“There you are, sir.” Nell Jones, the home’s right-hand woman, appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking flustered. “You have a caller in the sitting room, and I don’t know that we have any muffins left. There’re a few sweet biscuits from the day afore yesterday, but I’m afraid they may be stale and Alice can’t find the sugar for tea.”
“Biscuits will be just fine, Nell,” Winter said soothingly. “And I don’t take sugar in my tea in any case.”
“Yes, but Lady Beckinhall may,” Nell pointed out as she blew a lock of blond hair out of her eyes.
Winter stilled on the landing, aware that his heartbeat had quickened. “Lady Beckinhall?”
“She’s in there with her lady’s maid,” Nell whispered as if the lady could hear her from down the hall and through the walls. “And she’s wearing jeweled buckles on her slippers—the maid, not the lady!”
Nell sounded awestruck.
Winter repressed a sigh even as his muscles tightened in anticipation. His body might be eager to see the lady again, but the reflex was involuntary. He did not need the complication of Lady Beckinhall and her overly inquisitive nature today.
“Send in the tea and whatever biscuits you have,” he told Nell.
“But the sugar—”
“I’ll handle it,” he said firmly, catching Nell’s frantic gaze. “Don’t worry so. She’s only one woman.”
“One woman with a fancy lady’s maid,” Nell muttered, turning toward the back of the house and the kitchen.
“And, Nell,” Winter called, remembering the matter that he’d originally come down for, “have the new girls arrived yet?”
“No, sir.”
“What?” He’d received word just this morning of two orphaned sisters, only five years of age, begging for scraps on Hog Lane not far from the home. Immediately he’d sent the home’s sole manservant, Tommy, to bring them in. “Why not?”
Nell shrugged. “Tommy said they weren’t there when he got to Hog Lane.”
Winter frowned, troubled by the news. Only last week he’d gone to pick up a little girl of seven or so who had been left at St. Giles-in-the-Fields Church. Yet when he’d arrived, the girl had inexplicably disappeared. The whoremongers of St. Giles were often on the lookout for girls, but these children had vanished within minutes of his receiving word that they were on the street. That was awfully swift even for the greediest of whoremongers. Why would—
Someone pulled on his coat, and Winter looked down into Joseph Tinbox’s brown eyes, grown wide with pleading. “Please, sir, can I go with you to see the lady and her maid? I ain’t never seen jeweled buckles afore.”
“Come.” They’d reached the lower floor by now, and Winter tucked his cane discreetly in a corner, then placed his palm on the boy’s shoulder. Hopefully this arrangement would be less conspicuous—the last thing he needed was Lady Beckinhall realizing that he was limping on the same leg that the Ghost had been wounded on. He smiled at Joseph. “You shall be my crutch.”
Joseph grinned up at him, his face suddenly quite angelic, and Winter felt a quite inappropriate warmth in his chest at the sight. As the manager of the home, he should have no favorites. He should view all eight and twenty children equally and impartially, a benevolent governor above and apart from them all. His father had been such a manager, able to be both kind and distant. But Winter had a near-daily struggle to follow his father’s example.
He squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Best behavior, mind, Joseph Tinbox.”
“Yes, sir.” Joseph composed his face into what he no doubt thought a solemn expression, but to Winter’s mind it merely made him doubly mischievous-looking.
Winter squared his shoulders and let his weight settle equally on both legs, ignoring the pain that shot through his right thigh. He opened the sitting room door.
The sight of her was like a swift, cool wind through his frame, quickening his body, alerting all his senses, making him completely aware he was a male and she a female.
Lady Beckinhall turned as he entered. She was attired in a deep crimson gown, delicate layers of lace falling from the sleeves at her elbows. The lace was repeated in a thin line about her low, rounded bodice as if to frame her creamy bosom. More lace edged the frivolous scrap of beaded linen that served as a cap on her glossy mahogany hair.
“Mr. Makepeace.”
“My lady.” He crossed to her carefully, his palm still on Joseph’s shoulder.
She held out her hand, no doubt so that he could bend over it and kiss her fingers, but he would do no such thing.
Instead he took her hand, feeling the small shock of her slim fingers in his palm, and shook it before quickly letting go. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
“Why, Mr. Makepeace, perhaps you’ve already forgotten your promise to show me about the new home?” She widened her eyes mockingly. “To make up for our appointment last week?”
He suppressed a sigh. Lady Beckinhall’s maid stood behind her, and Nell was quite correct: The girl was overdressed, her lace as dear if not dearer than her mistress’s. Joseph had his head tilted sideways and was leaning slightly away from Winter’s grip, presumably in an effort to catch a glimpse of the fabled jeweled buckles.
“I must apologize again for missing our meeting last week,” Winter said.
Lady Beckinhall inclined her head, making the teardrop pearls she wore swing from her earlobes. “I hear you were caught up in the mob.”
He started to reply, but before he could, Joseph cut in eagerly. “Mr. Makepeace was near crushed, he was. He’s spent almost the whole last week abed. Got up only when we moved to this here new home.”
Lady Beckinhall’s dark eyebrows arched in interest. “Indeed? I had no idea you were so gravely injured, Mr. Makepeace.”
He met her gaze, keeping his own complacent, though his pulse had quickened. She wasn’t a fool, this woman. “Joseph exaggerates.”
“But—” Joseph began, his voice injured.
Winter patted him on the shoulder, then transferred his hand to the back of a settee. “Run to the kitchens and see if Nell has the tea ready, please, Joseph Tinbox.”
The boy’s face fell, but Winter looked at him firmly. Any show of weakness and Joseph would wriggle out of the request.
With a dramatic slump of his shoulders, the boy turned to the door.
Winter looked at Lady Beckinhall. “I’m afraid we aren’t settled yet in our new home, but should you come back next week, I would be pleased to show you around.”
The lady nodded, finally—thankfully!—settling onto a winged chair. Winter sank into the settee, keeping his face bland even as his right thigh protested the movement. The lady’s maid retired to a seat across the room and gazed rather vacantly out the window.
“Thank you, Mr. Makepeace,” Lady Beckinhall replied in her throaty voice. “I’m looking forward to your tour, but that was not the only matter I came to see you about today.”
He arched his eyebrows in silent inquiry, trying not to show impatience. He hadn’t the time to play guessing games. Not only did he have work to do, but also every minute he spent in her company there was the danger that she might make the connection between him and the Ghost. The sooner she was out of his home, the better.
She smiled, quick and devastating. “The Duchess of Arlington’s ball is next week.”
“Yes?”
“And we—the Ladies’ Syndicate—hope that you’ll be attending to represent the home.”
He nodded his head curtly. “I’ve already informed Lady Hero that I would attend at her request, though frankly I do not see the need to do so. Nor”—he glanced at the door as it opened to admit Nell and two of the girls bearing the tea—“do I see what your interest in the matter is.”
“Oh, my interest is quite personal,” Lady Beckinhall drawled.
He looked back at her quickly. A tiny smile was playing about her lips, sensual, sly, and not a little roguish.
His eyes narrowed in sudden wariness.
Lady Beckinhall’s blue eyes danced. “I’ve been elected to be your social tutor.”
Chapter Three
Twice a year the Harlequin’s troupe came to play in St. Giles. It happened one day that a fine lady was riding by and her carriage was stopped by the crowd gathered to see the comic actors. The fine lady drew aside the curtain on her carriage and looked out. And as she did so, her eye caught the gaze of the Harlequin…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Isabel watched as Winter Makepeace slowly blinked at her news. It was his only reaction, but it was a telling one from a man who made stone statues seem animated.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked politely in his low, slow voice.
She supposed he could be called a handsome man, but only if one overlooked his severe demeanor. His face was pleasant enough, his chin strong, his nose straight, his mouth firm, but she’d not often seen Winter Makepeace smile and never laugh. His dark brown hair was clubbed back simply without curl or powder, and he dressed in plain black or brown. He had the air of a man far older, for Mr. Makepeace couldn’t be past thirty years of age.
He was sitting on the settee, seemingly relaxed, but she hadn’t missed his slight limp as he’d entered the room—nor the fleeting expression of irritation on his face when the boy had mentioned his infirmity. For a moment she remembered the Ghost and how he’d looked, lying on the bed in her blue room: naked, muscled, and dangerously sexual.
Winter Makepeace, in contrast, no doubt had the soft body of a man of letters. His chest would be bony, his arms thin and spindly. Why, then, was she even dwelling on the thought of Mr. Makepeace nude?
Isabel leaned toward the tea things. Miss Jones and the other maids had finished setting out the trays, but they still hovered, looking wide-eyed between her and Mr. Makepeace. “Shall I pour?”
She saw a muscle knot in his jaw. His glance flicked to the maids and his expression softened a trifle. “Thank you, Nell. That will be all.”
Nell cast him a speaking glance as she left, but Mr. Makepeace’s attention was already back on Isabel. He waited until the door closed behind the maids. “Please explain.”
“Oh, dear,” Isabel sighed as she poured the first cup of tea. “There doesn’t seem to be any sugar. Shall I ring for the maids again?”
She smiled sweetly at him.
Apparently Mr. Makepeace was immune to her smiles. “We haven’t any sugar. You’ll just have to do without. Now, what—”
“That’s such a pity—I do so adore sugar in my tea.”
Isabel made a disappointed moue and was rewarded with the firming of Mr. Makepeace’s lips. It was too bad of her, really, but for some reason it amused her no end to poke at this man. To subtly taunt and prod. He was so stiff, so utterly self-contained. Perhaps he simply had no emotions to restrain, but she didn’t think so. No, Isabel knew deep in her heart that there was a volcano somewhere under that granite shell. And if it ever blew, she wanted to be there to witness the explosion.
“Lady Beckinhall,” Mr. Makepeace gritted very softly. “I regret the lack of sugar for your tea, but I would be most appreciative if you explained yourself. Right. Now.”
“Oh, very well.” Isabel handed the cup of tea to him and spoke as she poured herself another. “The Ladies’ Syndicate has decided that you would… ah… benefit from some lessons in social etiquette. It’s nothing much really”—she waved a negligent hand as she sat back on the settee with her own teacup—“just a few—”
“No.”
“—sessions.” Isabel blinked and raised her eyebrows. Mr. Makepeace had a slight frown about his lips, which in any other man would translate into a full-fledged rage. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said no.” He set his tea down untouched. “I don’t have the time or inclination to waste on lessons in social etiquette. I’m very sorry, but—”
“You don’t sound sorry,” Isabel pointed out. “In fact, you rather prove my case, Mr. Makepeace. You delight in repressing your emotions, yet you can’t be bothered to hide your disdain for a lady.”
For a moment he simply watched her, his dark eyes lidded, and she wondered what he was thinking.
Then he inclined his head. “I am very sorry if I seem to disdain you, my lady. On my honor, I do not—quite the contrary. But I do not see the need for your so-called social etiquette lessons. My time is limited as it is. Surely you would agree that it would be better spent managing the home than learning to flatter aristocrats?”
“And if your home—and your livelihood—depend upon flattering those aristocrats?”
His straight brows drew together. “In what way do you mean?”
Isabel sipped her tea, bitter though it was without her usual sugar, and marshaled her thoughts. He was a stubborn man, and if she couldn’t make him understand the gravity of his situation, she very much feared that Mr. Makepeace would simply refuse her help. And then he’d lose his position at the home. Winter Makepeace might do a wonderful job of hiding all his emotions, but Isabel knew the home was very important to him. Besides, it didn’t seem right that he should suffer the loss of his family’s and his life’s work simply because he was surly, dour, and a rather humorless man.
So Isabel lowered her teacup and gave Mr. Makepeace her best smile—the one that had made more than one young buck trip over his own feet in a ballroom.
Judging by Mr. Makepeace’s expression, she might’ve presented him with a codfish of uncertain provenance
Mentally sighing, Isabel said, “You understand the importance of attending events in polite society now that the home has the patronage of ladies such as Lady Hero, the Ladies Caire, and Lady Penelope?”
His nod was so slight it might’ve been a twitch.
She’d take it anyway. “Then you must understand the need to make your appearances in society properly. Everything you do, every movement you make, and everything you say will reflect not only on yourself, but also on the home—and its patronesses.”
He stirred impatiently. “You fear I will embarrass you.”
“I fear,” she said as she deliberated over her choice of sugar biscuits, “that you will lose the home.”
For a moment he was silent, and had he been any other man, she would’ve said he was stunned.
“What do you mean?” he asked very carefully.
“I mean that you risk losing either your position as the home’s manager or your patronesses—or if worse came to worst, both.” She shrugged and took a bite of the sugar biscuit, which turned out to be terribly stale. “No society lady wishes to be associated with an uncouth gentleman. If you cannot learn some polite manners, you will either be replaced as the home’s manager or you will lose your patronesses.”
She took a sip of her bitter tea to wash down the dryness of the biscuit, watching his face over the rim of the teacup. He gazed straight ahead, his face immobile, as if he debated something within himself.
Then he looked at her squarely and she had to repress a gasp. It felt as if he touched her physically with the intensity of his stare and the effect was… heady. Oh, yes, there were certainly emotional depths to this man. Did he let those emotions free when he was intimate with a woman? And why was she thinking this of Mr. Makepeace? He was the least sensual man she knew.
She was so confused by her thoughts that it took her a moment to realize he had spoken.
“No.” Mr. Makepeace rose, his hand perhaps unconsciously rubbing his right leg. “I’m afraid I have neither the time nor the inclination to learn etiquette from you, my lady.”
And with those blunt words, he left her.
WHY DID LADY Beckinhall imperil his usual reserve?
Winter Makepeace strode down an alley as the last rays of the dying sun retreated over the mismatched roofs of St. Giles. Even after a half hour spent in the lady’s company earlier this afternoon, he could still make no sense of his dangerous attraction to her. She’d been very brave, true, to rescue him from the
mob. She liked to act the frivolous flirt, but her actions had been more kind than he’d seen from most people, poor or aristocratic. She’d brought him into her home, tended to his wounds, and nursed him with her own hands. The lady had shown a wholly unexpected side to herself, and if she were the daughter of a cobbler or butcher, he might’ve been very tempted to find out more about that part of her she kept so well hidden.
Winter shook his head. But Lady Beckinhall was no butcher’s daughter. He knew—knew—she wasn’t for him. And yet, as he’d been mentally lecturing himself that he must stay as far away from Lady Beckinhall as possible, he’d found himself almost agreeing to her ridiculous plan to “tutor” him. It had been harder than it should’ve been to walk away from the lady. And that simply wasn’t logical.
Lady Beckinhall was as far above him as Hesperus, the evening star. She’d been born to wealth and privilege while he was the son of a beer brewer. He was by no means rich and at times in the past had teetered on the edge of penury. She lived in the best part of London—an area with wide, straight streets and gleaming white marble, while he lived…
Here.
Winter leaped a stinking puddle and ducked around a crumbling brick wall. The gate in the wall had been vandalized and swung open, creaking in the wind. He entered the dark cemetery beyond, careful to watch for the low, tablet-like headstones set into the ground. This was the Jews’ burial place, and he knew that during the day he would see the inscriptions on the headstones in a mixture of Hebrew, English, and Portuguese—for most of the Jews in London had fled that country and its terrible laws against those who were not Christians.
A small, black form darted away as he neared the other side of the cemetery—either a cat or a very large rat. The wall here was low, and Winter scrambled over it and into a narrow passageway, biting back an exclamation at a twinge from his leg. This let out into another alley next to a chandler’s shop. Overhead, the chandler’s wooden sign swung, squeaking, in the wind. It was in the crude shape of a candlestick, but whatever paint that once outlined the flame and stick had long since flaked away. A single lantern hung outside the little shop, the flame flickering uncertainly.