Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(50)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Isabel stared, perplexed. “Who?”

Mr. Seymour raised his eyebrows at her words.

“Who killed Roger Fraser-Burnsby?” Isabel asked impatiently.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Beckinhall, but I thought you’d heard,” Mr. Seymour said gently. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby was murdered by the Ghost of St. Giles.”

Chapter Eleven

The Harlequin’s True Love wept bitter tears, but she did not give up. The next morning she went to consult a wisewoman.

“Ah!” said the wisewoman when she’d heard the True Love’s tale. “The Harlequin has relinquished his soul to the Master of the Night and can no longer walk in the sunlight. He will spend eternity thus, neither seeing nor truly hearing those about him, bent only on revenge. It is a thing not easily done, but if you want to bring him back into the light, you must first bind him with Love, then wash his eyes with Sorrow, and finally make him touch Hope…”

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

The moon hung low in the night sky, a goddess guiding his way as Winter Makepeace leaped from one rooftop to another half an hour later. He landed on all fours, but was up at once, running lightly over the shingles. So close. He was so close now he could feel it in his veins. The children who needed his help were near and he would find and rescue them. He must try to forget the emotions that Lady Beckinhall provoked. Try to recapture and contain everything she’d let loose. He would be strictly Winter Makepeace with her, make sure she never met the Ghost again. If he could do that, then perhaps he had a chance of going on with his life exactly as he had been before. Because as wonderful as it was to be with her, he’d pledged himself to another path. This. This was what he was made for: bringing justice to those who had no voice.

Righting the wrongs that threatened to overwhelm St. Giles.

He jumped from the rooftop down to a wall and thence into Calfshead Lane. Number 10 was a crooked doorway with no light outside. Above his head, two doors down, a sign swung in the wind, but if it had something painted on it, it was too dark to see. Winter tried the door handle, and when that refused to give, he backed a pace and simply kicked in the door.

It swung back on rusty hinges, banging against the wall inside and rebounding. Winter caught it with one hand and peered inside.

“Go ’way!” a shrill voice shouted from inside.

Winter peered into the gloom. A woman crouched just inside the door, a knife held in one wavering hand. “Dear God, ’tis the devil himself!”

“Where are the children?” Winter rasped.

The woman stared around dazedly. “Children? Ain’t no children ’ere.”

Winter advanced inside as she scurried back. “I know there are children here. Where are they?”

The woman’s rheumy eyes opened wide. “ ’Ave you come to take me to ’ell?”

Winter stared at her. A couple of shapes—dead or dead drunk—lay in the corner of the tiny room, but they were obviously adult. And the woman before him didn’t seem capable of running a child work mill. “Is there anyone else here?”

She blinked, her mouth hanging half open. “Not since th’ pawnshop owner left. That were months ago now.”

Swiftly Winter went to the only door in the room and opened it. Beyond was a bare little space, the ceiling not even tall enough for a man to stand upright in it.

And it was entirely empty.

Disappointment tightened his chest. This was supposed to be the place where the children were kept. The address was the only clue he’d been able to find in d’Arque’s bedroom. If it was false, then he was lost.

The children were lost.

From without came the clatter of hooves on cobblestones.

Winter ran from the room.

Outside, a phalanx of mounted men were bearing down. Trevillion’s dragoons, holding torches high. In the flickering light, he just had time to catch sight of the sign two doors down as they galloped toward him.

On the sign was a candle.

“Halt!” the captain bellowed.

Well, he wasn’t doing that. Winter leaped, grabbing hold of the corner of the building. He began scaling it, using only his fingertips and toes. The wall exploded by his face, sending shards of brick into his mask. Belatedly, the sound of the shot rang out.

“Come down or I’ll shoot you where you are,” Trevillion called.

Winter grasped the edge of the gutter and was up and over the roof just as another shot hit the tiles by his heels. He ran, flat out, unmindful of his footing, aware that the horses were following him below. He made for the crest of the roof, bounding over it and down the other side of the house, tiles loosened by his feet clattering to the ground. The dragoons rounded the corner and galloped into the alley below. The leap across to the next house was too great; he couldn’t make it without falling, and falling meant immediate capture.

“Give it up!” Trevillion shouted. “We have you cornered.”

And indeed he could see that the dragoons were in the lane to his right as well. There were dozens this time. Why had Trevillion suddenly decided to bring out all his troops?

He had no choice now.

Winter backed two paces and began running along the roof edge, toward the house closest.

“You’ll never make it, man!”

A shot rang out and he grunted as he leaped. Too far. Too far.

Winter hit the edge of the next building, the impact sending searing pain through his chest. His arms were outstretched, his fingertips scrabbling, and then he began to fall. He slid backward, the leather of his gloves tearing on the rough shingles.

And then he caught.

Only a moment he hung, whispering thanks to God, and then he pushed up with his toes against the house wall and was up and over the edge.

Running for his life.

THE SOUND OF gunfire boomed through the night.

Isabel gasped as if she’d been hit herself. She opened the carriage door and, hanging on to the strap inside, stuck her head out of the moving vehicle. “Drive toward the gunshots, John Coachman!”

Her coachman was usually an imperturbable man, but at her words he swung around, his expression alarmed. “Are you sure, my lady?”

“Yes, yes. Just do as I say.”

Isabel shut the door again but stayed near the window, peering anxiously outside. As soon as she’d heard that the Ghost was being blamed for Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s murder, she’d known that Winter was in dire peril. He’d left before the news of the murder and thus did not know that this night of all nights he must not go out as the Ghost.