Thief of Shadows
“Of course not.” She sighed and looked away. “But then men age less rapidly than women. Many would consider him to be in his prime.”
“Do you?”
She smiled—not kindly—and looked back at him. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I do.”
His mouth tightened. “He’s a handsome man.”
Was he jealous? And why did the possibility send a wicked thrill through her?
“Yes.” She couldn’t help it—her voice emerged a throaty purr. “He’s tall and well built and he moves with a kind of animal grace that makes ladies stare. And he’s witty. He has the knack of saying the most mundane things—and only afterward do you realize the double entendre or the devastating put-down. It’s quite a talent, really.”
“Mmm.” Those mobile, wide, sinfully delicious lips hardly moved. “And I only speak frankly—too frankly most often.”
“Yes.”
He leaned forward suddenly, the movement startling a squeak from her. He thrust his face into the full light and she could see an edge of anger—hot and wild—in his usually calm brown eyes.
Her heart began to beat in triple time.
“Would you like me more if I knew how to simper and twist my words?” he demanded.
His sudden aggression made her reply without thinking, straight from her heart. “No. I like you as you are.”
She licked her lips at her admission and his gaze settled broodingly on her mouth. It felt like a brand, that look. A physical touch more intimate than any embrace. Her lips parted in wonder and his eyes rose slowly to meet hers, for once unshielded.
Dear God, what she saw in that look! How he had hidden these many years behind the guise of a simple schoolmaster, she didn’t know. Anger, passion, lust, and surging hunger swirled in his stormy eyes. Emotions so stark, so strong, she didn’t understand how he kept them under control. He looked as if he were about to attack her, ravish her, and conquer London and the world itself. He could’ve been a warrior, a statesman, a king.
The carriage drew to a halt, and it was he who moved first.
He held out his hand to her. “Shall we descend so I can meet this Viscount d’Arque?”
As she laid her trembling fingers in his, she wondered, Why does it feel like I’ve just accepted a challenge?
Chapter Seven
With his last breath, the Harlequin whispered, “Yes.” The mysterious man’s eyes glowed red even as the Harlequin’s lost all color, becoming the white of death, and he whispered, “Let it be.”
At once the Harlequin was whole again, his limbs straight and strong. In every respect he was the same as ever, save for two things: his eyes remained white and now he carried two swords… and neither one was made of wood…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Winter felt Isabel’s slim fingers on his arm and knew a thrill of satisfaction. She might be attracted to this d’Arque—a witty man closer to her age and of her same social standing—but right now it was his arm she held.
He stepped from the carriage and remembered to turn and help her descend. She smiled her thanks as another carriage began pulling away. Winter glanced up in time to see the distinctive owl in a coat of arms on the carriage door. He squinted, staring at the coachman, who looked ominously familiar.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” Isabel whispered, evidently mistaking the reason for his pause.
He nodded down at her. “Naturally not with you on my arm, my lady.”
Only then did Winter face the Duchess of Arlington’s town house. It was one of the grandest houses in London, rumored to have been partially paid for by a former duchess’s royal liaison. Even so, the present duchess had entirely redecorated the house, putting her husband’s estates into deep debt.
Not that one could tell from the opulence of the ball.
Scores of liveried footmen showed the guests into a wide hall, brilliantly lit with huge chandeliers. A sweeping staircase led to the upper floor and a grand ballroom already crowded with sweating, perfumed bodies.
Winter leaned down to whisper in Isabel’s ear, aware that she smelled of lavender and lime. “You’re sure mingling with these aristocrats will do the home good?”
“Positive,” she breathed, laughter in her husky voice. “Come, let me introduce you to some people.”
They stepped into the ballroom, and Winter felt his senses quicken. D’Arque was here tonight. Soon he would meet the man who was his only connection to the lassie snatchers in St. Giles.
Isabel’s fingers were on his arm, but it was she who guided him discreetly through the mass of people. The walls of the ballroom were a soft shade of blue-green, highlighted in cream and gold. It should have been a soothing room with those colors, but it was anything but. Around them people laughed and talked loudly. A quartet of musicians attempted to play dancing music, and the stench of burning candle wax and humanity was nearly overpowering.
Strange that the perfumed ballroom of the aristocracy could be nearly as foul as the manure-smeared streets of St. Giles.
“Who do you intend for me to meet tonight?” Winter murmured as they slowly made their way.
Isabel shrugged. “Oh, the very cream of society, I think.” She leaned toward him and tapped his arm with her folded fan. “Those people who can do the most for the home, in fact.”
His eyebrows arched. “Such as?”
She nodded toward two upright gentlemen who seemed to be the very epitome of pillars of London society. Their heads were bent together as they obviously discussed something important. “The Duke of Wakefield, for instance.”
He glanced at the tall, dark man. “Lady Hero and Lady Phoebe’s elder brother, I recollect.”
“The very same.” Isabel nodded. “He’s quite powerful—and of course fabulously wealthy. Wakefield is a guiding force in parliament. It’s rumored that Sir Robert Walpole doesn’t make a move without consulting him. And his companion, the Marquess of Mandeville, is nearly as influential. He’s Lady Margaret’s elder brother, of course. I’d introduce you now, but it rather looks as if they are intent upon some serious discussion.”
“Then we look for other quarry.”
“Indeed.” Isabel made a slight moue as she scanned the crowd.
“Oh, poor man!” Isabel exclaimed gently.
But she was already leading him to a man who stood by himself at the side of the room. He wore a gray wig and his eyes were aloof behind half-moon spectacles. He seemed entirely removed from the crowd. The gentleman was facing partly away from them and didn’t turn until they were nearly upon him.
“Mr. St. John,” Lady Beckinhall greeted him.
St. John’s brown eyes widened behind his spectacles, flicking between them and then shuttering so quickly that most would’ve missed the reaction. “Lady Beckinhall.” He took her fingers, bowing over them.
She waved her other hand gracefully at Winter. “May I present Mr. Winter Makepeace, the manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children? Mr. Makepeace, Mr. Godric St. John.”
Winter held out his hand to the other man. “Actually, we’ve already met.”
Lady Beckinhall raised her eyebrows. “You have?”
“I’m a friend of Lord Caire,” St. John said as he took Winter’s hand. He didn’t smile, but his manner was pleasant enough. “I was there when the old home burned last year. Good to see you again, Makepeace.”
“And you, sir,” Winter replied. “You were quite a help that night as I remember. I was surprised not to see you at my sister’s wedding.”
A muscle flexed in the other man’s jaw. “I regret not attending. It was soon after Clara—” St. John clamped his mouth shut and looked away.
“I was very sorry to hear of Mrs. St. John’s death,” Lady Beckinhall said quietly.
St. John nodded once, jerkily, and swallowed.
“But we must be moving on, as I have other gentlepersons to introduce Mr. Makepeace to,” Lady Beckinhall continued smoothly.
Godric St. John seemed not to notice as they moved away.
Lady Beckinhall leaned her head close to Winter’s jaw, making her delicate scent for a moment break through the stinking miasma of the room. “Mr. St. John lost his wife last year after a long illness. They were quite devoted to each other. I hadn’t known he had reentered society.”
“Ah,” Winter murmured. He glanced over his shoulder. St. John was standing alone again, staring into space. “He’s like the walking dead.”
“Poor, poor man.” Lady Beckinhall shivered. “Come. I see some gentlemen I’d like to introduce you to.”
“Lead the way.”
Lady Beckinhall smiled brilliantly as they came upon a small group. “Gentlemen, I wonder if you all have had the pleasure of meeting my companion, Mr. Winter Makepeace?”
At the general murmur in the negative Isabel introduced Winter to the three gentlemen.
“The Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, eh?” Sir Beverly Williams said. “Quite the mouthful, ain’t it? In St. Giles, you say?”
“Indeed, sir,” Winter said.
“Best move it out of that cesspit, is my advice,” Sir Beverly snorted. “Ought to be farther west in the newer parts of the city. Hanover Square or such.”
“I doubt we could afford the rents in Hanover Square,” Winter said gently. “Besides, our customers don’t frequent the newer parts of London.”
“Eh? Customers?” Sir Beverly looked confused.
“He means the orphans, Williams,” said the Earl of Kershaw, a congenial man with a broad nose and twinkling eyes in a round face. “Isn’t that right, Makepeace?”
Winters bowed to the earl. “Quite correct, my lord. The orphans come from St. Giles; therefore the home is situated there.”
“Makes sense,” said the third man, Mr. Roger Fraser-Burnsby. “St. Giles is a dangerous spot, though. Isn’t there a madman who runs about the place?”
“The Ghost of St. Giles.” Kershaw shook his head with a wry smile. “Tell me you’re not afraid of bogeymen, Fraser-Burnsby? It’s a legend, no more.”
Winter felt Isabel glance at him, but he was careful to keep his face pleasantly interested.
“I’ve met the Ghost,” she said. “It was a fortnight ago. I found him insensible in the street and naturally stopped my carriage to help.” Her blue eyes met his in challenge.
Winter nodded calmly. “The Ghost must be very grateful to you indeed.”
“Good Lord, had you no care for your precious person, Lady Beckinhall?” Sir Beverly sounded quite scandalized.
“How brave of you.” Fraser-Burnsby grinned boyishly. “But I’m very glad you escaped unscathed, my lady.
She shrugged elegantly. “He was hardly in a position to attack me.”
“We must thank God, then,” Kershaw rumbled. “For keeping you safe, for he sounds a lunatic if even half the accounts are true. Have you seen this Ghost, Mr. Makepeace?”
“Only at a distance,” Winter replied casually. “He appears to be a shy fellow. Now, if you will excuse us, I’ve promised Lady Beckinhall a glass of punch.”
The three gentlemen bowed as he led Isabel away.
“Why did you do that?” she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot.
He looked at her, brows raised. “Wasn’t that the proper way to excuse ourselves?”
“Yes, of course, quite proper,” she said grumpily. “But we could’ve stayed longer with them.”
“I thought the point of this ball was to meet an array of people,” he said with quiet amusement.