Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(80)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

And taking his hand, she laid it upon her gently swelling belly, where a new life grew. Thus she made him touch Hope…

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

She’d pushed him away from her again and again, but she never thought he’d go far. He’d always be in her life, always be in this world, living his own life, perhaps marrying, managing his home, happy, damn it.

Winter Makepeace wasn’t supposed to die. Isabel simply couldn’t conceive of it. He was too athletic, too young, too vital. He wasn’t like other men. He challenged her. He saw all her faults—and they were myriad—and he said he loved her anyway. If she lived a thousand lifetimes, she’d never find another man like him, and she didn’t want to.

She loved Winter Makepeace and no other.

The thought was dizzying. Isabel actually stumbled in the dank, awful St. Giles alley.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Harold said as he caught her arm.

“Yes, yes,” she panted. “We must hurry.”

The way to the address that Viscount d’Arque had given her was too narrow for her carriage. Besides, one moved faster on foot in St. Giles—the alleys and lanes twisted too much for a carriage and horses. So she’d run all the way. They’d left d’Arque behind, for the man had been far more the worse for drink than he’d at first appeared. Harold jogged along beside her, though she’d ordered him to go ahead. He’d stoutly refused, saying St. Giles was too dangerous for a lady alone.

Which was right, but that wouldn’t save Winter if Charles Seymour were even now plunging a dagger into his back.

A tall house loomed up ahead.

“That’s it,” Isabel gasped. “Hurry!”

Harold yanked open the door and they started climbing a nightmarish length of stairs. Around and around they went, never ending it seemed, and the entire time Isabel climbed, she listened for a shot. The cry of a wounded man. Voices raised in anger.

And heard nothing.

At last they made the final turn and came out on the attic level. Straight ahead was a mean little door, and Isabel rushed it even as Harold flung out an arm to catch her back.

The door burst open and Isabel’s momentum sent her crashing into the room—and into the back of a man.

Strong arms wrapped around her and for a split second everything was calm.

Then a voice spoke above her. “Ah, Makepeace, I believe your inamorata has joined us.”

WINTER FELT THE sweat slide down the small of his back. He’d suspected the moment that Seymour volunteered to accompany him to the workshop that Seymour was the “toff.” Seymour had been the only one of the three aristocrats who had been interested in Winter’s knowledge of the workshop location—knowledge he could only have if he was the Ghost of St. Giles. When Winter had seen the other man’s sword, triumphant victory had swept through him at the confirmation of his hunch, but in the next instant Isabel had come barging in.

Seymour now held Isabel tightly against his chest, his arm across her throat. Winter had felt the excitement in a fight, he’d felt the thrill of danger, and the pain of a hit.

But he’d never felt fear.

Seymour flicked a glance at Harold the footman, who was hesitating by the door uncertainly. “Throw down your pistol, please, or I’ll kill your mistress.”

Harold dropped the pistol he carried.

Seymour smiled at Winter. “Now. The Ghost of St. Giles is known for having two swords with him at all times. True, you’re not dressed as the Ghost at the moment, but, please, humor me. Open your cloak, Ghost.”

Winter opened his cloak and held the edges apart, looking into Isabel’s wide, blue eyes. She was terrified. That alone signed Seymour’s fate. “It’s very kind of you to come save me again, my lady, although I would’ve thought Harold would know better.”

Behind her, Harold shrugged by the door.

She licked her lips. “I love you. No matter what happens, I love you, Winter. If—”

“Enough.” Seymour yanked hard on her neck, cutting her off. “I seem to see a hilt peeking from your cloak lining. Place both your swords on the ground—slowly—and slide them across the room.”

Winter’s chest was full of the splendor of Isabel’s love, but he couldn’t linger over that now. He did as Seymour said.

“Now kneel.”

Winter shook his head gently. “No. If I kneel, you’ll kill me and then kill Lady Beckinhall. I really don’t see any incentive to do so.”

For a moment, Seymour looked nonplussed and Winter used his distraction to drift closer.

“I’ll… I’ll kill her,” Seymour sputtered.

Winter shook his head. “You kill her and I’ll kill you, swords or no swords. There’ll be nothing holding me back. Really, it’s a matter of logic.”

“If it’s a matter of logic,” Seymour said with dripping sarcasm, “then what do you suggest I do?”

Winter tilted his head. “Fight me man-to-man.”

“No!” Isabel strained against the arm around her throat. “You’re not armed, Winter! Don’t be a fool.”

Seymour grinned. “Very well.”

He shoved Isabel aside in a sudden movement that sent her to the floor and leaped at Winter, his sword aimed at his heart.

ISABEL LANDED PAINFULLY on her hands and knees. Winter! She sobbed as she rolled to see if he’d been killed with Mr. Seymour’s first sword thrust. To see if he was dying right now, his life’s blood spurting from him.

But Winter had his cloak wrapped about one arm, using it to defend himself as he maneuvered toward his swords. As she watched, Mr. Seymour thrust and thrust again, the point of his sword landing in the wadded cloak each time.

But the price of such defense was evident: A dark, wet stain was spreading over the cloak wrapped about Winter’s arm. Dear God, if he was crippled, this would be all over before he reached his own swords.

Isabel looked frantically about and saw Harold’s pistol. It lay against the wall behind Mr. Seymour. She began creeping toward it.

At that moment, Winter lunged for his swords, his right arm outstretched. Mr. Seymour followed, stabbing vindictively.

Winter rolled aside, his long sword in his right hand, just as Seymour’s sword point pierced the wooden floorboards where he’d just lain. Winter jumped gracefully to his feet and lunged at Mr. Seymour.

Isabel reached the pistol and grasped it in both hands, lifting the heavy thing and pointing it toward the fighters. But Mr. Seymour and Winter were now in a straight line comparative to her. If she shot and missed, she risked the danger of hitting Winter and killing him. She caught Harold’s eye and he started forward, but she waved him back. Anything he tried would bring him closer to the fighters—and into her own line of fire.