Thief of Shadows
A tear-stained face peered out.
“Christopher,” Winter said, remembering the boy’s name from the first time he’d come here. He glanced over his shoulder, but Isabel seemed frozen. He looked back at the boy. “Is it comfortable in that cupboard?”
The boy drew a velvet sleeve across his nose. “No, sir.”
“Would you care to come out?”
The boy nodded mutely. Winter gently reached in and lifted the child in his arms. This close he could see that Christopher was a handsome boy of only four or five. Winter stood, still holding the boy, and turned to Isabel. Many women were naturally inclined to take a child from a man—the maternal instinct being considered stronger than the paternal, perhaps—but Isabel made no such move. Indeed, she’d folded her arms as if to keep herself from reaching for the boy.
Winter raised his eyebrows at her and she shook her head as if coming to her senses. “I’ll ring for Carruthers.”
“Want to stay,” Christopher whimpered.
Isabel swallowed. “I… I think it best that you return to your nanny.”
When had Lady Beckinhall ever been unsure of herself, let alone stuttered? There was something here that he was missing.
Winter cleared his throat and murmured to the boy, “I was thinking of trying one of those scones on the tea tray. Would you like one, too?”
Christopher nodded.
Winter sat on a settee by the low table, the boy on his knee, and gave one of the pastries to Christopher before selecting one for himself.
He bit into the flakey scone, eyeing Isabel’s stiff back. She’d gone to stand by the window again, completely ignoring him and the boy. Strange.
“Good, isn’t it?” he said to the boy.
Christopher nodded and whispered rather wetly, “Cook’s scones are the best.”
“Ah.” For a moment they munched in companionable silence.
“Where is Carruthers?” Isabel muttered from across the room.
Christopher, who had been about to take another bite of the scone, lowered the pastry and gripped it between sticky fingers in his lap. “She doesn’t like me much, most of the time.”
Winter wished he could deny the boy’s words, but he’d never believed in lying to children, and Isabel was across the room, obviously trying to pretend the boy wasn’t in it. He leaned forward and poured some of the milk from the pitcher into a teacup and added a couple of drops of hot tea. He held the teacup up for the boy.
Christopher dropped the scone—onto the floor, regrettably—and took the teacup with both hands, eagerly drinking. When he lowered the cup, milky tea stained his upper lip. “She told me a corker of a story last night, though.”
The boy looked wistfully at Isabel’s back.
The nursemaid, a rather plain woman of middling years, ran into the room. “Oh, my lady, I am so sorry.” She came over to scoop up Christopher from Winter’s arms before turning back to Isabel. “It won’t happen again, my lady, I promise.”
Isabel still had her back to the room. “Please see that it doesn’t.”
Poor Carruthers blanched before curtsying and hurrying out the door with Christopher.
Winter thoughtfully poured himself a cup of tea.
“You think I’m mean,” Isabel said.
Winter looked at her. Her back was straight, but he could tell by the bow of her shoulders that she’d folded her arms about herself as if to shield her center.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that I would like to know who Christopher is and what he means to you.”
There was a long moment of silence in which he wondered if she was going to answer him; then her voice came, steady and without emotion. “Christopher is my late husband’s son.”
Winter’s brows knit, but before he could ask the question, she turned and paced to the middle of the room.
Her beautiful mouth was compressed into a straight line as if to contain some overwhelming emotion. “His mother was Edmund’s mistress.”
“I… see,” Winter said, though he didn’t. “And he lives here with you? Was this your husband’s wish?”
She shrugged. “I never knew about Christopher and Louise—his mother—until after Edmund’s death. He appears to have made no provision for them.”
He simply looked at her, waiting, wishing the distance between them weren’t so wide.
Isabel clasped her hands at her waist. “Louise came to me a month after I’d buried Edmund. She said that Edmund had set her up in a little town house, but with his death, the lease on the house was no longer paid. She had no money. I’ve since learned that she doesn’t understand even the most fundamental basics of managing her funds. She asked me for some money and I…” She trailed off, shrugging again.
She looked so forlorn standing alone in the center of the room, her hands clasped as if for an unpleasant but necessary recital. “Isabel, come have some tea.”
To his great relief, she came toward him, sitting on the settee opposite him, watching numbly as he poured her a dish of tea and added plenty of milk and sugar.
“You shouldn’t pour for me,” she said absently as she accepted the dish.
He gave her an ironic glance. “No one pours for me at the home, I do assure you.”
“Oh.” She took a sip of her tea. “Yes, of course.”
He watched her uneasily. There was something here that he was missing. Something she hadn’t yet told him. “Did you know your husband kept a mistress?”
He took a sip of his own tea, grown cold now. “You told me before that you were faithful to your husband. It must have been a betrayal to find he was not to you.”
Her look was cynical. “You forget that such things—a man keeping a mistress—are considered almost de rigueur in my circles. I was surprised to learn of Louise, but not shocked. Ours was not a love match, after all. Edmund always showed me the greatest courtesy. He provided for me even after his death. What more can a woman ask from a man?”
“Faithfulness. Passion. Love,” Winter said too quickly. Too sharply.
She looked at him, her cynical expression dissolving into curiosity. “Truly? Is that what you think marriage is made of?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes shuttered. “Then it’s a pity you’ve decided never to marry, Mr. Makepeace.”
It was his turn to look away. “Why didn’t you simply give Louise money?”
She circled the rim of her tea dish with one finger. “I did, but… she moves from place to place and my house is big.” She bit her lip. “Christopher was little more than a baby at the time, and Louise seemed an absentminded mother.”
“So you invited her to leave him with you?” he asked. “Your husband’s child?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“That was very kind of you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It was no hardship, especially when Christopher was small. I hired Carruthers, made sure he was provided for…” Her voice trailed away uncertainly.
“But?” he prompted.
She darted an irritated look at him. “But as Christopher has grown, he has become oddly fascinated with me. He sneaks into my rooms, hides in the drapes and under the bed, looks through my dresser and jewelry box.”
Winter blinked. “Does he take things?”
“No. Never.” She shook her head firmly. “But still… why would he do it?”
“It’s not such a mystery as all that,” Winter replied. “You’re the head of the household, beautiful, and charming. It’s natural that he would be fascinated by you.”
She smiled for the first time since he’d seen her that day. “Why, Mr. Makepeace, I do believe that’s the loveliest compliment you’ve given me.”
He refused to be distracted. “The boy bothers you. Why?”
He almost regretted his question, for her smile faded and she looked away from him. “Perhaps I’m not very fond of children.”
Then why become a patroness of an orphanage? he thought, but fortunately did not say.
“Well.” Isabel drank the rest of her tea, set the dish down, and then stood. “Lady Whimple—Lord d’Arque’s grandmother—is having a soiree tonight at d’Arque’s town house. I suggest we practice your dancing.”
Winter sighed. Dancing had become his least favorite activity.
“That is,” Isabel said sharply, “if you intend to attend tonight?”
Winter rose, looking down into Isabel’s bright blue eyes. The invitation to d’Arque’s town house would provide a perfect opportunity to search the man’s study and bedroom. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Chapter Ten
For two nights, the Harlequin’s True Love braved the dangerous alleys of St. Giles, searching, searching for her love—only to return home at dawn disappointed. But on the third night, the True Love found him, standing over the body of a thief he’d just slain.
“Harlequin, oh, Harlequin!” the True Love cried. “Do you not remember me?”
But he only turned aside and walked away as if he could neither hear nor see her…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Despite Winter’s assurances that he would attend Lady Whimple’s ball, Isabel entered Lord d’Arque’s ballroom that night with no real expectation of seeing him. Once again he’d chosen to arrive separately, this time with the excuse that his schoolmaster duties kept him late.
She was growing tired of such stories—tired of thinly disguised lies from a man who was otherwise strictly moral. Was he ever going to confess to being the Ghost? Or did he think she was so stupid that she couldn’t recognize him under the mask and motley? The longer he pretended that nothing was out of the ordinary, the more her ire rose.
Isabel took a deep, steadying breath and glanced about. The ballroom was extravagantly decorated, naturally, and painted an elegant crimson. Lord d’Arque appeared to have spent a fortune on hothouse carnations—his grandmother’s favorite. White, red, and pink mounds were everywhere in the room, perfuming the air with the heady scent of cloves.
Viscount d’Arque stood next to his grandmother to receive their guests, and as Isabel drew abreast of them, she curtsied to the elderly lady. Lady Whimple lived with her grandson now. She was rumored to have been a beauty in her youth, but age had placed a hand on her face and pulled down, bringing with it the skin around her mouth, eyes, and neck. Her eyelids drooped on either side of the peak of her eyebrows, making her look as if she perpetually grieved, but the light gray eyes beneath sparkled with intelligence.
“Lady Beckinhall,” the elderly lady drawled, “my grandson has informed me that you have championed the cause of the manager of some home for children.”
Isabel smiled politely. “Indeed, ma’am.”
Lady Whimple sniffed. “In my day, society matrons were more interested in romantic intrigue and gossip, but I suppose you gels of today are more saintly for your charitable work.” Her tone made plain that saintliness was not an attribute to be prized.
“I hope I can bear up under the strain,” Isabel murmured.
“Hmm,” Lady Whimple replied skeptically. “D’Arque has also told me that he himself is interested in managing this home for urchins, but he does like to bam me, so I’ve taken no notice.”
“Grand-mère.” The viscount bent to buss his grandmother on the cheek—a move that seemed to irritate her. “I know the idea of my doing anything not immediately beneficial to myself is very strange indeed, but we must learn to move with the times.” He slid a mocking glance at Isabel. “And if I should become bored with the home I can always hire others to oversee it.”