Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(5)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

ISABEL INHALED AT the flash of defiance she saw in the Ghost’s brown eyes.

“You don’t fear me or what I may do to you,” she murmured as she approached the bed. He’d lain so still while Mrs. Butterman had sewn up his wound that she’d feared he’d fainted again, but now some color had returned to his cheeks, reassuring her. “You don’t fear the wrath of the soldiers or a murderous mob. Tell me, Sir Ghost, what do you fear?”

He held her gaze as he whispered, “God, I suppose. Doesn’t every man fear his creator?”

“Not all men.” How strange to discuss philosophy with a naked, masked man. She carefully wiped at the dried blood upon his thigh. The warm muscle beneath her hand tensed at her touch. “Some care not at all for God or religion.”

“True.” His dark eyes watched her every movement. “But most men fear their own mortality—the death that will eventually take them from this earth—and the God that will judge them in the afterlife.”

“And you?” she murmured as she squeezed out the cloth and wet it again. “Do you fear death?”

“No.” His statement was cool.

She raised her eyebrows, bending over the wound to examine it. It was jagged, but Mrs. Butterman had stitched it very well. If it healed, there would be a long scar, but it wouldn’t be too wide or unsightly. It would’ve been a great pity to mar such a beautiful male limb. “I don’t believe you.”

A corner of his mouth curled suddenly as if his own amusement surprised him. “Why not? Why should I lie?”

She shrugged. “Out of bravado? You do go about in a mask and harlequin’s motley.”

“Exactly right,” he whispered. “I hunt the streets of St. Giles with my swords. Would I do such a thing if I feared death?”

“Perhaps. Some who fear death make a game of mocking it.” She stroked up his thigh, coming perilously near the sheet laid over his genitals.

He made no move, but she knew his entire attention was on her. “Only fools mock death.”

“Truly?” She inched her cloth under the wadded sheet. A tent was forming there. She straightened and plopped her cloth into the basin of water, rinsing it. “But mockery can be such an amusing game.”

She moved to lay the cloth low on his belly.

He grabbed her wrist. “I think the game you play is not to mock, but to tease.” There was a ragged edge to his whisper.

Isabel eyed the growing ridge beneath the bundled sheet. “Perhaps you’re right.” Her gaze flicked to his, her eyebrows raised. “Is it a game you like?”

“Would it matter?” His mouth twisted cynically.

Her eyebrows rose. “Of course. Why tease an unwilling man?”

“For the pure sport?”

She blinked at the twinge of hurt. “You wound me.”

He tensed his forearm and, without any visible sign of strain, pulled her closer, until she was forced to bend over his form, her bodice nearly touching his bare chest. This close she could see a ring of amber about his dark irises—and his pupils large with pain.

“If I wound you, madam, I am sorry,” he rasped. “But acquit me of stupidity. I am not a rag doll to be played with.”

She cocked her head, wishing he’d remove his mask so that she could truly see him. This man who had captured her interest as no other had in a very, very long time. He parried her flirtation with disconcertingly plainspoken answers. She simply wasn’t used to such frankness. All the gentlemen of her acquaintance knew to speak in elegant riddles that in the end meant nothing at all. Was he a common man, then, beneath his mask? But he didn’t address her as an inferior.

No, his speech was quite familiar. As if he were her equal or more.

She inhaled and let her eyes drift down his form. “No, you certainly are no limp rag doll, sir. I beg your pardon.”

His eyes widened as if in surprise and he abruptly let her go. “ ’Tis I should beg pardon of you. You saved my life—don’t think I don’t know it well. Thank you.”

She felt heat moving up her neck. Dear God, she hadn’t blushed since she was a girl. She’d bantered with dukes, flirted with princes. Why, then, should this man’s simple words make her feel suddenly self-conscious?

“ ’Tis of no matter,” she said, much less graciously than her usual manner. She tossed the soiled cloth into the basin. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You may rest here until we can move you in the morning.”

“You’re very kind.”

She shook her head. “We’ve already established that I’m not a kind woman.”

He smiled slightly as his eyes closed. “I think we’ve established just the opposite, actually. You’re kindness itself, Lady Beckinhall.”

For a moment she watched him, waiting to see if he’d add something more, but instead his breathing grew sonorous.

The Ghost of St. Giles had fallen asleep.

THE GRAY-PINK LIGHT of dawn was peeking through the window when Isabel next opened her eyes. For a moment she merely blinked, wondering fuzzily why her back ached and why she wasn’t in her own bed. Then her gaze flew to the bed beside her.

Empty.

She stood stiffly and looked down at the coverlet. It was neatly made, but blood smeared the center. He had been there last night at least. She placed her palm on the counterpane, but the cloth was cool. He’d left some time ago.

Isabel crossed to the door and called for a maid. She’d make inquiries, but she already knew in the pit of her stomach that he was gone and, besides the bloodstains, he’d left no trace.

She returned to stare moodily at the empty bed while she waited for the maid, and in that moment she remembered something that had nagged at her too-tired brain the night before: Lady Beckinhall. He’d called her by her name, though no one had uttered it in his presence.

She caught her breath. The Ghost of St. Giles knew her.

Chapter Two

Now you may not credit it, but once the Ghost of St. Giles was merely a mortal harlequin actor. He played with a traveling troupe that wandered from town to town. The Harlequin wore tattered red and black motley and when he swung his wooden sword at the villain of the play, it clacked: Clip! Clap! and made the children shout with glee…

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

Winter Makepeace, mild-mannered schoolmaster and manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, crouched on the sloping roof shingles as the sun came up over London. His back was to the roof edge and the drop below. He gripped the eve with both hands before kicking out and letting his body fall over the edge. For a moment he hung, three stories up, his entire weight suspended only by his fingertips, and then he swung through the attic window below. He landed with a wince, not only because of the pain his injured thigh caused him, but also because of the soft thump he made as he hit the floor.