Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(77)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Winter frowned. “I had thought to go alone…”

“But two pairs of eyes are better than one, don’t you think?” Mr. Seymour asked.

“True.” Winter glanced at the other two gentlemen. “Would anyone else like to participate in our investigations?”

Looking bored and impatient, d’Arque, shook his head. Lord Kershaw raised his eyebrows haughtily. “I think not.”

Winter nodded and turned to Mr. Seymour. “Then shall we proceed?”

“NO,” ISABEL SAID with all the authority she could muster, which as it happened, was quite a lot. It was early—much too early for fashionable calls—but Louise had arrived just after Isabel had risen.

Louise’s pretty eyes opened wide. “But I’m Christopher’s mother. He should be with me.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought at first as well,” Isabel murmured as she poured tea. She’d invited Louise into her sitting room to discuss Christopher. “But then I considered the matter and realized that wasn’t quite true.”

Louise blinked. “You can’t mean I’m not his mother.”

“In a way I do, actually.” Isabel held out the teacup and the other woman took it absently. “You see, Christopher has lived with me ever since he was a baby. I provided for him, saw that he was clothed and fed and had a competent nanny, and lately I’ve enjoyed his company as well. You, on the other hand, see him once a month, if that, and have never thought to inquire about his welfare.”

“I… I’ve been busy.” Louise’s mouth looked mutinous.

“Of course you have,” Isabel soothed. This next bit was going to be tricky. “But that’s just it, don’t you see? You have a busy social life with so many things to do. Do you really want a little boy around, getting in your way?”

Louise’s brows drew together.

“And I”—Isabel waved her hand, indicating her town house—“have this great empty house. It just makes sense that I keep Christopher and raise him. And besides, I’ve come to love him.”

Louise’s brow cleared. “Well, since you put it like that…”

“Oh, I do,” Isabel murmured. “Have some more tea.”

“Thank you.” Louise stared down at her cup, looking very young. “I can visit him still, can’t I?”

Isabel smiled, relieved and so happy she felt like twirling about the room. Instead she said, “I’m sure Christopher would like that.”

Fifteen minutes later, Isabel watched as Butterman shut the door behind Louise.

She turned to the butler. “Has my carriage been called?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good. Please inform Pinkney that I wish to go out.”

She paced restlessly until the lady’s maid appeared and then hurriedly entered her carriage. The ride to St. Giles was uneventful, which made her even more impatient when at last they arrived.

Isabel stepped down from her carriage outside the home and found herself looking around eagerly for Winter. Silly! Just because he wasn’t at her house—had gone out without a word to her, in fact—didn’t mean he’d left her. Of course, his bag was gone, too, but one ought not to panic over that. He’d left behind his clothes—what there were of them—and surely such a frugal man wouldn’t just abandon wearable clothes.

Would he?

She took a deep breath, steadying herself before she mounted the steps to the home. Harold followed at a discreet distance behind her. She’d thought they’d reached a new accord last night, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps, despite his protestations, she’d driven him away with her theatrics. Wretched thought!

Well, she could at least inspect the home while she was here. Lady Hero, Amelia, and the younger Lady Caire were all still away; Lady Phoebe was a girl and could hardly act alone. That left her to see if Lady Penelope was dressing all the boys in primrose coats or making the children march in circles or any other idea that flew into her scattered brain.

Isabel knocked on the front door.

Usually it was opened at once, but there was a very long wait this morning. Isabel tapped her toe, glanced at the sky to see if it was about to rain, and started when something crashed inside.

She raised her eyebrows at the still-shut door.

Which suddenly opened. One of the smaller girls—oddly still in her night rail—stood there with her thumb in her mouth, staring at Isabel mutely.

Isabel cleared her throat. “Where is everyone, darling?”

The child pointed down the hall behind her.

Well. Isabel raised her skirts and prepared to enter.

“Shall I stay out here, my lady?” Harold asked anxiously.

Isabel looked at him and then back into the home from which an odd screeching sound was coming. “I think you’d better come in with me. You, too, Pinkney.”

The lady’s maid had been loitering near the bottom of the steps but now climbed them reluctantly.

The hallway looked normal enough—if one discounted the long smear of something green at child height. Isabel peered closer. The smear looked suspiciously like pea soup. The sitting room was empty—except for a broken bowl on the floor—and the kitchen seemed normal enough save for the angry muttering of Mistress Medina. Something thundered across the ceiling overhead, and Isabel picked up her skirts and hurried up the stairs.

She was nearly to the top when Soot came tearing past, closely followed by Dodo, trailing a long red ribbon tied around her neck. They went roaring down the stairs, and then Isabel heard the scrabbling of dog and kitty claws on the marble floor below before a scream and a crash from the kitchen.

Oh, dear.

She ran the rest of the way up the stairs and to the first classroom, skidding to a stop in the doorway and ducking only just in time as a small missile went whizzing past her head.

Sadly, Harold wasn’t so quick.

“Ow!” Harold picked up something from the floor. “They’re flinging walnuts, the little buggers!”

Pinkney clapped both hands over her mouth to muffle a giggle.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Harold,” Isabel said faintly, for she was busy staring in horror at the classroom. Who knew that such well-mannered, sweet children could do… well, this.

To one side, a pitched battle was going on between some of the younger boys, apparently without any rules at all, for they were using slingshots, pillows, and what looked like the remains of their breakfast porridge. On the other side of the room, relative quiet reigned as the babies who could just walk intently painted the wall with more porridge and what looked like jam. In the middle, a bunch of girls had made a maze of tables and benches and were busy hopping from one to the other, screeching at the top of their lungs.