Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(22)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Who does he hunt?”

“Wicked men,” she replied, sure of her ground now. She’d heard the stories of the Ghost ravaging maidens and kidnapping ladies, but having actually met the man, she was sure that the stories were false. “He punishes thieves and footpads and those who prey on the innocent.”

“Pray like in church?”

“No. Prey like a cat catching a mouse.”

“Oh.”

She glanced at the bed and saw that Christopher had parted the curtain. One brown eye peeped out at her.

Isabel tried a smile. “Now, I really think you must go to bed, Christopher.”

“But that wasn’t a story,” he pointed out.

Her chest tightened in near panic. “It’s the best I can do for now.”

“Are you my mother?” That single brown eye was wide and unblinking.

She had to look away first. “You know I’m not. I’ve told you so before.” She got up and briskly opened the curtains to her bed, careful not to touch the boy. “Shall I ring for Carruthers or can you find the nursery yourself?”

“M’self.” He jumped down from the bed and walked slowly to her door. “G’night, my lady.”

Her voice was husky when she replied. “Good night, Christopher.”

Luckily, she held back the tears until he’d shut the door behind him.

“LADY BECKINHALL’S CARRIAGE is outside,” Mary Whitsun said as she entered the home’s sitting room the next afternoon.

Winter looked up from the letter he was reading just in time to see a little white and black terrier trot into the room as if he owned the place.

“Oh, come here, Dodo,” Mary exclaimed. She bent and picked up the dog, who submitted without even a halfhearted growl.

Winter raised an eyebrow, impressed. Dodo had continued his warning growl whenever he came near. “Has Peach come down?”

“No, sir,” Mary said regretfully. “She’s still abed and not speaking, poor thing. But Dodo here has decided to explore the home. Just this morning Mistress Medina had to chase the dog away from some tarts she had cooling on a table in the kitchen.”

“Ah.” Winter eyed the terrier, who’d shut his eyes as if ready for a nap in Mary Whitsun’s arms. “We’d best assign some of the little boys to look after him and see he goes into the alley to do his business. Can you see to it, Mary?”

“Yes, sir.”

The girl turned to the door, but Winter had remembered something. “Just a moment, Mary.”

She looked at him. “Sir?”

He rummaged in the papers on his lap before finding a small, folded letter. This he held out to Mary. “My sister enclosed a note to you in her letter to me.”

The girl’s face lit up, and Winter realized with a start that Mary Whitsun was growing into a lovely young lady. They were going to have to watch the lads around her in another couple of years. “Oh, thank you, sir!”

She snatched the letter from him and was out the door before Winter could protest that he hadn’t done anything worth being thanked for.

He’d just bundled the letter together when the door opened again. Lady Beckinhall swept in, already taking off her bonnet, followed by her lady’s maid holding a basket. Behind them was a spare little man in a beautifully cut peach silk suit.

Winter rose and bowed. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

“Good afternoon.” She turned to her lady’s maid. “Send for some tea, will you, please, Pinkney?” She glanced back at Winter as she took the basket from Pinkney and set it on a table. “I’ve brought the most lovely little iced cakes. You must have three at least.”

He raised an eyebrow and said mildly, “I just ate luncheon.”

“But not enough, I’ll wager,” she said, eyeing his middle disapprovingly.

“Do you have plans to fatten me up, my lady?”

“Among other things,” she said airily. She wore a deep blue and white striped dress today, which brought out the blue of her eyes.

Winter tore his gaze away from her form. “And who is this?” he asked, nodding at the little man in the peach suit.

“Your tailor.” Lady Beckinhall smiled sweetly. “Kindly take off your breeches.”

The lady’s maid walked back in as she said this. Naturally the maid giggled before slapping a hand over her mouth and retiring to a chair in the corner.

Winter looked at Lady Beckinhall. “If I’m truly to be measured for a suit, perhaps you and your maid should leave before I disrobe.”

She sniffed as she withdrew a blue-flowered plate from her basket and began laying dainty little iced cakes on it. “Pinkney and I are quite capable of turning our backs, I assure you.”

His mouth tightened as he tried to tamp down the alarm in his chest. “I would prefer you leave.”

“And I would prefer to stay in case Mr. Hurt needs to consult with me over the cut of the suit I wish him to make.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. Besides the impropriety of undressing in the same room as two women, there was the possibility that the tailor would see his scars—most notably the one from last week—and ask inconvenient questions.

But she was busy ignoring him. Two girls had entered with the requested tea and now Lady Beckinhall directed them in setting it out.

“The Duchess of Arlington’s ball is in just five days. You can make up a suit in that amount of time, can’t you, Mr. Hurt?” she asked after the girls had been dismissed. She poured two cups of tea, handing one to Winter before adding both sugar and cream to hers.

The tailor bowed. “Yes, my lady. I’ll set all my lads to the task of making Mr. Makepeace’s suit.”

“Splendid!” Lady Beckinhall took a sip of tea. “Oh, I say, this is much better than last time I visited.”

“I’m so glad it meets with your approval,” Winter said.

“Sarcasm, Mr. Makepeace. We’ve discussed this before,” she chided, then without waiting for a reply, said, “I think your conversation is much improved, but we never did get to dancing yesterday. So after Mr. Hurt is finished…”

The tailor took his cue. “If you’ll stand and remove your outer garments, Mr. Makepeace.”

Winter sighed silently, setting aside his cup of tea. He noticed that both Lady Beckinhall and, behind her, her maid had stopped what they were doing and were staring at him. He arched an eyebrow.

“Oh! Oh, of course.” Lady Beckinhall straightened and motioned for her maid to turn around. She glanced questioningly one last time at Winter, and when his expression didn’t change, she turned as well, muttering something about “Puritan ideas of modesty.”