It did not pay to underestimate the demimonde, and Sebastien should frankly know better.
"Does that mean you're going back to New Amsterdam?"
Sebastien wished he thought the wistful note in her voice was for himself as much as Jack. "We'll see," he said. He set the letter on a sideboard. "She says she's on her way to Boston. The letter is postmarked two days since, actually, so she may already have arrived."
"But why would she resign?"
"At a guess? Your king asked something of her that she could not accept."
"Oh," Phoebe said, and straightened her spectacles fussily before pouring herself another cup of tea. "Is there another possibility?"
"I am certain there are dozens," Sebastien said. Including one that he had no right to feel like a blow. Abby Irene might be leaving her post in America to go home to London and her dearly beloved prince now that he was no longer Phillip's heir.
"I'm going to go find a book," Sebastien said. "I'll see you again at lunchtime."
Sebastien did not dine, but he did enjoy joining his human friends for meals. Nevertheless, he became so engrossed in a tome of natural history that Phoebe had to ring for him. The bell must have awakened Jack, who joined them shortly.
Either the sleep had benefited Jack or he was determined out of sheer perversity to be pleasant. When he stumbled downstairs, dressed but still blinking sleepily, he seemed genuinely contented by the news that Abby Irene would send to them when she arrived. He didn't ask about Epaphras, even when Sebastien praised Jack for his handling of the other wampyr.
Perhaps it was an effective strategy, because Sebastien found himself volunteering more information than he might have if Jack had pressed. Or perhaps, Sebastien thought, Jack's lack of jealousy was a symptom of growing older, and needing—and wanting—Sebastien less.
Eventually, protégés—whether human or of the blood—grew independent if they were worth having in the first place. David was proof of that.
Abby Irene's second letter, mailed that day from Cambridge, came with the afternoon post.
* * *
Sebastien had been hoping for a solid day-long rain that would make travel a reasonable risk. Instead, the day held clear and bright until change-of-weather clouds mackerel-streaked the sunset. It was evening before he dared leave the house. Summer was coming, the days lengthening, and his increasing confinement made him restless.
Abby Irene was ensconced in a good but not extravagant hotel in the Back Bay—not far, Sebastien noted with a share of amusement for synchronicity's sake, from the residence of that murdered boy.
His carriage pulled under the portico some half hour after sunset. He disembarked and paid the driver, a few shillings extra ensuring the man would wait. The doorman smiled and stood aside to let him enter.
He presented himself at the desk, expecting to be made to wait, but Abby Irene had placed his assumed name on the list as her solicitor, and he was shown up. The bellman winked knowingly. Sebastien pretended not to have seen.
A tidy rap on the door provoked a prompt response: the barking of a small dog. Abby Irene unlatched the door as if she had been waiting—with a sorceress, you never could tell: she might have been—and stood aside to allow Sebastien in. He tipped the bellman, stepped over Mike the terrier—who danced like an animated dust-mop underfoot—and waited while Abby Irene shot the bolt behind him.
Their parting had been sudden. He was not at all certain how he should approach her, and so he tousled Mike's ears briefly and waited for her to provide a hint.
"Mr. Nast," she said, and he couldn't tell if it was wry or derisive. She was an imposing beautiful woman of perhaps half a century, her straight blond hair cut to fall around her face like a boy's. He paused for a moment to appreciate her, watching the flush climb her cheeks, and folded his arms.
"Forgive me?" he said, because it was rarely the wrong thing. It was a very typical hotel room, complete with drapes thrown wide over six-paned windows. Sebastien noticed the unobtrusive door to another chamber, which might mean that Abby Irene had brought her housekeeper as a traveling companion.
"If you'll forgive me," she answered, and touched his arm.
One always lost them, this way or that. "You're going back to London?"
Her smile was a flicker, gone as it appeared. "I hadn't planned on it. But I can't protect you any more, Sebastien. I—"