality of emotion or place or person. The difficulty was in pulling out a particular thread from the tangled knot. It was an intriguing thing to explore. Unfortunately, it was of little use here as he could not form an image or identity for the person from the strands.
The one thing he had learned was that the money had probably been in the possession of the second man, the one who did not possess the jacket, for a longer time. Somehow this man’s presence felt heavier—or perhaps fuller was the better word. More developed—that was it. He suspected the other man was older. It was speculation, of course, but then everything about his ability was merely his interpretation of a message.
There was little to be gained from the train ticket, which had been handled by many people and in Sabrina’s possession for only a short time. The handkerchief, too, had been handled by others, a servant who had washed it in all likelihood. There was a flicker of something when he touched the stitched monogram, and he held that tightly between his fingers for a moment. Not Sabrina, but a woman—the person who had embroidered it, perhaps? But again, that could have been anyone from a seamstress to a servant to a relative.
Finally, he picked up the thing he held the most hope for—the man’s pocket watch. He had gotten a definite flash of a place from it. With some concentration, it might become clearer. He folded his hand around the watch and focused.
A man, and again he had that sense of weight, gravity, that made him think he was older. But he was not one of the other two men he had sensed on the jacket and money. There was a sense of satisfaction. A strong element of love. Alex concentrated on separating that particular strand.
And there it was: a pleasant house, clearly the property of someone of wealth, but not ostentatious. Queen Anne style, white, with crisp black trim, carriage lamps on either side of the entry and a gold knocker on the door—again, not grand or attention-grabbing, just a plain gold knocker and plate.
It sat in a row of elegant town houses, and he was almost certain it was located here in the city. He was even more certain that whoever the man who had carried this watch was, this house had been his home. Pride, love and security permeated Alex’s sense of him.
Excitement rose in him. Now this, at last, was useful. Alex knew houses. He began to dig through his pockets. He had never quite given up his childhood habit of picking up odds and ends and stuffing them in one pocket or another; as a result, he always had a pencil or two and some scrap of paper.
He found a rolled-up flyer someone on the street had handed him the other day. Flattening it out on the bench beside him, he began to sketch the house on the blank back of a testament to the wonders of “Dr. Hinkley’s Miracle Tonic—guaranteed to eradicate all one’s aches and pains.”
Alex worked as he always did, absorbed in the task, fingers moving quickly and surely over the page. He paused, studying it, then added a few more details. He spent another few minutes holding the watch and trying to summon up a fuller picture of the house, then added a bit of decoration at the corners and over the door. He would give the drawing to Tom Quick and set him looking for the place. Alex could make a pretty good guess as to what areas in the city it was most likely to be located.
He tucked away both drawing and pencil and turned to the final object. He had been curiously reluctant to examine it again. Foolish, of course. The small gold band set with diamonds wasn’t necessarily a wedding ring. Even if it was, it wasn’t necessarily Sabrina’s. It didn’t mean she was married.
Moreover, there was really no reason to be downcast at the idea. He barely knew the woman. He was not the romantic soul Con was, believing that all Morelands fell in love on sight. None of his sisters had; indeed, Olivia had had such an argument with her future husband when she first met him that both of them had been tossed out of the séance they were attending. And while Rafe had rescued Kyria from that tree, as Alex recalled she had been more irritated than bedazzled—of course, that could have had something to do with the fact that she had been trying to pull Alex and Con out of trouble. Thisbe had had a normal sort of courtship, if studying chemical concoctions could be considered a courtship.
No surprise that his vague, bookish father would have been smitten the moment he met the fiery-haired, forceful reformer who would become his wife. The duchess was, after all, something of a force of nature. Reed had pined for Anna for years, but Alex found it hard to believe that Reed, the most sensible of the Morelands, had really fallen head over heels the moment he saw her. And the whole account of Theo’s seeing his wife in a dream as he lay dying was too bizarre to count as falling in love on sight.
What they had felt was attraction, just as he was attracted to Sabrina. It made sense. No Moreland could resist the lure of the unusual, and when it was accompanied by big blue eyes and a cloud of black curls and a mouth that invited kisses, of course he would be interested in her, even attracted. The connection between them was odd; he’d never felt it with any woman before, but that didn’t mean it was love. He didn’t know what it meant, but love had to be something more than sensing her presence.
It also had to be more than wanting to help her and protect her. Anyone would have felt a rush of sympathy at her plight, anger at the sign of bruises on her creamy skin. It wasn’t the first time he had tried to help someone.
Which was exactly what he ought to be doing, instead of sitting here uselessly ruminating on his motives. Alex picked up the ring and closed his fist around it. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the circle in his hand.
The aura it gave off was muddled, as if it had been handled by many people. There was less trace of Sabrina on it than on the handkerchief. If it was, indeed, a marriage ring, surely that meant it was not Sabrina’s. Women rarely took off their wedding bands. Perhaps it was an heirloom, passed down through generations.
He had a suspicion that this line of reasoning was more wishful thinking than logic. The feeling of it was not murky and heavy, as old things often were, with generations of emotions darkening them, layer on layer. It was more...empty, almost, barely brushed with emotion.
That quality made it seem more likely that the ring was new, that it had sat in a jewelry store, looked at and held by many, but worn and cherished by no one. It made it seem likely that it was a recent acquisition, perhaps a present. Perhaps a wedding ring placed on Sabrina’s finger only days ago.
Was she a newlywed? Had she run away from her husband? The bruises on her face would certainly indicate that she had good reason for leaving him—a frightening brute of a husband who sent her fleeing into the night. Alex realized his fist had tightened around the ring, and he forcibly relaxed it.
He surged to his feet. It was useless to sit here, trying to conjure up any more information from the objects Sabrina had with her. He had learned all he could from them, and he should get to tracking down the one lead he had obtained, the house. He would find Tom Quick while Sabrina was occupied trying on clothes.
That thought brought up a whole new set of images of Sabrina in frilly underthings, slipping dresses on and off, buttoning and unbuttoning. Better not to think about that, either. She was a guest in his home. Under his mother’s roof. He knew nothing about her. He intended to help her, not seduce her.
Alex started to put the ring back in the outer pocket, but he decided it would be more secure in an inner pocket. He reached inside the jacket, finding the slit pocket in the silk lining. Shoving the ring down into the corner, his finger touched a piece of paper. Digging deeper, he caught the bit between two of his fingers and pulled it out.
Holding it up, he studied the small plain square of heavy stock paper. A slow smile spread across his face. Tucking the bit of paper into his own breast pocket, he turned and strolled back into the house.
* * *
SABRINA SAT ON the window seat, gazing out on the garden, as she waited for the maid to come measure the hems of her new treasure trove of dresses. Since the clothes had fit her well enough, she and Megan had been able to sort through them quickly.
Dealing with the Morelands was like being sucked into a whirlwind, she’d found, and this was the first time today that she had a few minutes to stop and think. As she watched, Alex appeared at the edge of the garden and walked toward the house, his head down. Apparently, like her, he had seized some time to consider the situation.
She wondered what his conclusions were. Heaven knew, she didn’t have any herself. She felt as if she teetered on the edge of a deep abyss. How could she not know anything about herself? Absently, she reached up and rubbed her temples, hoping to soothe the ache that had been in residence there all morning.
It was easy enough to guess that she had received a blow—probably more than one—to the head and that it had caused her to lose her memory. It wouldn’t be so frightening if only she could be certain that her memory would return. But what if it didn’t? What if she never recalled who she was?
What if she was married? The thought made her blood run cold. It seemed peculiar; one would think her best hope would be to have a loved one who would be looking for her, who would be able to tell her everything about herself. Instead, she feared the idea. What if her husband showed up and he seemed a complete stranger to her? Or what if he showed up and she realized that she was frightened of him, even despised him, that she had in fact been running away from him?
She held her left hand up in front of her, scrutinizing the base of her third finger. There was no mark, no change of color in her skin, to indicate that she had worn a ring there. But of course, there would not be if she had not worn it long. She hadn’t worn the ring but had carried it in her pocket. That would seem to indicate she wasn’t married, but perhaps she had only done it because the ring looked too feminine for her masculine attire. Or maybe it had been merely wishful thinking.
Or maybe she was just grasping at straws, unwilling to believe she was married and yet felt so drawn to another man. Sighing, she let her head fall back against the wall. Closing her eyes, she thought about Alex. It was obvious that she was unfamiliar to him, yet she felt as if she knew him. The instant she saw him, elation had risen in her, as if she had found something important and exciting. Yes, she had been in a desperate state, scared and hoping for help, but what she had felt seemed much more than simply reaching a person who might be able to help her.
It wasn’t relief that sent little sparks shooting down her nerves when he smiled at her. Nor was it safety that made her insides warm just now as she watched him walking toward the house, long-legged and lean. Everything about him—the thick black hair, the soaring cheekbones, the dark slashes of his eyebrows above clear green eyes—drew her. Even the sound of his voice was somehow stirring.
It was all disturbing...yet perversely delightful, as well. Even now, just thinking about him, she felt that same heat blossom deep inside her, aching and hungry. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss him, to have his arms slide around her in a way that wasn’t about comfort or security at all. Her skin tingled at the thought of his touch.
Was this usual? Was this normal? It didn’t feel so. It felt strange and exciting. But perhaps it was quite familiar to her. How was she to know? Perhaps she was a woman of experience, and that was simply something else she’d forgotten. Perhaps she was a wanton.
She had no way of knowing, any more than she could be certain of anything about herself. She believed that she was a good person, that she had lived a pleasant, harmless life. But how could she be sure?
A quiet knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and a maid came in. Sabrina stood up, and the maid came over to kneel at her feet, beginning to measure and pin along the bottom of the skirt.
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name,” Sabrina said.
“Prudence, miss,” the girl said.
“I apologize for causing so much work.”
“Oh, there’s always something to do round the house,” Prudence responded cheerfully. “I like the sewing better than some things. I’m hoping to be a ladies’ maid one day.” She sighed. “Though then I’d have to leave Broughton House. The duchess has Sadie already, and the marchioness don’t use one.”
“I take it you enjoy working here?”
“Oh, yes, miss. Mr. Phipps is a stickler—you have to do your work well. But he’s fair. And the family is kind, even if they are a wee bit...different. There’s some that think their ways are too odd. But the animals don’t bother me, and even if I don’t understand a lot of what she says, I don’t mind when the duchess goes on about voting and sanitation and such. And it’s not fair to say Lady Thisbe blows things up. There was just that one little fire in her workroom.”
“I see.” Sabrina pressed her lips firmly together to keep from laughing.
“You have to be careful not to touch the duke’s old pots and such, of course. And Lord Bellard gets upset if you move his little men.”
“His little men?”
“The toy soldiers he has set up—a terrible lot of them.”
“Lord Bellard? There’s another child living here?”
“Oh, no, miss, Lord B’s old—he’s the duke’s uncle. He’s sweet, really, even if he never remembers your name. For myself, I’m happy not to have to dust all those little things—or the duke’s pieces of plates and cups. Some say the Morelands are too free and easy, but I like it that they don’t have their noses in the air. Everyone here gets a day off every week, not just every other, and they pay more than anyone else. The duchess insists.”
“They have been very kind to me.”
Prudence looked up at Sabrina. “Is it true what they say, miss? That Lord Alex found you and you can’t remember your name?”
“Well, I think I found him, but yes, I don’t remember my name or anything else.”
“My...” She let out a long sigh. “Isn’t that a wonder?”
“A wonder?” Sabrina glanced at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“It’d be grand, wouldn’t it, to be whoever you wanted? Choose your own name, where you lived, what you liked?” Prudence sat back on her heels, surveying her work with satisfaction. “There you go, miss. We can start on the next, if you’d like.”
Sabrina stared at her, struck by the girl’s words. Perhaps she was looking at her situation all wrong. Her slate was wiped clean. It didn’t matter what kind of person she had been in the past. Starting today, she could be whoever she wanted. She and she alone could decide how she wanted to act, what she wanted to be, what she thought and felt and did. She could, in short, create herself.
She should be excited, not scared. What lay before her wasn’t a deep abyss, but a limitless horizon. “Yes,” she said, a smile curving her lips. “Let’s begin.”