Thief of Shadows

  Mr. Seymour grinned. “Thin stuff, your commoner’s blood. I shall paint the walls with it when I’m done with you.”

  Winter raised his eyebrows at the theatrical threat. “You make your money off the backs of little girls. Don’t think that I’ll let you win here.”

  “Perhaps you won’t have that choice,” Mr. Seymour grunted. He darted to Winter’s opposite side.

  Finally! Isabel pulled the trigger. The gun exploded with a deafening BOOM! The recoil laid her flat. She struggled to rise and for a moment simply stared in horror.

  Both men were locked together, so close they might be embracing. Dear God, had she shot them both?

  Then Mr. Seymour slid bonelessly from the embrace and Winter looked up.

  “Oh, Winter!” Isabel didn’t know how she got there, but suddenly she was in Winter’s arms, kissing him awkwardly, tears slipping down her cheeks. She’d almost lost him. If she hadn’t fired when she had, he would’ve—

  She glanced down at Mr. Seymour and frowned. “But where is the gunshot wound?”

  Harold cleared his throat. “You missed, my lady.” He pointed to a large hole blown into the plaster of the wall.

  “I missed?” She looked up in time to see Winter scowling at her footman.

  Instantly he smiled down at her. “But it was very close. I’m sure that had you had time to aim, you would’ve got him through the heart.”

  “Humph.” He was humoring her outrageously, but under the present circumstances, she could hardly protest. “Then how did he die?”

  Winter lifted his sword. It was smeared with blood. His own face was white. “I let the beast out.”

  “Oh.” She reached to touch him; he was too calm, too reserved. She could almost see him retreating back into himself.

  “Jesus!” Lord d’Arque’s voice came from the door. “What happened here?”

  He was staring about the room in horror. Isabel froze. If he chose to bring Winter up on murder charges, she would have a very hard time defending Winter. He was a commoner who had just killed an aristocrat.

  “Your friend Seymour attacked Lady Beckinhall,” Winter said before she could speak, his voice hard.

  Viscount d’Arque blanched. “Attacked? Dear God, my lady, I hope you are all right?”

  “Yes.” Isabel touched her throat delicately, wincing at the bruised skin there, relieved that he was properly appalled at Mr. Seymour’s actions. “Thanks to Mr. Makepeace and my footman. They both risked their lives to save me.”

  Lord d’Arque stared down at Mr. Seymour’s body. “When you said Makepeace was in peril from Seymour, I thought your imagination had run away from you.”

  “Yet you kept following me anyway?” Isabel asked softly.

  “Seymour was acting very strange after the girls were found here,” Lord d’Arque said slowly. “Whenever I mentioned questioning the girls, he made sure to deflect my attention. And then he had become obsessed with Makepeace. Kept saying he was the Ghost of St. Giles and had killed Roger.”

  “I was under the impression you thought that yourself,” Winter murmured.

  Lord d’Arque glanced at him. “Maybe for a bit, but it’s simply too outlandish—that a schoolmaster should be a masked madman. And why would you have killed Roger anyway?”

  “I wouldn’t have,” Winter said soberly. “I don’t know who killed your friend, my lord. I wish I did.”

  Lord d’Arque nodded, looking away for a moment. “I suppose Seymour was behind this dreadful business with the enslaved girls? That was his moneymaking scheme?”

  “Yes,” Isabel said. “He meant to kill us so his secret wouldn’t come out.”

  “Awful.” The viscount passed a hand over his forehead. “To make money that way—by the labor of little girls and in such a wretched place.” He looked around the cramped little room, then back at them. “I cannot find any pity in my heart for Seymour. He more than deserved his fate, but his wife is a rather nice woman, you know. The scandal when this is revealed will kill her.”

  “Then don’t let it,” Winter said. He smiled grimly. “We can say that the Ghost has claimed another victim.”

  Lord d’Arque nodded. “Leave it to me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  For a moment, the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles stood still, staring at his True Love, his palm upon her belly where their child grew. The True Love held her breath, for this was her only chance. If he did not recognize her, did not return to the day and to the living, she had no other means of waking him from the spell. So she waited, watching him, as the sun began to dawn on St. Giles…

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

  ONE WEEK LATER…

  “I have a letter for you, Peach.” Winter held out the paper with the carefully printed address toward the little girl.

  Peach, who had been sitting with Dodo on her bed, practicing her spinning, looked up. She took the paper reverently, turned it over in her hands, and gave it back. “Please, sir, what does it say?”

  Winter had received reports from all the teachers at the home since his return as the manager and wasn’t surprised at her request. Apparently Peach had never been taught to read.

  A matter he’d soon see remedied. But for now Winter sat next to the little girl on her bed. She’d been assigned a bed and a small trunk for her possessions in the big girls’ dormitory, for after questioning, Peach had confessed her age to be eight years old.

  “You see your name here?” Winter pointed to the address.

  “P-E-A-C-H,” Peach carefully named each letter.

  “Very good.” Winter smiled at the girl and opened the letter. He tilted it so she could see and ran his finger under the writing as he read:

  Dear Peach,

  I’m writing you this here Letter before my Ship leaves London. She’s called the Terrier and she’s Brilliant! When we come back to London, I’ll take you to see Her. I’m to sleep in a kind of Swinging Bed. The older lads say as it might take a while to get used to.

  Anyway, I hope you and Dodo are Well. Mind you listen to Miss Jones and Mistress Medina and the rest, and if Mr. Makepeace should come back, you Listen to him, too. He’s…

  Winter had to stop and clear his throat at this point. Peach looked at him curiously. “What does he say?” Winter blinked a little and continued:

  He’s the Best Man in the World.

  Your Friend,

  Joseph Tinbox

  Winter gave the letter to Peach. The little girl stared at the handwriting for a moment before sighing and folding it carefully.

  “I wager you’ll be able to read that yourself by the first snowfall,” Winter said softly.

  “Really?” Peach brightened for a moment, then looked doubtful. “Winter is a long ways away.”

  “It’ll be here sooner than you think.” Winter stood but then impulsively squatted in front of the little girl, taking her hands in his. “I’ll be writing a letter to Joseph soon. Would you like to include a note of your own?”

  “But I can’t write.”

  “I can help you.”

  Peach peered shyly at him. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  “There you are,” Temperance called from the doorway.

  “Sister,” Winter rose, went to her, and pulled her into a hug. “I’m glad to see you again.”

  “Winter!” She pulled back, looking at him oddly. “What was that for?”

  “I’m glad to see you.” He shrugged.

  “But”—she glanced at the room full of children, all of them staring curiously, and pulled him into the hall—“you never hug. And did I see you holding that little girl’s hands?”

  He blinked. “Yes?”

  She laid the back of her hand on his forehead. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Of course.” He batted her hand away and smiled down at his sister. “How was the house party?”

  “Dreadful!”

  “Really?”

  “Well, no,” she sighed. “Some of t
he ladies were actually quite nice and there were ruins nearby to explore, which I enjoyed.”

  “So the experience was not as bad as you thought it might be.”

  “Are you going to tell me you told me so?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Not at all.” He stared at her a moment, wondering.

  “What is it?” She nervously touched her nose. “Have I got a spot?”

  “No, but something’s different,” he said.

  “Oh!” Her cheeks, which seemed rounder somehow, turned rosy. “You’re not supposed to know yet.”

  “Know what?”

  “I’m expecting an Event come winter,” she said primly.

  “Really?” For a moment he felt a tiny pang, somewhere near his heart: Isabel would never experience this particular joy. And then a grin spread across his face. “How marvelous!”

  “Thank you.” She bit her lip but couldn’t hold back her own smile any longer. “Oh, I’m so excited, Winter. You have no idea!”

  “And Caire?”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “He’s so nervous you’d think he was the one to carry the babe. But that’s part of the reason I came here. I have a favor to ask of you.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “I wonder if I could take Mary Whitsun away? To come live with me. Caire wants someone to help me if I should feel unwell, and after the baby comes, we’ll need a nursemaid. She’d be perfect, and besides, I’ve missed her terribly since I left the home. Please?”

  “Of course,” Winter replied, delighted. “I think Mary Whitsun would quite like that.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Temperance beamed up at him. “I suppose with that settled, I ought to get back.”

  He blinked. “Get back where?”

  “To the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children,” Temperance said with a touch of asperity. “Didn’t you know we were holding a meeting in the sitting room downstairs?”

  “Now?”

  He felt the surge of energy through his veins. If there was a meeting of the Ladies’ Syndicate, then Isabel would be here. He hadn’t seen her in a sennight—not since he’d killed Seymour. During that time, he’d been busy with reclaiming the home and helping the traumatized little girls who had been used in the workshop, but that hadn’t been the main reason he’d stayed away from Isabel.

  His darkness had come to the fore that night. He’d killed a man—something he’d never done before. Taking a life wasn’t something to be done lightly. He’d prayed over the matter, considered if he should let Isabel go for her own good. But there was another side to his darkness; he’d always known that. When he’d let it free, he’d also set free the ability to hug Temperance. To take a little girl’s hands in his own to comfort her. He knew now that he would never be the manager his father was: distant, reserved, but kind. Instead he would care too much, worry too much, grieve too much when a child was lost. And when a child succeeded? When one thrived or was rescued? Then he would probably be overjoyed.

  He couldn’t change that about himself, even if he wanted to. That was simply the kind of manager he was destined to be, and he thought he could now live peaceably with that fact.

  But there was one person—one lovely, stubborn, wicked lady—whom he couldn’t live without, and apparently she was sitting downstairs at this very moment.

  A week had been entirely too long.

  “Excuse me,” he murmured to his sister.

  “Where are you going?” Temperance called after him.

  “To find my destiny,” he replied.

  “WHAT WERE YOU thinking?” Isabel watched with amusement as Amelia Caire raised a patrician eyebrow sternly at Lady Penelope.

  Amelia had just got back into town last night, apparently because of a letter Lady Margaret had written weeks ago.

  “I’m sure I had the best interests of the children at heart.” Lady Penelope opened her pansy-purple eyes wide in appeal. “And Artemis said it was a good idea.”

  Miss Greaves, who had just taken a sip of her tea, choked.

  “I understand that Mr. Makepeace confiscated three and thirty slingshots,” Lady Hero said thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I’ve seen that many slingshots in all my life.”

  “We’ve had to have all the classrooms repainted as well,” Amelia said. “And four beds have had to be replaced.”

  “Cook found another cherry pit this morning,” Lady Phoebe piped up brightly. “In the flour in the kitchen.”

  All of the ladies looked down at the scones on their plates. Lady Hero carefully set her plate aside, looking a tad green about the edges.

  “Well, I thought it was an experiment worth trying,” Lady Penelope said stoutly. “If I’d not brought in Lord d’Arque, we’d never have learned not to give the children hothouse cherries as a special present.”

  She looked about the room as if having scored an important point.

  Amelia sighed and Isabel felt for her. No matter how harebrained Lady Penelope was, she still held the heaviest purse of any of the ladies. They would simply have to learn to put up with her.

  “I think we shall have to make a law that Mr. Makepeace be the one and only manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children,” Amelia said. “All those in favor, please raise your hand.”

  Several hands shot up. Lady Penelope raised hers to shoulder-height, which, in Isabel’s opinion, still counted. Lady Margaret, however, simply stared at her lap—as she’d been doing since the meeting had begun.

  “Megs?” Lady Hero whispered gently.

  “What?” Lady Margaret looked up. “Oh, yes.” And she raised her hand as well, making the vote unanimous.

  Isabel had the feeling that Lady Margaret had no idea on what she’d just voted.

  Amelia nodded, satisfied, and began pouring a second cup of tea for all the ladies.

  Isabel took the opportunity to lean toward Lady Hero, sitting next to her. “I’m so pleased you came to town, my lady.”

  Lady Hero smiled. “We were ready to return from the country.”

  “Then your husband accompanied you?” Isabel murmured.

  “Oh, indeed. He has most urgent business in London.” Lady Hero glanced at Lady Margaret.

  Isabel nodded, glad that things were being seen to. “I hope he proves successful.”

  Lady Hero smiled rather sadly. “Lord Griffin is used to success—even in matters that seem to have no happy outcome.”

  Which was, Isabel supposed, the most that could be hoped for.

  The sitting room door opened.

  Isabel turned to look and caught her breath. Winter stood there, his face quite stern. She’d been planning on cornering him after the meeting. He’d spent the last week avoiding her and she was quite tired of it.

  But it appeared he’d changed his course.

  His bow was short and he never glanced at any lady but herself. “Might I have a word with you?”

  She gulped. “I… I’m sure when the meeting is—”

  “Now, Isabel.”

  Oh, dear. She felt the blush heat her cheeks as she hurriedly got up before he could say anything else damning. As it was, the other ladies were suspiciously quiet.

  She went out into the hall. “What is it?”

  He simply looked at her and she saw everything she meant to him on his face.

  Her heart clutched. Now? He wanted to do this now?

  Last-minute panic seized her. “I’ll never have children,” she hissed as quietly as she could, because it must be a free time, for the children were all flocking down the stairs. “I’m too old, too rich, too much above you in station, too—”

  He silenced her by the simple expedient of kissing her. There, in the home’s hallway, in front of the entire Ladies’ Syndicate and what must be most of the children, soon to be all of the children, for whoever wasn’t there to witness the embrace was being urgently called by their brethren…
r />   And she didn’t care. She wrapped her arms about him and kissed him back, fiercely, joyfully, this man she loved with all of her flawed being.

  He pulled away, only far enough to whisper with smiling lips, “You’ve well and truly compromised me this time, Lady Beckinhall. I think you ought to save my poor reputation and marry me.”

  She looked into his warm, strong, loving eyes and voiced her remaining doubt. “You’ll never have children if you marry me.”

  And he did the strangest thing. Winter Makepeace, the man who never laughed, threw his head back and shouted with laughter.

  He looked down at her and grinned, sweeping his arm toward the stairway, now crowded with children of every shape and size. “Oh, my precious Isabel, these are my children—the children of my heart, the children of my life’s work. I’m the father to dozens of children and plan to be the father to hundreds of children in the future. Come. Say yes, be my wife, and help me raise my brood.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, and when some of the children leaned forward, unable to hear, she shouted the word: “Yes!”

  Winter grinned and kissed her on the mouth, fierce and quick, and then turned to the waiting children of the home. “Children, it is my great honor to tell you that Lady Beckinhall has consented to marry me.”

  For a moment there was awed silence and then a great roar went up: “HUZZAH!”

  Winter laughed again and picked Isabel up by the waist, swinging her around, high above his head.

  “HUZZAH!” the children cheered, half-maddened by delight.

  “Nell!” Winter shouted to the maidservant standing among the children. “I think this calls for scones for everyone at tea.”

  That prompted the biggest cheer of all and then a mad scramble as the children raced to find seats for tea. Nell beamed as she brought up the rear, and even Mistress Medina dabbed at her eyes with her apron as she hurried back to the kitchen.