Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(67)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Isabel shoved her wineglass aside. She suddenly felt quite nauseous.

“My lady, you have a visitor,” Butterman intoned with deep disapproval from the doorway. “He insisted that he see you, otherwise I would have turned him away. As it was—”

“That’s fine,” came a masculine voice from behind the butler.

Oh, thank God!

Winter stepped around the man. “Thank you, Mr. Butterman.”

The butler stiffened. “Just Butterman, sir.”

Winter nodded gravely. “I’ll be sure to remember.”

“Mr. Makepeace,” Isabel said, “won’t you join me for dinner?”

He turned to her, brows raised as if surprised—what else had he expected her to do, throw him out?—and said, “That’s very kind of you, Lady Beckinhall.”

Well. Weren’t they terribly formal considering just last night he’d been thrusting into her wildly in her library?

“Please ask Mrs. Butterman to set another place,” Isabel instructed the butler.

He left, somehow making his retreating back look shocked—as only a very good butler can.

The minute the door shut behind him, Isabel leaned across the polished mahogany of her dinner table and hissed, “Where have you been? There have been reports of the Ghost running about St. Giles all evening. I didn’t know if you were risking your neck—again—or if the sightings were all false.”

“Oh, some of them were real enough.” He pulled out the chair opposite hers and sank into it. “I had a time of it, avoiding Trevillion and his men tonight.”

Maddening man! He simply wouldn’t give up—no matter how dangerous the streets of St. Giles were for him now. She didn’t know whether to throw her cutlery at him or leap across the table and kiss him.

Fortunately, Mrs. Butterman bustled into the dining room at that moment with a maid in attendance. The silence between her and Winter seemed pregnant, but the housekeeper didn’t appear to take any notice of the atmosphere.

Once Winter’s wine was poured, Mrs. Butterman nodded to herself with satisfaction, asked if there would be anything else, and left the room. They were now alone, as Will the footman was still gone—presumably retrieving the fish course.

Isabel took the opportunity to ask, “Did you find the workshop that employs children?”

Winter shook his head, looking bitterly disappointed as he lifted his wineglass. “Only rumors. There’re stories of children living in an attic somewhere, but my source—who I had to pay double to talk—was vague on the location. I tried one likely building but was driven away by the dragoons from another. I’ll have to try again another night.”

His going out night after night with the dragoons hot on his trail scared her to bits.

“I’m sorry,” she said cautiously, “but can you at least wait a couple of nights before you go out again?”

He cast an impatient glance at her from under his brows. “Every day I can’t find them, those children are abused.”

She shook her head and frowned down at her plate, wishing she could help in some way before another thought occurred. “And Joseph Tinbox? How did he take the news of his commission?”

“Not well.” Winter sipped the wine, for a moment closing his eyes at the taste. Then he opened them and looked at her. “I had to tell him he has no choice but to take the offer. When I left, he was no longer speaking to me.”

“Oh, Winter.” She started to reach across the table to touch his hand when Will opened the door.

Will served the fish in silence, darting a nervous glance between Winter and her.

“That will be all,” Isabel said firmly.

“Yes, my lady,” the footman murmured as he backed out the door. No doubt all her servants were waiting in the corridor to hear Will’s report.

Isabel sighed and looked at Winter.

He took another sip of the wine. “This is very good. Italian?”

“Yes, I just got it in.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re the son of a beer brewer. How do you come to know about wine?”

Was that a hint of embarrassment in his eyes? He shrugged. “I like wine.”

“Just when I think I’ve come to know you, you reveal something entirely unexpected about yourself,” she said.

“Ah.” He set his wineglass down. “That’s where you and I differ. I don’t expect to ever know all of your secrets. I look forward, years from now, to making new discoveries each day.”

“Winter…” Her heart near broke at the warmth in his brown eyes. She couldn’t let him think that she might change her mind. “You know we have no future together.”

He didn’t reply, instead taking a bite of the fish, but his very silence shouted his stubbornness.

She sighed. “What will you do now?”

“I’ve thought that I might take up tutoring,” he replied, “of a young boy.”

Her brows knit. “Who do you know who has—”

He smiled as her eyes widened in comprehension.

“But Christopher is only five,” she protested. “Far too young for a tutor.”

“I’ve found that teaching children—especially boys—is best started as early as possible,” he said, unperturbed. “I’ll begin lessons with Christopher tomorrow.”

“But… but…” She tried to think of an excuse for him not to begin lessons with Christopher, but the fact was that Christopher would undoubtedly do well with some masculine discipline. Lord knew that he was nearly a feral child with only Carruthers trying to tame him.

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled,” Winter said as if she’d given her full and grateful consent. “I’ll just take my things upstairs.”

“Now see here—” she began before his last words sank in. She brought herself up short, blinking in confusion. “What?”

His smile had turned definitely wolfish as he pushed himself away from the table. “One of the benefits of being a private tutor instead of a schoolmaster: tutors live with the family. Now what room would you like to put me in?”

THREE DAYS LATER, Winter sat at a low table in Isabel’s nursery. It was a room at the top of the house, but well appointed for all that. Tall windows gave in light and were properly barred at the bottom to forestall any accidents. An impressive set of tin soldiers marched along a bookcase and a rather battered stuffed lion lounged in the chair next to his pupil.