Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(15)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles

“They say the king himself has put a price upon his head,” Pinkney said chattily the next morning.

Isabel glanced up at her vanity mirror and watched as the lady’s maid placed a pin precisely in her hair. Her mouth was dry as she asked, “The Ghost?”

“Yes, my lady.”

A price on his head. With Charming Mickey dead, the authorities had obviously concentrated their ire on the Ghost of St. Giles. Perhaps he’d lie low, avoid the streets now that they had suddenly become much more dangerous. Isabel bit her lip. Except in the short time that she’d talked to him, the Ghost hadn’t seemed the type to avoid danger. Oh, why was she worrying over the man anyway? It’d only been chance that had set him in her path and her own perhaps overlarge sense of right and wrong that had picked him up and saved him from the mob in the first place. She’d probably never see the man again in her life.

Isabel scowled at herself in the mirror.

“I do hope they don’t catch him,” Pinkney said, not even noticing her mistress’s expression. A slight frown knit itself between the maid’s brows as she worked a curl into position. “He’s so handsome and dashing. And with the death of Charming Mickey… well, we shan’t have any handsome rogues left in London soon.”

Pinkney’s expression had turned tragic.

“That certainly would be a pity,” Isabel said drily.

“Oh, I forgot!” Pinkney exclaimed. She stuck her hand into the slit in her dress and rummaged in the pocket underneath, drawing out a letter. “This came for you this morning.”

“Thank you,” Isabel said, taking the letter.

“It was delivered by a boy, not the post,” Pinkney said. “Perhaps it’s a love letter.”

Isabel raised her brows in amusement as she broke the seal. Unfolding the letter, she read:

Lady Penelope is interviewing gentlemen to replace Mr. Makepeace.

Isabel frowned, turning over the letter. It wasn’t signed, and besides her name, there wasn’t anything else written on it. Still, she had a good idea who the note was from.

“Not a love letter?” Pinkney asked curiously.

“Um… no,” Isabel murmured.

The dratted man had walked out on her the last time she’d talked to him. He probably wouldn’t even see her if she tried to warn him—or talk some sense into him. Yet, if she didn’t make an effort to once again change his mind, he was sure to lose the home. Isabel rose and threw the note into the fire, watching as the flames devoured the paper. She had an invitation to go riding this afternoon and had thought about shopping before that and perhaps calling on some acquaintances.

She wrinkled her nose. None of her plans were that important. They never were. “Have John Coachman ready the carriage, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pinkney said, bustling to the door.

Isabel squared her shoulders and paced before the fireplace as she waited. She must be firm this time and not take his refusal. If need be, she’d corner the wretched man in his bedroom. The shock alone at her scandalous behavior might turn the tide—

Her foot hit an object on the floor that went tumbling away. Isabel bent to pick it up. It was a painted wooden top, no bigger than her palm. For a moment she stared blankly at the toy before carefully placing it on her vanity table and leaving her bedroom.

Downstairs, Pinkney was tying on a bonnet. “Shall we be shopping, my lady?”

“No, we’re to the home again,” Isabel replied, ignoring the slump of her lady’s maid’s shoulders. “Please tell Carruthers that there’s a toy on my vanity table. I’d like her to take it away.”

“Yes, my lady.” Pinkney scurried to do her bidding.

In another few minutes, the carriage was ready and they were away. Isabel smoothed the skirts of her emerald gown. It was much too fine for visiting the home and he’d no doubt make note of that fact. She lifted her chin. Well, she didn’t care a fig for what Mr. Makepeace might think of her or her attire. The man had the dreary aspect of someone three times his age. That she would correct along with his manners.

They met with no delays and her carriage rolled to a stop a little over half an hour later outside the new home’s entrance. Harold opened the carriage door and set the step for her.

“Thank you,” Isabel murmured as she got out of the carriage. Pinkney, who’d dozed in the carriage, stifled a yawn and followed. “Tell John Coachman to take it ’round the corner, please. I’ll send a boy when I’m ready to leave.”

Isabel lifted her skirts and climbed the home’s front steps with Pinkney beside her.

“Shall I knock?” the lady’s maid asked.

“Please.”

Pinkney lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it fall. The lady’s maid fussed with her ornately embroidered turquoise skirts as they waited, and Isabel wondered—not for the first time—if her maid wasn’t upstaging her.

The door opened to reveal a freckled face.

Isabel couldn’t remember the boy’s name, but fortunately that didn’t matter at the home—all the boys had been christened “Joseph” and all the girls “Mary.”

“Good afternoon, Joseph,” she said with determined brightness. “Is Mr. Makepeace in?”

“He’s with the girl,” the boy said obscurely, his manner very solemn. He turned before Isabel could ask another question and led her back into the house.

The former Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children had been a tall, narrow building, nearly falling apart from age and poor structural materials. It had burned over a year ago, at which point the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children had been formed to construct this new building. The hallway that Isabel now traversed was wide and well lit, the plaster walls painted a soothing cream. To the right was a sitting room where visitors to the home might be received, and where in fact she’d seen Mr. Makepeace only the day before. But the boy led them past the sitting room. Directly ahead, the hall led back to a dining room and then the huge kitchens, and to the left was a wide marble staircase that gave access to the upper floors. The bones were all here, but Isabel couldn’t help thinking that they needed a bit more decoration upon them before the new home lost its current austere appearance.

The boy mounted the stairs without a word, and Isabel followed with Pinkney panting behind. They could hear the chatter of children and the slower murmur of adult voices as they passed the classrooms on the first floor above the ground floor. On the second floor were the dormitories, empty now during the day. Past the dormitories, at the end of the corridor, Joseph opened an unmarked door.