Drake’s eyes fell to said seat. And to the satchel still underneath it. Thank you, Father in heaven.

He waited until the agent had vanished and then stood. While the other passengers looked sympathetic, most of them seemed to be in no hurry to help clean up the mess.

Drake opened his own bag, pushed aside the copy of Les Heures Claires he’d packed, and grabbed a few other items that would prove useful now. Then he moved up the aisle.

The woman looked up at him with wary brown eyes. “Do you need to pass by?”

“No. I just thought I could help.” He offered her a smile and held up the towel he’d packed. “I think this is better to sacrifice than your lovely shawl, señora. Here.” He handed her the water he’d brought up with him too. “If you can wield this when necessary, I can use the towel.”

The wariness melted into gratitude. “Gracias.”

It only took a few minutes to get the worst of the mess from the floor. The seat was a bit more difficult, but between towel and water, it too was soon clean.

“Mama!” This cry came from one of her other children, a boy who couldn’t be more than three. “My belly hurts too!”

The mother looked caught between exasperation and sympathy, with a dose of plea thrown in.

“Probably the smell.” Drake nodded toward the water she still held. “See if he’ll drink—perhaps that will settle his stomach. I don’t need it.” He needed her to turn away for a minute now. Just a minute. With a grin, he pulled out his secret weapon—the cologne he’d grabbed out of his bag too. “I’ll just see to the smell, shall I?”

“You are an angel.” The woman turned to her children, leaving Drake to spritz the cologne onto the seat.

And to reach underneath it. He didn’t have much time now, he knew—Jaeger would be returning from the little lavatory at any moment, unless he decided to go to the dining carriage to give the clean-up time to be finished. Drake couldn’t imagine him leaving his satchel unattended for that long though. He was no doubt cursing himself even now for doing so, unless there was nothing important in it.

Doubtful, given the intelligence Drake had found.

Relying on his back to block the view of his hands, he slid the satchel out, silently opened it, and let his eyes scour the contents. There—a small partitioned tray, rubber sealing its glass lid in place. He slid it out, along with the paper shoved in with it. A packing slip. He closed the satchel again and tucked the two items under his jacket as he slid the bag back under the seat.