“My dear, I hope you haven’t ruined a perfectly good orphanage manager,” Amelia said drily from the sitting room doorway. Her expression softened. “But I wish you all the happiness possible.”
“Thank you.” Isabel’s eyes grew misty and she received a congratulatory kiss from each of the ladies, even Lady Penelope, who looked quite bewildered.
“Let me escort you to your carriage,” Winter murmured in Isabel’s ear.
She nodded quickly, for she wanted a few more minutes alone with him. But as they neared the door, a patter of feet came behind them.
They turned to see Mistress Medina, holding out a small key on a ribbon to Winter. She winked. “I almost forgot in the last week’s flurry. Thought you might want the key back, sir. Wouldn’t want all those slingshots to get loose again.”
Outside, dusk was just beginning to descend.
Isabel waited until the home’s door closed behind them. “What was that all about?”
Winter actually looked a little guilty. “Well, when I left the home on d’Arque’s orders, I gave this key to Mistress Medina.”
She looked at the innocent little key, realization dawning. “And it…”
“Unlocks the cabinet where I keep all the slingshots I’ve confiscated from the boys.” He nodded and beamed. “I actually have quite a collection. I’ve been acquiring them for nine years, you see…”
She giggled at the thought of Mistress Medina arming all the little boys in the home. Poor Lady Penelope! She’d never stood a chance.
Winter tugged her cape closer about her neck. “Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic.” She smiled up at him. She felt so free suddenly, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Let’s have a short engagement. I want to move into the home as soon as I finish decorating it.”
“Decorating?” His eyebrows arched in amusement.
“Decorating,” she said firmly. “It’s much too austere for children. I want to bring Mr. and Mrs. Butterman, and Will and Harold the footmen, and of course Pinkney, though she’s liable to expire from shock from living at an orphanage, and of course I’ll have to bring Christopher and Carruthers.”
He stopped suddenly, facing her. “Christopher didn’t leave with his mother?”
They’d not spoken since that night when everything had been so rushed.
“No.” She looked up at him, so grateful for what he’d brought into her life. “I took your advice and told Louise that I wanted Christopher to live with me. As it turns out, she was quite relieved—it seems that a small boy isn’t very conducive toward romance.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “It depends on the type of romance, I think.”
Then he was kissing her again, his mouth so warm and full of life that she entirely forgot where she was and kissed him back enthusiastically.
“I do love you,” she whispered as she pulled away. “Now and forever. I realized it when I thought you might die at Seymour’s hand.”
“There was never any chance of that,” he murmured. “Not when I had you to live for.”
“But…” She trailed off, her eyes widening as she glanced over his shoulder.
Winter turned to look.
A man stood not half a dozen steps away, dressed in harlequin’s motley, black jackboots, and a long-nosed mask. As she gaped at him, he nodded and tipped his black, floppy hat before leaping to a low-hanging balcony and thence to the roof where he disappeared.
Isabel looked up at Winter. “What…? How…? Who…? ”
He smiled and leaned down to kiss her on the nose before whispering, “I told you I was the Ghost of St. Giles, but I never said there weren’t others as well.”
Epilogue
As the sky lightened in the east, the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles shivered. When the dawn’s first rays touched his face, he shuddered. And when at last the sky was blue and the sun yellow overhead, he wept.
“Forgive me, my True Love,” he gasped as he sank to his knees. “Forgive me, for I was in a place of darkness, neither in this world nor the next, and I forgot who I was and what you meant to me.”
“I forgive you,” the True Love said, and kissed his lips. “For you are the light of my world. I love you more than life itself.”
“And I love you as well,” the Harlequin said. He laid his palm upon his True Love’s belly and looked at her. “Let us leave this place and marry so that we can bring our Hope into the world together.”
And so they did. The Harlequin and his True Love left St. Giles, married, and lived happily ever after…
But beware, my dears! For ’tis said that even in his happy new life, the Harlequin sometimes grows restless on a moonlit night. There are those who say he returns to haunt the streets of St. Giles, wearing his tattered Harlequin’s motley and wielding two sharp swords. And when he does, murderers and thieves, those who would harm the innocent, and those whose evil deeds are done by dark tremble at the mention of the Ghost of St. Giles!
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Godric St. John jumped silently down into his town house garden and then crouched, motionless, and waited for a full minute. The precaution was most likely unnecessary. Since Clara’s death—and a long time before she’d passed away—no one had cared about his comings and goings.
Still. It was good to keep in practice.
When nothing and no one moved, Godric slowly rose to his feet. He slid from shadow to shadow, making for the door at the back of his house that led into his library. Tonight had been mostly wasted. He’d chased a thief and then lost him in a warren of back alleys, scared off a possible footpad from a pieman returning home for the night—the pieman hadn’t even known his peril—and seen Winter Makepeace kiss Lady Beckinhall in the middle of Maiden Lane. That almost certainly meant a marriage—however oddly matched the couple—and Winter’s retirement from their… hobby.
Godric grunted as he opened his library door. One fewer Ghost meant—
“Good evening, Mr. St. John.” The voice came from the shadows obscuring the old leather armchair near the fireplace.
Godric swung in that direction, crouching low, his swords already out and up.
The vague shape in the corner tutted. “Now, now, Mr. St. John, there’s no need for violence, I assure you.”
“Who are you?” Godric whispered.
The man leaned forward into the faint light cast by the embers in the fireplace. “My name is Griffin Reading.” Godric could see now that he had an elbow propped on the arm of the chair and something dangled from one finger.
Godric paced forward and the shape resolved itself into a mask: long-nosed, leather, black. Exactly, in fact, like the one he wore upon his face. Exactly like the spare mask that should be hidden in his bedroom.
But evidently wasn’t. Godric looked at Lord Griffin.
Who smiled without humor. “I have a proposition for you.”
The masked avenger known as the Ghost of St. Giles rides again, risking his life for justice, for freedom, and for love.
But this time, another man takes on the disguise—and another woman dares to touch the darkness…
Lord of Darkness
Please turn the page for a preview.
LONDON, ENGLAND
APRIL 1740
The night Godric St. John saw his wife for the first time since their marriage two years previously, she was aiming a pistol at his head. Lady Margaret stood beside her carriage in the filthy St. Giles street, her glossy, dark curls tumbling from the velvet hood of her cloak. Her shoulders were square, both hands firmly grasping the pistol, and a murderous gleam shone in her pretty eyes. For a split second Godric caught his breath in admiration.
In the next moment Lady Margaret chose to pull the trigger.
BOOM!
The report was deafening, but, fortunately, not fatal, as his wife was apparently an execrable shot. This did not reassure Godric as much as it should have because Lady Margaret immediately tur
ned and pulled a second pistol from her carriage.
Even the worst shots could get lucky on occasion.
But Godric hadn’t the time to meditate on the likelihood of his wife’s actually murdering him this night. He was too busy saving her ungrateful hide from the half dozen footpads who had stopped her carriage in this, the most dangerous part of London.
Godric ducked the enormous fist aimed at his cheek and kicked the footpad in the stomach. The man grunted, but didn’t go down, probably because he was as big as a draft horse. Instead, the robber began a counterclockwise circle of Godric as his compatriots—four of them, and every one quite well fed—closed in on him.
Godric narrowed his eyes and raised his swords—a long one in his right hand, a short one in his left for defense and close fighting, and—
God’s balls—Lady Margaret fired her second pistol at him.
The gunshot shattered the night, echoing off the decrepit buildings in the narrow street. Godric felt a tug on his short cape as the lead ball went through the wool.
Lady Margaret said a word not often uttered by the daughter of a marquess.
The footpad nearest Godric grinned, revealing teeth the color of week-old piss. “Don’t like ’e much now, do she?”
Not precisely true. Lady Margaret was trying to kill the Ghost of St. Giles. Unfortunately she had no way of knowing that the Ghost of St. Giles happened to be her husband. The carved black mask on Godric’s face hid his identity quite effectively.
For a moment all of St. Giles seemed to hold its breath. The sixth robber still stood, both of his pistols aimed at Lady Margaret’s coachman and two footmen. A female spoke in low, urgent tones from inside the carriage, no doubt trying to lure Lady Margaret back to safety. The lady herself glared from her stance beside the carriage, apparently oblivious to the fact that she might be murdered—or worse—if Godric failed to save her from the robbers. And the five remaining footpads had paused in their stalking.
High overhead the wan moon looked down dispassionately on the crumbling brick buildings, the broken cobblestones underfoot, and a single chandler’s shop sign creaking wearily in the wind.
Godric leaped at the still-grinning footpad.
Lady Margaret might be a foolish chit for being here, and the footpad might be merely following the instincts of any feral predator who runs down the careless prey that ventures into his path, but it mattered not. Godric was the Ghost of St. Giles, protector of the weak, a predator to be feared himself, lord of St. Giles and the night, and damn it, Lady Margaret’s husband.
So Godric stabbed fast and low, impaling the footpad before his grin had had time to disappear. The man grunted and began to fall as Godric elbowed another footpad advancing behind him. The man’s nose shattered with a crunching sound.
Godric pulled his sword free and whirled, slashing at a third man. His sword opened a swath of blood diagonally across the man’s cheek and the footpad stumbled back, screaming, his hands to his face.
The remaining two attackers hesitated, which in a street fight was nearly always fatal.
Godric charged them. The sword in his right hand whistled as it swept toward one of the footpads—and missed—but the short sword in his left hand stabbed deep into the thigh of the fifth footpad. The man shrieked. Both robbers backed away and then turned to flee.
Godric straightened, his chest heaving as he caught his breath and looked around. The only remaining robber was the one with the pistols.
The coachman—a thickset man of middling years with a tough, reddened face—narrowed his eyes at the robber and pulled a pistol out from under his seat.
The last footpad turned and fled without a sound.
“Shoot him,” Lady Margaret snapped. Her voice trembled, but Godric had the feeling it was from anger rather than fear.
“M’lady?” The coachman looked at his mistress, confused, since all of the footpads were now out of sight.
But Godric knew quite well that she wasn’t ordering the murder of the footpad, and suddenly something inside of him—something he’d thought dead for years—uncoiled.
His nostrils flared as he took two steps forward, and whispered, “No need to thank me.”
The bloodthirsty wench actually gritted her teeth. “I wasn’t about to.”
“No?” He cocked his head, his smile grim. “Not even a kiss for good luck?”
Her eyes dropped to his mouth, uncovered by the half-mask and her upper lip curled in disgust. “I’d rather embrace an adder.”
Oh, that was lovely. His smile widened. “Frightened of me, sweeting?”
He watched, fascinated, as she opened her mouth, no doubt to scorch his hide with her retort, but she was interrupted before she could speak.
“Thank you!” cried a feminine voice from inside the carriage.
Lady Margaret scowled and turned. Apparently she was close enough to see the speaker in the dark even if he couldn’t. “Don’t thank him! He’s a murderer.”
“He hasn’t murdered us,” the woman in the carriage pointed out. “Besides, it’s too late. I’ve thanked him for both of us, so climb in the carriage and let’s leave this awful place before he changes his mind.”
The set of Lady Margaret’s jaw reminded Godric of a little girl denied a sweet.
“She’s right, you know,” he whispered to her. “Believe it or not, toffs have been known to be accosted by footpads in this very spot.”
“Megs!” hissed the female in the carriage.
Lady Margaret’s glare could’ve cut glass. “I shall find you again, and when I do, I intend to kill you.”
She was completely in earnest, her stubborn little chin set.
He took off his large floppy hat and swept her a mocking bow. “I’ll look forward to dying in your arms, sweeting.”
Her eyes narrowed on his double-entendre, but her companion was muttering urgently now. Lady Margaret gave him one last look of disdain before ducking inside her carriage.
The coachman shouted to the horses, and the vehicle rumbled away.
And Godric St. John realized two things: his lady wife was apparently over her mourning—and he’d better make it back to his town house before her carriage arrived.
OTHER TITLES BY ELIZABETH HOYT
The Raven Prince
The Leopard Prince
The Serpent Prince
To Taste Temptation
To Seduce a Sinner
To Beguile a Beast
To Desire a Devil
Wicked Intentions
Notorious Pleasures
Scandalous Desires
“There’s an enchantment to Hoyt’s stories that makes you believe in the magic of love.”
—RT Book Reviews
PRAISE FOR
ELIZABETH HOYT’S NOVELS
Scandalous Desires
Quotes TK
Notorious Pleasures
“Emotionally stunning… The sinfully sensual chemistry Hoyt creates between her shrewd, acid-tongued heroine and her scandalous sexy hero is pure romance.”
—Booklist
“Fans of historical detail will love [Notorious Pleasures]… the mysterious happenings provide excitement and suspense.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Incredible, steamy, and erotic… a great historical romance.”
—Fresh Fiction
Wicked Intentions
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! A magnificently rendered story that not only enchants but enthralls.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hoyt brings steamy sensuality to the slums of early eighteenth-century London… earthy, richly detailed characterizations and deft historical touches.”
—Publishers Weekly
To Desire a Devil
“Hoyt brings her Georgian-set Legend of the Four Soldiers series to a riveting conclusion… Rich with dangerous intrigue, suffused with desire, and spiked with wit, To Desire a Devil is nothing less than brilliant.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! The kind of powerfully emotional, sensual romance, tinged with fairy tale that readers have come to expect from this gifted storyteller.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hoyt’s skills are some of the best in the industry… Sharp dialogue, strong characterization, smart heroines with spines, and yummy tortured heroes… this book is really, really good.”
—LikesBooks.com
To Beguile a Beast
“Hoyt works her own brand of literary magic… in the exquisitely romantic, superbly sensual third addition to her extraordinary Georgian-set Legend of the Four Soldiers series.”
—Booklist
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! A magical love story that reads like a mystical fable and a very real and highly passionate romance. Hoyt has found a unique niche that highlights both her storytelling abilities and her considerable talents for depth of character and emotion.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Desert Isle Keeper! Books such as this one are the reason I read romance… Just about as good as it can get.”
—LikesBooks.com
To Seduce a Sinner
“Superbly nuanced historical romance.”
—Chicago Tribune
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Hoyt’s magical fairy-tale romances have won the hearts of readers who adore sizzling sensuality perfectly merged with poignancy.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hoyt expertly sifts a generous measure of danger into the latest intriguing addition to her Four Soldiers, Georgianera series. Her ability to fuse wicked wittiness with sinfully sensual romance is stunning.”
—Booklist
To Taste Temptation