Thief of Shadows

  He shook his head helplessly. She was of the privileged class. She’d never known want, never counted coins to calculate whether they should go to pay for coal to warm the body or bread to feed it, for they would pay for only one, not both. She simply could not understand.

  Winter dropped his hand from her arm and stepped back, putting prudent distance between them. His voice was carefully modulated when he spoke.

  Carefully gentle. “If not me, then who?”

  MEGS SIGHED AND arched her back, luxuriating in the lovely feeling after lovemaking. This had been one of many revelations she’d discovered since dear Roger had initiated her into the secrets of the bedroom: how boneless, how utterly relaxed her body felt afterward.

  Not that they’d ever had the opportunity to meet in a bedroom.

  At the moment, she lounged on a settee in a very dark receiving room at the back of the Duchess of Arlington’s house. She could hear the sounds of the ball, muffled by the walls and intervening rooms, but it was still a lovely, cozy refuge for just the two of them.

  “Time to get up, my love,” Roger whispered in her ear.

  “So soon?” Megs pouted.

  “Yes, at once,” he mock-scolded her. Roger sat up and put himself to rights. “You don’t want the matrons in the ballroom to notice your absence, do you? Or worse—your brother the marquess.”

  Megs shuddered at the thought. Both her brothers in their own ways had made rather scandalous marriages, but that didn’t mean they would look at all favorably at even a hint of impropriety from her.

  She sat up reluctantly and began straightening herself.

  “Besides,” Roger continued casually, “I do want to remain on good terms with my future brother-in-law.”

  Megs caught her breath and looked up, joy rushing into her breast.

  Roger burst into warm laughter at the expression on her face. “Did you think I wouldn’t want you for my wife, sweet Meggie? Haven’t you realized yet that I’m head over heels in love with you?”

  When she just stared at him, frozen, his face fell. “That is, if you are amenable to my suit? I fear I may’ve overstepped my—”

  She flung herself on him before he could finish.

  “Oof!” Roger fell backward onto the settee under her onslaught.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Megs muttered in between covering his sweet, dear, wonderful face with rather messy kisses. “Oh, Roger, how can you ever think otherwise than that I love you with all my heart?”

  He caught her face and held her still for a much longer, more expert kiss on the lips.

  “Oh, sweeting,” he whispered as he broke away. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world.”

  She lay her head beside him, simply enjoying the moment.

  Then he lurched beneath her and slapped her rather familiarly on the bottom. “Up, up, up.”

  Megs groaned, but complied. She hurriedly checked herself in a small mirror and then turned to Roger. “Shall we have a short engagement?”

  “Yes, please.” He grinned down at her, the dimple she’d grown quite fond of flashing in his right cheek. “But a small favor? Can we keep our engagement secret until I can order my estate and make a proper suit to your brother? I’m not as rich as I’m sure he would like, but I’ve a business offer that—”

  “Hush.” She placed her fingertips over his lips. “I’m marrying you because I love you, not because of your money.”

  He frowned. “You could marry a title. Marry a much richer man.”

  “I could but I won’t.” She smiled up at him, blissfully happy. “And I’ll be sure and make that point to Thomas when the time comes.”

  He laid his forehead against hers. “I do love you.”

  “I know.” She stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his lips. “I’ll not tell anyone of our engagement as long as you promise not to wait too long to talk to Thomas.”

  “A fortnight, no more.” His roguish brown eyes grew grave. “Truly, it’s an excellent investment, Meggie. If all comes to fruition, even your brother will be impressed.”

  She shook her head fondly, whispering, “You don’t need money to impress me, Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”

  She stood a second, looking into his eyes, wanting to say so much more and unable to find the words.

  Instead, in the end, she touched his cheek, turned, and slipped from the room.

  ISABEL BACKED INTO the doorway of the ladies’ retiring room and stared down the hallway thoughtfully. If she wasn’t mistaken, Lady Margaret had just exited a room farther down the hall, where the passage became dimly lit. Now why—Isabel’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Mr. Roger Fraser-Burnsby had just come out of the room Megs had left.

  Well.

  She was enough of a woman of the world to know that clandestine tête-à-têtes sometimes took place at balls. But Lady Margaret was an unmarried heiress. True, Mr. Fraser-Burnsby seemed like a nice enough young man, but Megs risked her reputation and thus the rest of her life by meeting him in private.

  Isabel checked that her skirts were straight and then started back to the ball. She’d have to find a way to gently hint to Megs that she wasn’t quite as discreet as she thought she was. But in the meantime, Isabel had to return to the ball and Winter Makepeace. She’d already taken too long in the retiring room and had the sneaking suspicion that she might’ve been hiding from him. Isabel sighed. She’d never been a coward before. She’d just have to face the man and make light conversation until this wretched evening was over.

  And then she must find a way to put Winter Makepeace from her mind—and perhaps her heart.

  Chapter Eight

  That night the Harlequin took revenge upon those who had wronged him. His attackers had not even left St. Giles when he found them, and though they screamed at his unholy white eyes and tried to defend themselves, they were ill matched against the Ghost of St. Giles! He fought with inhumane strength and skill and he killed them all without word or look of mercy. But he didn’t stop there. The Harlequin went hunting the next night as well. Soon, all who had ever done a misdeed knew to stay well away from St. Giles at night, for the Ghost was thirsty for blood…

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

  “Oh, my lady, those stockings are the very height of elegance,” Pinkney exclaimed the next night as Isabel rolled her new lace stockings over her calf. “And such a reasonable price. Shall I order another dozen?”

  Isabel pointed her toes to better view the embroidered clocking overlaying the lace on the outside of her ankle. It really was rather fine. No doubt Winter Makepeace would think clocked lace stockings a shocking waste of money.

  She nodded defiantly to Pinkney. “Buy two dozen.”

  The lady’s maid grinned, ever enthusiastic when it came to the procurement of expensive clothing, and held open Isabel’s petticoat for her to step into. “I will indeed, my lady.”

  “Good,” Isabel said absently as she studied herself in the mirror. Her chemise had heavy lace at the elbow-length sleeves and neck, and the gossamer material revealed the deep red of her nipples. Would such a sight tempt the priestly Winter?

  Did she even want to tempt him?

  “My lady.” Pinkney held out her silk stays and Isabel nodded, raising her arm so that the maid could slip the stays on over her head.

  Pinkney came around to Isabel’s front and began to tighten the laces while Suzie the little undermaid knelt to hold the stays firm.

  He’d said that he didn’t want a liaison with her, or any woman, in as plain language as she’d ever heard. He’d devoted himself—mind, soul, and cock, it seemed—to St. Giles and its people. Why humiliate herself chasing a man—a mere schoolmaster at that!—when other gentlemen were willing? Lord d’Arque, for instance. He was handsome and witty and would no doubt be a very experienced and skilled bed partner.

  The maids stood and began gathering her skirts. Tonight Isabel wore a violet brocade with a darker purple medallion pattern woven into the materi
al. She stepped carefully into the pool of fabric and stood as the maids drew the skirt up and began fastening it about her waist.

  The problem was that she wasn’t particularly interested in a romantic affair with d’Arque—or anyone else save Winter. Strange how only a week or so ago she would’ve laughed at the mere notion—she and the home’s manager. But in the past week, her perception of him had changed. He spoke to her as an equal, as if her rank and his position simply didn’t matter. But it was more than that. Many men considered women either ethereal beings to be placed on a pedestal or childlike and unable to hold logical thought. Winter talked to her as if she were as intelligent as he. As if she would be interested in some of the same things that engaged him. As if he might want to know what she thought about. He talked to her as if she mattered.

  And considering it now, she realized no one had ever been curious about her, Isabel the woman. She had been wife and daughter, lover and witty society lady. But no one had ever looked beneath those masks to find out what the woman who wore them really thought.

  Was it so terrible to want to be closer to a man who saw her as a person?

  Pinkney helped her slip into the tight bodice of her dress. She slid the V-shaped embroidered stomacher in front of the bodice and then carefully pinned the edges to the stomacher. The maid picked and tugged gently at the lace of the chemise so just the edge showed at the square bodice and then tied the sleeves of the bodice at Isabel’s elbows to show the fall of lace beneath.

  “There.” Pinkney stood back reverently. “You do look splendid tonight, my lady.”

  Isabel arched her brow, turning first one way and then another to examine herself in the mirror over her vanity. “Splendid enough to seduce a priest, do you think?”

  “My lady?” Pinkney wrinkled her brow in confusion.

  “Never mind.” Isabel touched the jeweled red silk rose in her coiffure and nodded to herself. “Has Mr. Makepeace arrived yet?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Curse the man,” Isabel muttered just as she caught sight of a small foot sticking out from under one of her armchairs. “Go ahead and make sure the carriage is ready. I’ll be down in a few more minutes.”

  Isabel waited until both maids left and then approached the armchair. “Christopher.”

  The foot withdrew under the chair. “My lady?”

  She sighed. “What are you doing down there?”

  Silence.

  “Christopher?”

  “Don’t want to have a bath,” came the tiny, mutinous mutter.

  She bit her lip to keep from smiling even though he couldn’t see her. “If you never bathe, you’ll become caked with dirt and we’ll have to scrape it off with a shovel.”

  A giggle drifted out from under the armchair. “Can you tell me about the Ghost again, my lady?”

  She cocked an eyebrow at the armchair. Was this blackmail in one so young? “Very well, I’ll tell you a story about the Ghost of St. Giles, but then you must go back to Carruthers.”

  A heavy sigh. “All right.”

  Isabel cast her gaze about her bedroom for inspiration. Butterman had reported on his findings about the Ghost just this afternoon. Most of it was silly rumors and fairy tales, obviously meant to frighten little children. The Ghost was scarred in some and ate the livers of maidens. He could be in two places at once and his eyes burned with an orange flame. In others he could fly and knocked at the windows of misbehaving boys. But some of the stories sounded like they might have a grain of truth in them.

  “My lady?” The small foot was inching back out from under the armchair and Christopher’s voice sounded impatient.

  Isabel cleared her throat. “Once upon a time…” Didn’t all stories begin thus? “There lived a poor widow who sold currant buns. Every morning she would get up well before the rooster crowed and bake her buns. Then she would pile them onto a great, wide basket and, placing the basket on her head, walk the streets of London crying, ‘Currant buns! Currant buns! Ye’ll ne’er taste better! Buy my currant buns!’

  “All day she walked and cried, and by suppertime her basket was empty and her feet sore, but the poor widow would have a few pennies in her pockets from her labors. Then she would buy a bit of meat, a bit of bread, and a bit of milk and walk home to feed her children.”

  Isabel paused to see if she’d lost her listener, but almost at once Christopher said, “But what about the Ghost?”

  “I’m coming to that,” she said. “One day as the widow walked home, a gang of men set upon her and beat her and took all her pennies. ‘Oh, stop, stop!’ the widow called. And, ‘Who will help me?’ But all were afraid of the robbers and none would come to help. The widow was left crying in the street and had to sell her shawl to pay for her children’s dinner. The next day she baked and sold her currant buns, but again as she walked home, she was set upon by the same gang of robbers. Again they beat the poor widow and took her pennies and they merely laughed when she called, ‘Who will help me?’ ”

  “Oh,” Christopher whispered from under the armchair. “If’n I had a pistol, I would shoot those men for her!”

  “That would be very brave of you.” Isabel had to clear her throat—a lump had formed at the thought of the little boy wanting to help a stranger. “This time the poor widow had to sell her shoes to pay for her children’s dinner. The third day the widow was in despair, but she could do naught but bake her currant buns and walk the streets of London in her bare feet to sell them. When she headed for home that night, her feet were bloody and she was very weary. When the robbers again set upon her, she could only whisper, ‘Who will help me?’ ” Isabel paused. “But this time someone heard her. The Ghost of St. Giles swept down upon those mean robbers like a terrible windstorm.”

  “Huzzah!” Christopher’s head peeked out from under the armchair and he hugged himself with excitement as Isabel continued.

  “The Ghost has two swords, you know, one long and one short, and he used both as he attacked those robbers. He made them yell with pain and fear, and by the time he was finished with them, he’d shredded the clothes from their bodies. The robbers were forced to run naked and barefoot through St. Giles to escape the Ghost. The people of St. Giles made sure they were very sorry for the sorrow they’d caused the poor widow and they never bothered her again.”

  “Oh!” Christopher said as he hugged himself. “Oh!”

  His eyes were wide and his cheeks red, and Isabel hoped she hadn’t overexcited him.

  “That’s the best story ever,” Christopher said.

  Isabel smiled, feeling a bit embarrassed, for she’d gotten carried away in the story herself. Strange to think that she’d actually met the dashing, mythical Ghost. Stranger still, she had a mad suspicion of who he might be under that grotesque mask.

  She blinked and focused on the boy. “There’s more. Would you like to hear it?”

  Christopher nodded.

  The epilogue wasn’t as full of action, but it was Isabel’s favorite part. “The next morning when the widow got up to make her currant buns, guess what she found next to her oven? A bag of money—more than she’d lost from the robbers—and a pair of new shoes.”

  “How did the Ghost get in her house? Was it locked?”

  “Yes, it was,” Isabel said. “No one knows how he got in.”

  Christopher’s eyes widened as he contemplated that bit of information.

  “Now,” Isabel said. “I have to go to an opera and you must go to your bath, remember?”

  Christopher wrinkled his nose, but he got out from under the armchair readily enough. He paused by her door. “Will you come say good night to me later?”

  She swallowed. Telling him the story—and his obvious enjoyment—had given her confidence in her dealings with Christopher. Now she felt on shaky ground again. “You know I can’t.”

  He nodded, not looking at her, and left.

  She stared after him, perplexed. What did he want from her? And whatever it was, could she give
it? She hadn’t time for this. She had an opera to go to. Isabel strode to her bedroom door and out into the hallway, nearly running down the stairs. One would think she ran from a demon instead of a small boy, she thought bitterly.

  Downstairs, Butterman was standing by the front door. He bowed. “John Coachman says that Mr. Makepeace has sent word that he has been unavoidably detained and will meet you at the opera.”

  “Oh, very well,” she muttered irritably. What was Winter thinking? Did he mean to forfeit Lord d’Arque’s contest of manners before it had even begun? “I shall leave at once, then. Oh, and, Butterman?”

  “My lady?”

  She inhaled, steadying her breathing. “Please tell Carruthers that Christopher was in my rooms again.”

  Butterman’s expression changed not at all. “Of course, my lady.”

  “Tell her not to be too harsh on the boy, please?”

  He nodded and snapped his fingers at a footman, who hurried back to the servants’ stairs while Butterman held the door for her.

  Isabel frowned as she descended her front steps. Perhaps it was time she asked Louise, Christopher’s mother, to find different accommodations for the child. The problem was the silly woman had never had a head for money—what she had of it—and couldn’t afford to house Christopher. Not to mention the company she kept…

  “Good evening, my lady.” Harold bowed as he held out his hand to help her into the carriage.

  “Thank you, Harold.” She settled herself back against the soft squabs, watching idly as the carriage rocked through the darkened streets of London.

  Carriages lined the street outside the Covent Garden opera house, and her own ground to a halt as they waited their turn in a long line. Isabel craned her neck, searching for any sign of Winter. She saw d’Arque’s carriage with its distinctive coat of arms, and a minute later the viscount himself, ushering two ladies into the opera. Her heart sank as she realized it was Lady Penelope and her companion, Miss Greaves, that he escorted. Wonderful. He’d chosen Winter’s worst critic as judge of this silly contest of manners.