Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(36)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“That would be very brave of you.” Isabel had to clear her throat—a lump had formed at the thought of the little boy wanting to help a stranger. “This time the poor widow had to sell her shoes to pay for her children’s dinner. The third day the widow was in despair, but she could do naught but bake her currant buns and walk the streets of London in her bare feet to sell them. When she headed for home that night, her feet were bloody and she was very weary. When the robbers again set upon her, she could only whisper, ‘Who will help me?’ ” Isabel paused. “But this time someone heard her. The Ghost of St. Giles swept down upon those mean robbers like a terrible windstorm.”

“Huzzah!” Christopher’s head peeked out from under the armchair and he hugged himself with excitement as Isabel continued.

“The Ghost has two swords, you know, one long and one short, and he used both as he attacked those robbers. He made them yell with pain and fear, and by the time he was finished with them, he’d shredded the clothes from their bodies. The robbers were forced to run naked and barefoot through St. Giles to escape the Ghost. The people of St. Giles made sure they were very sorry for the sorrow they’d caused the poor widow and they never bothered her again.”

“Oh!” Christopher said as he hugged himself. “Oh!”

His eyes were wide and his cheeks red, and Isabel hoped she hadn’t overexcited him.

“That’s the best story ever,” Christopher said.

Isabel smiled, feeling a bit embarrassed, for she’d gotten carried away in the story herself. Strange to think that she’d actually met the dashing, mythical Ghost. Stranger still, she had a mad suspicion of who he might be under that grotesque mask.

She blinked and focused on the boy. “There’s more. Would you like to hear it?”

Christopher nodded.

The epilogue wasn’t as full of action, but it was Isabel’s favorite part. “The next morning when the widow got up to make her currant buns, guess what she found next to her oven? A bag of money—more than she’d lost from the robbers—and a pair of new shoes.”

“How did the Ghost get in her house? Was it locked?”

“Yes, it was,” Isabel said. “No one knows how he got in.”

Christopher’s eyes widened as he contemplated that bit of information.

“Now,” Isabel said. “I have to go to an opera and you must go to your bath, remember?”

Christopher wrinkled his nose, but he got out from under the armchair readily enough. He paused by her door. “Will you come say good night to me later?”

She swallowed. Telling him the story—and his obvious enjoyment—had given her confidence in her dealings with Christopher. Now she felt on shaky ground again. “You know I can’t.”

He nodded, not looking at her, and left.

She stared after him, perplexed. What did he want from her? And whatever it was, could she give it? She hadn’t time for this. She had an opera to go to. Isabel strode to her bedroom door and out into the hallway, nearly running down the stairs. One would think she ran from a demon instead of a small boy, she thought bitterly.

Downstairs, Butterman was standing by the front door. He bowed. “John Coachman says that Mr. Makepeace has sent word that he has been unavoidably detained and will meet you at the opera.”

“Oh, very well,” she muttered irritably. What was Winter thinking? Did he mean to forfeit Lord d’Arque’s contest of manners before it had even begun? “I shall leave at once, then. Oh, and, Butterman?”

“My lady?”

She inhaled, steadying her breathing. “Please tell Carruthers that Christopher was in my rooms again.”

Butterman’s expression changed not at all. “Of course, my lady.”

“Tell her not to be too harsh on the boy, please?”

He nodded and snapped his fingers at a footman, who hurried back to the servants’ stairs while Butterman held the door for her.

Isabel frowned as she descended her front steps. Perhaps it was time she asked Louise, Christopher’s mother, to find different accommodations for the child. The problem was the silly woman had never had a head for money—what she had of it—and couldn’t afford to house Christopher. Not to mention the company she kept…

“Good evening, my lady.” Harold bowed as he held out his hand to help her into the carriage.

“Thank you, Harold.” She settled herself back against the soft squabs, watching idly as the carriage rocked through the darkened streets of London.

Carriages lined the street outside the Covent Garden opera house, and her own ground to a halt as they waited their turn in a long line. Isabel craned her neck, searching for any sign of Winter. She saw d’Arque’s carriage with its distinctive coat of arms, and a minute later the viscount himself, ushering two ladies into the opera. Her heart sank as she realized it was Lady Penelope and her companion, Miss Greaves, that he escorted. Wonderful. He’d chosen Winter’s worst critic as judge of this silly contest of manners.

And Winter Makepeace himself was nowhere to be seen.

IN A STORAGE room of the opera house, Winter stripped his clothes off with swift, efficient movements.

He’d been delayed at the home by a last-minute emergency when one of the youngest toddlers had gone missing. Mary Morning, barely two, had eventually been found safe and sound and hiding in one of the kitchen cupboards. He’d left the toddler in Nell’s capable hands, but the search for Mary Morning had made Winter’s arrival at the opera house later than he’d planned.

Winter pulled on his harlequin tunic and calculated that he’d have barely twenty minutes to finish changing into the Ghost of St. Giles costume, run through the back of the opera house, find d’Arque’s coachman, and question the man on why he seemed to have a nighttime job as a lassie snatcher in St. Giles. For Winter had recognized d’Arque’s coachman at the Duchess of Arlington’s ball: he’d been the older of the two lassie snatchers who’d tried to kidnap Joseph Chance.

He took his mask out of the soft sack he’d brought with him to the opera house. He’d wanted no questions on the way to the opera, so he’d walked there with his costume and swords hidden in the sack; later, when the evening was over, he’d walk back to the home again. Now he tied the mask onto his face and reveled in the familiar feeling of freedom it gave him. It was as if he were a big cat, uncoiling his limbs, mentally stretching before the hunt.