Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(39)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Winter looked back up and into d’Arque’s wide eyes.

The other man swallowed. “Thank you.”

Winter nodded and let go of the viscount’s arm. He turned and ran the few feet along the railing to the stage. Behind him, there were shouts and someone tried to grab his cloak as he ran past. He reached the stage and found the rope to the curtain, tied to a cleat at the side. Two slashes from his sword and the rope was free. Winter held it, feeling the sharp burn in his biceps as he swung out over the stage. Below, the musicians rose in a wave from their seats.

He dropped onto the stage, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, his sword still in hand. But he needn’t have bothered. The stagehands nearest him backed away. Winter turned and ducked into the wings, running away from the stage and the commotion the duel had caused. He shoved past another stagehand, and then he was sprinting along a darkened corridor, hopefully toward the rear of the theater and a back door into an alley.

This had been madness. He should never have alerted Isabel to his presence. It had been a much too risky move. But when he’d seen her and realized that she’d seen him—was in fact trying to find him—well, he hadn’t been able to control the urge to confront her. To trade quips with her. To kiss her uninhibitedly.

The Ghost could do at night what Winter Makepeace never dared during the day.

The corridor abruptly dead-ended on a door that looked ancient and rarely used. There was a lock, but it was rusted and Winter easily pried it off.

Cautiously, he eased open the door. This was even better than an alley. He was on a side street and all the carriages that had taken the nobility to their opera were lined up, waiting. Here he could find what he’d been searching for before Isabel had confused his purpose. He’d only been in the opera house in the first place to change into his Ghost costume—Covent Garden was much too bright and populated at night to arrive as the Ghost. Now because of the swordfight he had only minutes to discover the information he’d come for.

Winter sheathed his long sword and took out his short sword.

He slipped through the door and crept along the carriage line, keeping to the shadows. A group of coachmen and footmen were standing in a group ahead, smoking pipes, but he didn’t see d’Arque’s coachman.

Farther along, he spotted the owl on the side of a carriage—and on the seat, the dozing coachman.

Winter leaped onto the seat and grabbed the man’s collar before he’d even woken.

“What’re you about?” the coachman sputtered before he caught sight of Winter’s blade. His eyes widened as he saw the harlequin’s mask.

Even in the dim light from the carriage lanterns, Winter could see this was indeed the same man who had nearly kidnapped Joseph Chance.

He shook him like a rat and whispered, “Who do you work for?”

“M-my lord d’Arque,” the coachman sputtered.

“Why is he having girls kidnapped from St. Giles?”

The coachman’s eyes slid away. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Winter pointed the tip of his short sword at the man’s eye. “Think.”

“It’s n-not d’Arque,” the man stuttered.

Winter narrowed his eyes. “Not d’Arque? What do you mean?”

The man shook his head, clearly frightened.

Winter placed the tip of his sword on the man’s cheek. “Talk.”

“Oi!”

They’d attracted the attention of the pipe smokers. With a sudden twisting movement, the coachman slithered out of his grasp. Winter lunged—and missed—as the man fell off the other side of the carriage, picked himself up, and ran into the night.

Hastily Winter jumped from the other side of the carriage and rushed into the shadows. When he was at a safe distance, Winter paused and leaned against a wall, catching his breath. His arms ached from the duel and swinging over the stage, he hadn’t learned a thing from the coachman, and the night wasn’t over yet.

He still had an opera to attend.

Chapter Nine

Now, the Harlequin’s True Love soon heard tales of his fate. How he’d been attacked and left for dead. How he’d somehow survived and now roamed the streets of St. Giles at night killing the wicked. She knew that the man she loved was never that violent and so she determined to find the Harlequin and talk to him to see if she might bring him to his senses…

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

Ten minutes later, Lady Penelope said, “Here at last is Mr. Makepeace,” and Isabel finally drew breath.

She kept herself facing forward as he greeted the other occupants of Lord d’Arque’s lavish opera box. Lord d’Arque had invited a crowd to oversee his defeat of Winter in their silly contest of manners, it seemed. Besides herself, Lady Penelope, and Miss Greaves, there was also his friends, the Earl of Kershaw and Mr. Charles Seymour, along with Mrs. Seymour, a rather plain-faced woman older than her husband.

“I think it obvious that Mr. Makepeace has lost the duel of gentlemanly manners,” Lady Penelope said. “Shall we declare my lord d’Arque the winner?”

“I am flattered, my lady,” came d’Arque’s habitual drawl, “but because of the unexpected appearance of the Ghost, I think it best to call this round a draw and reconvene on a different night. Perhaps we can use my grandmother’s ball tomorrow night?”

“But—” Lady Penelope began.

She was interrupted by Miss Greave’s soft voice. “Oh, well done, Lord d’Arque. Fairness toward one’s opponents is surely the greatest mark of a gentleman. Don’t you agree, Mr. Makepeace?”

Isabel nearly laughed. Miss Greaves had thoroughly spiked Lady Penelope’s guns. She just hoped the lady’s companion wouldn’t pay for her presumption later.

“I do, Miss Greaves,” Winter replied, and the matter was settled.

Isabel stared sightlessly at the stage where two men were wrestling the stage curtain. It wouldn’t do to let Winter Makepeace know how sick with worry—and rage—she’d been. If he wanted to run about in a mask and cape, think himself invincible and her a fool, well then let him!

A moment later she heard the slight rustle of clothing as he sat beside her. “Good evening, my lady.”

She nodded without turning his way.

After the turmoil of the duel, the excited inquiries and exclamations over Lord d’Arque’s minor wound, the viscount had settled his party into his opera box situated directly over the stage. Lord d’Arque had arranged for sweetmeats and wine to be served to them in the box, and Isabel thought rather cynically that Winter would’ve lost the contest of gentlemanly manners even if the duel hadn’t already made Lord d’Arque the hero of the night.