Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(78)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

And in the midst of all this, Lady Penelope stood, her face a mask of stunned confusion. “Children,” she pleaded. “Children, please.”

As Isabel watched, a glob of porridge hit Lady Penelope’s lovely hair and stuck, sliding a bit over her left ear.

Naturally, Isabel started forward, ready to confiscate slingshots, yank girls down from tables, and wash a passel of babies. She opened her mouth, about to give a stern command… and then she thought about what she was doing. If she saved Lady Penelope now, helped her run the home and discipline the children, then there would never be a need to call Winter back to the home.

“Oh, Lady Beckinhall!” Lady Penelope had caught sight of her. She held out dainty white hands pitifully. “Surely you know what to do with children? I sent Artemis down to fetch Lord d’Arque or Nell or the cook or one of the maids or anyone, but she hasn’t returned. You don’t think they’ve captured her, do you? Tied her up and stuffed her under a bed?”

Lady Penelope essayed a laugh, but it came out more a frightened titter.

Isabel looked at her gravely. “I’m sure I have no experience with children, my lady, but in any case I wouldn’t be able to help. Mr. Makepeace has only ever been the one who could control these children. Didn’t you know? They come from St. Giles.”

“But… but…” Lady Penelope raised her hands to her head and unfortunately found the porridge stuck there. She let out a scream that for the moment made all the children pause.

Isabel backed from the room. “Oh, dear. I expect I should go find Miss Greaves, oughtn’t I?”

She whirled and was halfway to the stairs before she heard the wail from Lady Penelope. “Waaaiiit!”

Isabel climbed back down the stairs much more sedately than she’d come up, Harold and Pinkney trailing along silently. She tried the sitting room again first, and then went back to the kitchens.

Miss Greaves sat at the kitchen table with the cook, a pot of tea between them. Miss Greaves leaped to her feet at the sight of Isabel. “Oh, my lady. I was just… just…”

“Having tea, it looks like,” Isabel said soothingly. “I wouldn’t mind a cup myself. Harold, can you find Lord d’Arque for me and request he come speak to me?”

The footman nodded and trotted from the kitchen.

“Now, then.” Isabel sat and poured herself a cup of tea before glancing up at the cook and Miss Greaves. “How long has it been like this?”

Miss Greaves heaved a sigh.

The cook grimaced. “Almost as soon as Mr. Makepeace left. It’s been a right riot ’round ’ere. The little monsters don’t pay a whit of attention to anyone. Got Lord d’Arque quite smartly on the back of the ’ead with a walnut, one of ’em did.”

Mistress Medina sounded almost pleased.

“Lady Penelope did try,” Miss Greaves said earnestly. “She brought hothouse cherries for the children the second day, but—”

“Pits,” Mistress Medina said succinctly. “Not to mention cherry juice stains right proper. Any ’alf-wit knows that.”

“I think she would’ve handed the home back after that,” Miss Greaves murmured, “if it were not for Lord d’Arque’s insistence that they keep it. He hasn’t even bothered to hire a manager.”

“But why?” Isabel asked.

“Because,” Lord d’Arque said from the doorway, “it irritates Makepeace for me to be here. That’s why. Besides I’m right in the middle of the Ghost’s haunting grounds here. If he shows, I’ll be the first to hear about it.”

Miss Greaves squeaked at his entrance and hurriedly made her excuses. Mistress Medina rose from the kitchen table, her very slowness an insult.

Fortunately, Lord d’Arque was in no state to notice. He leaned against the doorway, almost a parody of insouciance, quite obviously the worse for drink. “Do you still hate me?”

“Oh, yes,” Isabel said sincerely. No matter what his reasons—if there were any—he’d hurt Winter very badly. Her loyalties were quite confirmed. “But I’ve come with a question for you anyway.”

Lord d’Arque pushed off from the doorjamb and walked overly carefully toward her. “Given him up? Come for a real lover?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never known you to be crude before.”

He sank rather abruptly into the chair opposite her. “Sorry.”

She studied him. Something was obviously tearing at his soul. Perhaps Winter was right. This d’Arque might very well do something shady and immoral. “I want to ask you about your coachman.”

“My coachman?” The viscount blinked as if that were the last thing he expected. “Don’t tell me he’s in trouble—I only hired him the other day.”

It was Isabel’s turn to look puzzled. “I thought you’d had him for months.”

Lord d’Arque rolled his eyes. “No, that was my old man. He disappeared while we were attending the opera. Damned inconvenient. I had to get one of the footmen to drive me home, and the man had never handled the reins as far as I could tell.”

Isabel frowned, thinking. Had someone killed the coachman to keep him from telling Winter anything? If so, that hardly exonerated Lord d’Arque. She pulled the scrap of paper with his seal from her pocket. “Is this yours?”

He leaned down to peer at the paper, his brows drawing together. “It’s my seal, certainly, and this is my handwriting.” He turned the letter over, staring at the misspelled words there. “Looks like someone reused the paper for a note.” He shrugged and straightened. “Where did you get it?”

“It was found in St. Giles,” she said. “And I would very much like to know what it was doing there.”

“How should I know?”

She pursed her lips impatiently. “It’s your letter.”

“Do you remember everyone you write to?”

“Actually, yes,” she said. “Because the people I write to are usually personal friends.”

He stared at her a moment. “Let me see that.”

She handed the scrap of paper over.

He peered at it, turning it over. “Well, it says October…” He looked up at her suddenly. “Why do you want to know whom I wrote to anyway?”

“Because,” she said with a hard smile. “Why do you wish to conceal whom you wrote it to?”