Hastily Winter jumped from the other side of the carriage and rushed into the shadows. When he was at a safe distance, Winter paused and leaned against a wall, catching his breath. His arms ached from the duel and swinging over the stage, he hadn’t learned a thing from the coachman, and the night wasn’t over yet.
He still had an opera to attend.
Chapter Nine
Now, the Harlequin’s True Love soon heard tales of his fate. How he’d been attacked and left for dead. How he’d somehow survived and now roamed the streets of St. Giles at night killing the wicked. She knew that the man she loved was never that violent and so she determined to find the Harlequin and talk to him to see if she might bring him to his senses…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Ten minutes later, Lady Penelope said, “Here at last is Mr. Makepeace,” and Isabel finally drew breath.
She kept herself facing forward as he greeted the other occupants of Lord d’Arque’s lavish opera box. Lord d’Arque had invited a crowd to oversee his defeat of Winter in their silly contest of manners, it seemed. Besides herself, Lady Penelope, and Miss Greaves, there was also his friends, the Earl of Kershaw and Mr. Charles Seymour, along with Mrs. Seymour, a rather plain-faced woman older than her husband.
“I think it obvious that Mr. Makepeace has lost the duel of gentlemanly manners,” Lady Penelope said. “Shall we declare my lord d’Arque the winner?”
“I am flattered, my lady,” came d’Arque’s habitual drawl, “but because of the unexpected appearance of the Ghost, I think it best to call this round a draw and reconvene on a different night. Perhaps we can use my grandmother’s ball tomorrow night?”
“But—” Lady Penelope began.
She was interrupted by Miss Greave’s soft voice. “Oh, well done, Lord d’Arque. Fairness toward one’s opponents is surely the greatest mark of a gentleman. Don’t you agree, Mr. Makepeace?”
Isabel nearly laughed. Miss Greaves had thoroughly spiked Lady Penelope’s guns. She just hoped the lady’s companion wouldn’t pay for her presumption later.
“I do, Miss Greaves,” Winter replied, and the matter was settled.
Isabel stared sightlessly at the stage where two men were wrestling the stage curtain. It wouldn’t do to let Winter Makepeace know how sick with worry—and rage—she’d been. If he wanted to run about in a mask and cape, think himself invincible and her a fool, well then let him!
A moment later she heard the slight rustle of clothing as he sat beside her. “Good evening, my lady.”
She nodded without turning his way.
After the turmoil of the duel, the excited inquiries and exclamations over Lord d’Arque’s minor wound, the viscount had settled his party into his opera box situated directly over the stage. Lord d’Arque had arranged for sweetmeats and wine to be served to them in the box, and Isabel thought rather cynically that Winter would’ve lost the contest of gentlemanly manners even if the duel hadn’t already made Lord d’Arque the hero of the night.
Below, the stagehands—who had succeeded in tying up the curtain—were taking elaborate bows from the stage to cheers from the pit.
“It seems that you have decided not to talk to me.” Winter Makepeace sighed. “I do apologize for my delay in arriving. I was detained at the home. One of the children—”
She pursed her lips impatiently. She’d had quite enough of his lies. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that you missed an appearance by the notorious Ghost of St. Giles.”
At last she turned to look at him. His mouth was set—an expression that she’d learned meant he was impatient—but otherwise he seemed exactly as usual.
On her other side, Lady Penelope fanned herself vigorously. “I nearly fainted when I saw that Lord d’Arque was risking his life battling that fiend! If you had fallen from the balcony…” She shuddered dramatically. “Truly your bravery saved us all this night, my lord.”
Viscount d’Arque had long since regained his habitual aplomb. The wound at his shoulder was wrapped rather dashingly in a scarlet handkerchief. Several ladies had nearly come to blows vying for the privilege of offering their fichus, handkerchiefs, or even petticoats in sacrifice for his bandage.
Lord d’Arque looked a trace sardonic as he bowed to Lady Penelope. “Had I given my life in such service, I would deem it a more-than-worthy sacrifice.”
“It is only too bad that no other gentleman was brave enough to challenge the Ghost,” Lady Penelope said with a significant glance at Winter.
“Some of us are a bit aged to be hopping about on a balcony with swords,” Lord Kershaw said drily. His words were meant sardonically, for he couldn’t be more than forty years. “Although I’m sure Seymour could’ve given the Ghost a good fight—he’s rather renown at the fencing club. Beat both Rushmore and Gibbons last time you were there, didn’t you, Seymour?”
Beside him, Mr. Seymour looked modest.
But Lady Penelope ignored them both. “I meant a younger man—such as Mr. Makepeace, perhaps.”
“But Mr. Makepeace was not here—and besides, he does not wear a sword,” Miss Greaves protested softly. “Even had he been here when the Ghost was running amok, surely one wouldn’t expect a gentleman to fight without a weapon.”
“True, but then I don’t believe Mr. Makepeace has the right to wear a sword, has he?” Lady Penelope asked archly. “Only an aristocrat may do so.”
“Quite correct, my lady,” Winter murmured, unconcerned.
“Would you wear a sword if you could do so?” inquired Miss Greaves.
Winter bowed in her direction. “I believe that civilized men can find ways to settle arguments other than with the use of violence, ma’am, so no, I would not.”
Miss Greaves smiled.
Isabel snorted under her breath, causing Winter to shoot her a sharp glance.
“What a noble sentiment,” Lord d’Arque drawled. “But I fear that when I saw the Ghost accosting Lady Beckinhall, I had more concern for her welfare than a philosophical argument.”
Lord Kershaw shot Isabel a pointed look. “I was not aware you were accosted by the Ghost, my lady.”
Isabel lifted her chin and met his gaze directly. “I’m sorry I had not informed you, my lord.”
“Your consideration becomes you, Lord d’Arque,” Lady Penelope continued, oblivious. “I’m sure Lady Beckinhall must’ve been near mad with fear.” Her brows knit in puzzlement. “How did you find yourself alone with the Ghost of St. Giles, my lady?”
Trust Lady Penelope to point out the most awkward part of the whole evening.
The earl arched an eyebrow and smiled. “You said once that you’d rescued the Ghost. Are you better acquainted than we know?”
Isabel cleared her throat. “I saw the Ghost sneak into a backstage passage and followed him.”
“On your own?” Lady Penelope’s lovely dark eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline. “How very brave of you, my lady, to confront him all by yourself. Did you mean to arrest him on your own or did you have another reason to follow him into a dark passage?”
“I fear curiosity overpowered my good judgment, my lady.” Isabel smiled through gritted teeth.
“Alas, curiosity has killed many a softhearted pussycat,” Winter murmured.
Lord d’Arque’s eyes narrowed as he looked between Winter and herself. “Curiosity is certainly not worth your precious life, Lady Beckinhall. I trust you will rein in your more risky urges in the future.”
“You’re advocating prudence, my lord?” Isabel cocked her head skeptically.
“In the case of mad murderers, yes.” The viscount looked quite grim. “I don’t wish to cross verbal swords with you, my lady, but when I discovered you with the Ghost, you seemed… imperiled.”
Isabel drew in a sharp breath. Up until now, Lord d’Arque had been quite gentlemanly tonight. He’d not breathed word of the embrace he’d found her in with the Ghost, only hinting vaguely that the Ghost had threatened her. She?
??d been grateful for his circumspection—if knowledge got out about a kiss, her reputation would become notorious.
Now she caught a hint of an implicit threat from the viscount. Nevertheless, she couldn’t allow him to slander the Ghost. “I do not believe I was in any danger.”
“No?” the viscount murmured.
“No,” she replied flatly.
“How can you say that when the Ghost is a well-known murderer?” Lady Penelope cried.
“I believe the rumors of his murders are just that: rumors,” Isabel said. “The Ghost has never offered me harm.”
“How many times have you met him?” Mrs. Seymour asked.
Isabel felt heat climb her neck. “Once before. Now twice.”
“Many in St. Giles have run into the Ghost here or there,” Winter said vaguely. “From what I’ve seen of him, he seems almost gentlemanly.”
Isabel glanced at him skeptically.
His mouth twitched. “And whoever he is, the Ghost never threatened me. Quite the contrary, in fact. He helped to capture a dangerous murderer last year.”
“Then perhaps Lord d’Arque shouldn’t have fought him,” Miss Greaves said, sounding distressed. “Perhaps the Ghost is innocent of any crime at all and should not be pursued.”
“Ridiculous.” Lady Penelope snorted. “Your heart is too soft, my dear Artemis. Those who have done awful crimes do not deserve our sympathy. They belong either in bedlam or prison or hung from the gallows.”
Miss Greaves went suddenly white.
“In any case, I am not of the same opinion.” Lady Penelope shuddered dramatically. “Lord d’Arque’s courage and wonderful skill with the blade saved us from a tragedy, I think.”
The viscount bowed to Lady Penelope. “I thank you, my lady. ’Twas my pleasure indeed.”
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Lord Kershaw said.
Isabel raised her eyebrows. “My lord?”
“Why was the Ghost here tonight at all?” Lord Kershaw asked. “I was given to understand that he frequents St. Giles—hence his name.”
Isabel cleared her throat. “He did venture as far as Tyburn only a fortnight ago.”
“He’s a criminal. No doubt he planned to attack and rob all of us,” Lady Penelope stated assuredly.
“Or he could’ve come to save someone,” Miss Greaves said.
Lady Penelope rolled her eyes.
“Perhaps he was hunting,” Winter said.
“Exactly as I said,” Lady Penelope snapped.
“Your pardon, my lady,” Winter said, “but I meant that perhaps he sought someone who had done him wrong—or had done wrong to those he protects in St. Giles.”
“What a very odd idea,” Lord d’Arque said.
Winter looked at him, his face expressionless. “Is it?”
Did the wrenched man want to be discovered?
“I believe the opera is about to begin,” Isabel interrupted. The orchestra had ceased their vague tuning noises and started into Mr. Handel’s latest wonderful composition.
“Yes.” Miss Greaves leaned forward eagerly. “There is La Veneziana. She’s said to be the greatest soprano of our age.”
“Is she?” Lady Penelope employed a pair of jeweled opera glasses. “But she’s such a scrawny little thing.”
Isabel peered at the soprano on the stage. She wore a spangled red and white dress, and even with her lack of height, she commanded the stage.
And that was before she opened her mouth.
As the high, sweet voice soared through the opera house, Winter leaned close to Isabel. “Her voice is magnificent,” he whispered. “One might even forget her scrawniness.”
She turned and looked at him and saw that his grave dark eyes were sparkling with mischief. Her senses suddenly spun. Only half an hour before, those same eyes had stared at her through the holes of a mask with passion and yearning and a blunt hunger that had taken her breath away. She felt the exact moment, the sudden loss of footing, the sensation of falling, and knew sheer terror.
Dear God, this man could utterly destroy her.
IT WAS PAST midnight by the time Winter made his way wearily back to the home. The opera house was less than a mile away from St. Giles, and it seemed a terrible waste of money to hire a hack for such a short ride. Not to mention that he had a soft, long sack containing his Ghost costume and swords slung over his shoulder—something he’d rather not have to explain to anyone.
A carriage rumbled by and Winter hastily skipped back as the wheels hit a puddle in the road and sent up a wave of foul water and mud. Splatters hit his legs and he looked down ruefully at the dark splotches on his formerly white stockings. Wonderful. Now he reeked of the sewers and would have to wash out his stockings before he went to bed.
Winter sighed. What matter if his new stockings were stained? The only reason he’d not lost the bet with d’Arque before it had even begun was because d’Arque had declared the night a draw. Lady Beckinhall had been chilly the rest of the evening, shooting him suspicious glances and making snide asides to him—when she would speak to him at all. Did she know he was the Ghost? She must at least suspect after that kiss… or did she? Surely such an outspoken woman would’ve taken him to task already if she knew he was the Ghost. And if she didn’t suspect he was the Ghost, maybe she wasn’t interested in Winter Makepeace at all. Maybe she just liked kissing masked men. Winter kicked a broken cobblestone so savagely it ricocheted with a clang off the bricks of a building.
Winter stopped to calm his breath. He never should’ve kissed her. Had he not been in the Ghost’s disguise, he would’ve been able to resist her—or at least he hoped he would’ve been able to resist her. The truth was, the moment she’d touched her mouth to his, he’d been lost. Isabel tasted of heat and mint, honey and longing. When she’d stroked her tongue across his mouth, he’d come fully, achingly erect. With that one touch, she’d opened a Pandora’s box of passion within him.
Prudence demanded that he stay as far away from the lady as humanly possible. He should take tonight as a warning and retire. Yet he knew he would not. Isabel offered the only hope that he might continue at the home. More, she offered a means to investigate d’Arque, for without Isabel and her “tutelage,” he would not normally frequent the rarified circles that d’Arque swam in.
Winter snorted. He’d be lying to himself if he thought that was the real reason he would see her again. As important as the home and discovering d’Arque’s involvement with the lassie snatchers were, he knew in his heart that he simply couldn’t stay away from Isabel. She drew him. Whether it was animal instinct rising to the surface—the male part of him that he’d thought he’d long ago suppressed—or something more spiritual, it hardly mattered. He could no more leave the lady alone than he could stop breathing.
For a moment Winter leaned against the crumbling corner of a brick house. He was dangerously involved with Isabel. And he was chasing his tail with d’Arque. What had d’Arque’s coachman meant when he said that it wasn’t the viscount? Was some other “toff” behind the lassie snatchers? And if so, then why had Joseph Chance been clutching a scrap of paper with d’Arque’s seal on it?
Winter straightened, shaking his head. He was probably making the whole thing too complicated. No doubt the coachman had been lying simply to save his master’s—and his own—neck. D’Arque must be involved, otherwise why—
The sudden clatter of hooves on cobblestones made Winter draw back into the shadows, but there wasn’t much room to hide.
Captain Trevillion came around the corner, followed by a half dozen of his dragoons.
Trevillion must’ve seen Winter, for he drew his gelding to an immediate halt. “Mr. Makepeace, St. Giles isn’t a safe place to loiter late at night, as I’m sure you know.”
“I do know.” Since the dragoon captain had already spotted him, Winter emerged into the moonlight. “Out hunting old women gin hawkers, Captain?”
Trevillion’s lips tightened and Winter wondered how
much ribbing the captain might’ve taken over his less-than-successful campaign to clean the gin makers and sellers out of St. Giles.
“I’ve bigger prey tonight,” Trevillion said in a clipped voice. “The Ghost has been spotted near St. Giles-in-the-Fields.”
“Indeed?” Winter arched a brow. “Then he is quite active tonight. I come from the opera, where he also made an appearance earlier in the evening.”
“The opera?” One of Trevillion’s eyebrows rose sardonically. “You move in rarified circles for a man who lives in St. Giles, Makepeace.”
“And if I do?” Winter replied coolly.
A corner of the captain’s stern mouth actually cocked up at that. “Then it is none of my business, I suppose.” Trevillion jerked his chin at the bag over Winter’s shoulder. “And do you always carry such a heavy load to the opera?”
“No, of course not,” Winter said, his manner easy. “I stopped by a friend’s house on my way home. He has donated some books to the home.”
Winter kept his gaze steady even as he held his breath. If the dragoon captain asked to look in his bag, he would have no explanation for the Ghost’s costume.
Trevillion grunted and glanced away. “See that you take care on your walk home, Makepeace. I’ve enough to deal with without you getting yourself murdered.”
“Your worry for my person is touching,” Winter said.
Trevillion nodded curtly and wheeled his horse about.
Winter watched until the soldiers were swallowed by the night. Only then did he sigh and let his shoulders slump.
The rest of the journey home was without incident. Twenty minutes later, Winter let himself into the home’s kitchen. Soot, the black tomcat, stretched by the fireplace, his sharp claws scratching softly against the red brick hearth, before straightening and padding over to bump his big head against Winter’s shins in greeting.
Winter bent to scratch the old tom behind the ears. “On the watch, are you, Soot?”
Soot yawned and returned to his warm hearth. A lamp had been left burning for Winter and he lifted it, turning toward the back stairs that would lead to his rooms under the eaves. Only as the light hit the corner by the stairs did he realize that he wasn’t alone.