Chapter Forty-Three
Rather than fly directly to Holborn, Violet took a detour past Conduit Street. The door to Saint’s house stood open, lamplight spilling into the street. A traveling chaise was drawn up. As she watched, a servant ran down the steps and placed a portmanteau in the carriage.
Unless she was mistaken, Saintbridge Abbishaw was leaving London.
Violet gave a gleeful little skip in the air, then sped in the direction of Holborn. Wintersmith’s window was open. A lone candle cast faint, flickering light.
Violet peeped inside.
Wintersmith lounged in his chair, his attention wholly captured by the book he was reading. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, neckcloth discarded, his feet up on the bed.
It seemed terribly intimate to observe him like that. His bare throat looked vulner
