Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(46)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Ha. Just as long as I’m not expected to join in this madness,” Lady Whimple muttered.

“I concur, my lady,” a masculine voice said beside them.

Isabel turned to see that Mr. and Mrs. Seymour had come up behind her in the receiving line.

Lord d’Arque smiled. “Have you thrown your lot against me as well, Seymour?”

“Not against you, d’Arque.” Mr. Seymour chuckled while his wife looked bored. “But you must admit that Lady Whimple has it right when she says that ’tis odd to think of you as the manager of an orphanage.”

“Odd or not, ’tis my ambition,” d’Arque said stubbornly. “If only because several lovely ladies are patrons of the home. ’Sides, London has begun to bore me. Overseeing urchins might be terribly amusing.”

His grandmother snorted.

“If you say so,” Mr. Seymour replied, shaking his head ruefully. “And it’ll do me no good, I wager, to try and dissuade you. So I’ll turn to Lady Beckinhall instead and ask if she’s recovered from her encounter with her friend the Ghost of St. Giles.”

Isabel frowned, about to make some objection to his words, but the viscount spoke first.

“And here is my rival,” d’Arque continued. “Points for arriving on time, I think.”

Winter was there suddenly, close beside her, his presence overwhelming her senses. He wore the new suit with the tobacco waistcoat, and she was struck anew at how handsome he looked in it.

“My lord.” Winter Makepeace bowed shortly to the viscount. He took Isabel’s arm. “If you’ll excuse me, your receiving line grows long.”

Isabel barely had time to nod to the others before Makepeace dragged her away. “That was not well done.”

“Wasn’t it?” His air of aloofness was wrapped firmly around him tonight. “But isn’t it rude for the host to make his guests wait so long in line?”

“Perhaps.” Isabel faced forward as they began to move through the room. “But it was almost as rude to walk in and simply snatch me away without a greeting.”

“I did greet the viscount.”

She stopped and faced him. Why was he being so argumentative this evening? “But not me, nor Lady Whimple, nor Mr. and Mrs. Seymour.”

His mouth tightened. “I believe they are about to begin a dance.”

Her brows rose incredulously. “Is that an invitation?”

He looked at her and then away as if he had a right to be angry with her. “If you want it to be.”

“I do,” she said simply, because she did want to dance with him, in spite of her anger. In their lessons, he’d been surprisingly graceful, but more, despite his mood, despite his avowal to not become involved with her, she wanted to be with him.

Wanted him.

So when he held out his hand, she took it and let him lead her to the dance floor. It was a country dance, the steps brisk and intricate, but she was aware all the time of his large body, weaving around hers. The subtle slide of his shoes against the floor, the way he bent and leaned with an economy of movement that was elegance itself. She’d never seen a more graceful male dancer, and yet he drew no notice to himself; he was not at all showy.

When at last they halted, face-to-face, holding hands, he wasn’t even out of breath, though her chest rose and fell faster than usual.

He looked down at her, his brown eyes brooding and a little sad.

She cleared her throat. “Is there something you wish to say to me?”

He cocked his head, his gaze growing wary. “I cannot think of anything. If you want me to apologize for my abrupt dismissal of d’Arque, I shall not.”

Her lips firmed. So he still meant to keep her in the dark about the Ghost!

“No?” She breathed deeply. “Then it’s just as well that I referred to something else.”

“And what is that?” He wasn’t even looking in her direction.

She smiled tightly. “I referred to last night. You never did explain why you were so late to the opera that you missed an appearance of the Ghost entirely.”

“I did try to tell you that there was an emergency at the home—”

“That seems to happen quite often,” she snapped.

He finally looked at her, his eyes dark and expressionless. “Yes, it does. It is a home for children after all, and children are quite unpredictable.”

“They aren’t the only ones.”

He stared at her a moment, then looked away. “You seem perturbed. Perhaps if I fetched a cup of punch, you would find yourself refreshed.”

And he walked away before she could say she loathed punch.

He walked away from her, leaving her flat in the middle of the dance floor. Such a thing had never happened to her before. Good Lord, did he think he was the King of England? Did he think she was a common strumpet?

She smiled fixedly at a matron who was staring at her openly, and then turned and made her way off the dance floor. A few acquaintances called greetings and she wasn’t even sure what she replied. Long moments later, she found herself back at the dance floor and couldn’t remember how many times she’d circumvented the room. She had some choice words to say to Winter when he got back. Where was he anyway? It shouldn’t take this long to get a cup of punch. Not unless he was avoiding her altogether or had snuck out of the ballroom like a coward…

Or snuck out to do some Ghostly activity.

The realization hit her. Her head jerked up as she scanned the ballroom. He was nowhere in sight. Surely he wouldn’t… not here. But as she moved from room to room, she soon discovered that Winter Makepeace was not in any of the public areas.

Which, of course, left the family quarters.

Isabel was by the side of the ballroom. It took only a half-dozen steps to slip into a hallway. She’d been in Viscount d’Arque’s house once before, and she remembered that a library lay at the end of this hallway. Swiftly she went to the door and peeked inside. One candelabra lit the room, but she could see it was empty. Another few minutes was all it took to discover that Winter wasn’t anywhere on this floor.

Isabel took a deep breath and crept up the stairs to the next level. She was risking her reputation here. When she was merely searching the same floor as the ballroom, she could always say she’d become turned around if discovered. Harder to plead confusion when she was on another floor.

She cautiously opened a door and found a lady’s bedroom, probably Lady Whimple’s. Fortunately there was no lady’s maid inside, but Winter wasn’t here either. The corridor made a turn and she found herself in front of another bedroom door. Isabel took a deep breath and eased inside.