Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(40)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Below, the stagehands—who had succeeded in tying up the curtain—were taking elaborate bows from the stage to cheers from the pit.

“It seems that you have decided not to talk to me.” Winter Makepeace sighed. “I do apologize for my delay in arriving. I was detained at the home. One of the children—”

She pursed her lips impatiently. She’d had quite enough of his lies. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that you missed an appearance by the notorious Ghost of St. Giles.”

At last she turned to look at him. His mouth was set—an expression that she’d learned meant he was impatient—but otherwise he seemed exactly as usual.

On her other side, Lady Penelope fanned herself vigorously. “I nearly fainted when I saw that Lord d’Arque was risking his life battling that fiend! If you had fallen from the balcony…” She shuddered dramatically. “Truly your bravery saved us all this night, my lord.”

Viscount d’Arque had long since regained his habitual aplomb. The wound at his shoulder was wrapped rather dashingly in a scarlet handkerchief. Several ladies had nearly come to blows vying for the privilege of offering their fichus, handkerchiefs, or even petticoats in sacrifice for his bandage.

Lord d’Arque looked a trace sardonic as he bowed to Lady Penelope. “Had I given my life in such service, I would deem it a more-than-worthy sacrifice.”

“It is only too bad that no other gentleman was brave enough to challenge the Ghost,” Lady Penelope said with a significant glance at Winter.

“Some of us are a bit aged to be hopping about on a balcony with swords,” Lord Kershaw said drily. His words were meant sardonically, for he couldn’t be more than forty years. “Although I’m sure Seymour could’ve given the Ghost a good fight—he’s rather renown at the fencing club. Beat both Rushmore and Gibbons last time you were there, didn’t you, Seymour?”

Beside him, Mr. Seymour looked modest.

But Lady Penelope ignored them both. “I meant a younger man—such as Mr. Makepeace, perhaps.”

“But Mr. Makepeace was not here—and besides, he does not wear a sword,” Miss Greaves protested softly. “Even had he been here when the Ghost was running amok, surely one wouldn’t expect a gentleman to fight without a weapon.”

“True, but then I don’t believe Mr. Makepeace has the right to wear a sword, has he?” Lady Penelope asked archly. “Only an aristocrat may do so.”

“Quite correct, my lady,” Winter murmured, unconcerned.

“Would you wear a sword if you could do so?” inquired Miss Greaves.

Winter bowed in her direction. “I believe that civilized men can find ways to settle arguments other than with the use of violence, ma’am, so no, I would not.”

Miss Greaves smiled.

Isabel snorted under her breath, causing Winter to shoot her a sharp glance.

“What a noble sentiment,” Lord d’Arque drawled. “But I fear that when I saw the Ghost accosting Lady Beckinhall, I had more concern for her welfare than a philosophical argument.”

Lord Kershaw shot Isabel a pointed look. “I was not aware you were accosted by the Ghost, my lady.”

Isabel lifted her chin and met his gaze directly. “I’m sorry I had not informed you, my lord.”

“Your consideration becomes you, Lord d’Arque,” Lady Penelope continued, oblivious. “I’m sure Lady Beckinhall must’ve been near mad with fear.” Her brows knit in puzzlement. “How did you find yourself alone with the Ghost of St. Giles, my lady?”

Trust Lady Penelope to point out the most awkward part of the whole evening.

The earl arched an eyebrow and smiled. “You said once that you’d rescued the Ghost. Are you better acquainted than we know?”

Isabel cleared her throat. “I saw the Ghost sneak into a backstage passage and followed him.”

“On your own?” Lady Penelope’s lovely dark eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline. “How very brave of you, my lady, to confront him all by yourself. Did you mean to arrest him on your own or did you have another reason to follow him into a dark passage?”

“I fear curiosity overpowered my good judgment, my lady.” Isabel smiled through gritted teeth.

“Alas, curiosity has killed many a softhearted pussycat,” Winter murmured.

Lord d’Arque’s eyes narrowed as he looked between Winter and herself. “Curiosity is certainly not worth your precious life, Lady Beckinhall. I trust you will rein in your more risky urges in the future.”

“You’re advocating prudence, my lord?” Isabel cocked her head skeptically.

“In the case of mad murderers, yes.” The viscount looked quite grim. “I don’t wish to cross verbal swords with you, my lady, but when I discovered you with the Ghost, you seemed… imperiled.”

Isabel drew in a sharp breath. Up until now, Lord d’Arque had been quite gentlemanly tonight. He’d not breathed word of the embrace he’d found her in with the Ghost, only hinting vaguely that the Ghost had threatened her. She’d been grateful for his circumspection—if knowledge got out about a kiss, her reputation would become notorious.

Now she caught a hint of an implicit threat from the viscount. Nevertheless, she couldn’t allow him to slander the Ghost. “I do not believe I was in any danger.”

“No?” the viscount murmured.

“No,” she replied flatly.

“How can you say that when the Ghost is a well-known murderer?” Lady Penelope cried.

“I believe the rumors of his murders are just that: rumors,” Isabel said. “The Ghost has never offered me harm.”

“How many times have you met him?” Mrs. Seymour asked.

Isabel felt heat climb her neck. “Once before. Now twice.”

“Many in St. Giles have run into the Ghost here or there,” Winter said vaguely. “From what I’ve seen of him, he seems almost gentlemanly.”

Isabel glanced at him skeptically.

His mouth twitched. “And whoever he is, the Ghost never threatened me. Quite the contrary, in fact. He helped to capture a dangerous murderer last year.”

“Then perhaps Lord d’Arque shouldn’t have fought him,” Miss Greaves said, sounding distressed. “Perhaps the Ghost is innocent of any crime at all and should not be pursued.”

“Ridiculous.” Lady Penelope snorted. “Your heart is too soft, my dear Artemis. Those who have done awful crimes do not deserve our sympathy. They belong either in bedlam or prison or hung from the gallows.”