Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)

Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4) Page 28

“All the more reason to pull yourself together,” Isabel said gently.

“I don’t care,” Lady Margaret whispered.

“I know, dear, but in the future you will.” Isabel’s words were blunt to the point of cruelty, she knew, but they must be spoken. “Pull yourself together, my lady. We need to walk through that ballroom to your carriage. Now, who did you come with tonight?”

“My… my great aunt is staying with me while Mama is away.”

Isabel had a vague recollection of an older, gray-haired woman sometimes accompanying Lady Margaret. “Good. I’ll get you settled in the carriage first and then send her to you.”

It wasn’t as simple as that, of course. It took another fifteen minutes and much cajoling on Isabel’s part, but at last Lady Margaret was ready to step from the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face puffy, and she’d obviously been crying, but at least she no longer was.

“You only need to get to your carriage,” Isabel murmured as she accompanied the girl back to the ballroom. “A few steps and then you can relax.”

Lady Margaret nodded mechanically.

“Good girl,” Isabel said. They’d reached the ballroom. People were still crowded around the entrance, and no one seemed to pay them any attention, thank goodness. “We’ll simply tell your aunt that you’ve a migraine. Can you trust your lady’s maid?”

“What?” Lady Margaret looked dazed.

The girl probably hadn’t thought how fast gossip spread among servants. “Never mind. Just get rid of your lady’s maid as soon as she helps you to undress. Lock your door and rest.”

“Lady Beckinhall, there you are!” The voice was masculine and to Isabel’s side.

She turned, half blocking the speaker’s view of Lady Margaret. Mr. Seymour stood with Lord d’Arque. Both men looked grave. The viscount was still a bit green about his mouth.

Mr. Seymour’s color in contrast was hectic. “Monstrous, this business. The cold-blooded murder of a gentleman right here in London.” He glanced curiously at Lady Margaret. “The news must’ve been overwhelming for those of delicate sensibilities.”

Isabel sent the man a quelling glance. “Quite. And even for those who have normal sensibilities. Mr. Fraser-Burnsby was a very nicely mannered gentleman, and a favorite to many. He will be missed.”

Lord d’Arque muttered something under his breath and abruptly strode away.

“They were close,” Mr. Seymour said, nodding in d’Arque’s direction. “Apparently were at school together. I had no idea. D’Arque keeps everything close to the vest, and Roger was friendly to everyone.” He shook his head. “We’ll find his murderer, never you fear, ladies. We’ve called in the dragoons and they’re searching St. Giles even now. We’ll have him in prison by dawn.”

Isabel stared, perplexed. “Who?”

Mr. Seymour raised his eyebrows at her words.

“Who killed Roger Fraser-Burnsby?” Isabel asked impatiently.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Beckinhall, but I thought you’d heard,” Mr. Seymour said gently. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby was murdered by the Ghost of St. Giles.”

Chapter Eleven

The Harlequin’s True Love wept bitter tears, but she did not give up. The next morning she went to consult a wisewoman.

“Ah!” said the wisewoman when she’d heard the True Love’s tale. “The Harlequin has relinquished his soul to the Master of the Night and can no longer walk in the sunlight. He will spend eternity thus, neither seeing nor truly hearing those about him, bent only on revenge. It is a thing not easily done, but if you want to bring him back into the light, you must first bind him with Love, then wash his eyes with Sorrow, and finally make him touch Hope…”

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

The moon hung low in the night sky, a goddess guiding his way as Winter Makepeace leaped from one rooftop to another half an hour later. He landed on all fours, but was up at once, running lightly over the shingles. So close. He was so close now he could feel it in his veins. The children who needed his help were near and he would find and rescue them. He must try to forget the emotions that Lady Beckinhall provoked. Try to recapture and contain everything she’d let loose. He would be strictly Winter Makepeace with her, make sure she never met the Ghost again. If he could do that, then perhaps he had a chance of going on with his life exactly as he had been before. Because as wonderful as it was to be with her, he’d pledged himself to another path. This. This was what he was made for: bringing justice to those who had no voice.

Righting the wrongs that threatened to overwhelm St. Giles.

He jumped from the rooftop down to a wall and thence into Calfshead Lane. Number 10 was a crooked doorway with no light outside. Above his head, two doors down, a sign swung in the wind, but if it had something painted on it, it was too dark to see. Winter tried the door handle, and when that refused to give, he backed a pace and simply kicked in the door.

It swung back on rusty hinges, banging against the wall inside and rebounding. Winter caught it with one hand and peered inside.

“Go ’way!” a shrill voice shouted from inside.

Winter peered into the gloom. A woman crouched just inside the door, a knife held in one wavering hand. “Dear God, ’tis the devil himself!”

“Where are the children?” Winter rasped.

The woman stared around dazedly. “Children? Ain’t no children ’ere.”

Winter advanced inside as she scurried back. “I know there are children here. Where are they?”

The woman’s rheumy eyes opened wide. “ ’Ave you come to take me to ’ell?”

Winter stared at her. A couple of shapes—dead or dead drunk—lay in the corner of the tiny room, but they were obviously adult. And the woman before him didn’t seem capable of running a child work mill. “Is there anyone else here?”

She blinked, her mouth hanging half open. “Not since th’ pawnshop owner left. That were months ago now.”

Swiftly Winter went to the only door in the room and opened it. Beyond was a bare little space, the ceiling not even tall enough for a man to stand upright in it.

And it was entirely empty.

Disappointment tightened his chest. This was supposed to be the place where the children were kept. The address was the only clue he’d been able to find in d’Arque’s bedroom. If it was false, then he was lost.

The children were lost.

From without came the clatter of hooves on cobblestones.

Winter ran from the room.

Outside, a phalanx of mounted men were bearing down. Trevillion’s dragoons, holding torches high. In the flickering light, he just had time to catch sight of the sign two doors down as they galloped toward him.

On the sign was a candle.

“Halt!” the captain bellowed.

Well, he wasn’t doing that. Winter leaped, grabbing hold of the corner of the building. He began scaling it, using only his fingertips and toes. The wall exploded by his face, sending shards of brick into his mask. Belatedly, the sound of the shot rang out.

“Come down or I’ll shoot you where you are,” Trevillion called.

Winter grasped the edge of the gutter and was up and over the roof just as another shot hit the tiles by his heels. He ran, flat out, unmindful of his footing, aware that the horses were following him below. He made for the crest of the roof, bounding over it and down the other side of the house, tiles loosened by his feet clattering to the ground. The dragoons rounded the corner and galloped into the alley below. The leap across to the next house was too great; he couldn’t make it without falling, and falling meant immediate capture.

“Give it up!” Trevillion shouted. “We have you cornered.”

And indeed he could see that the dragoons were in the lane to his right as well. There were dozens this time. Why had Trevillion suddenly decided to bring out all his troops?

He had no choice now.

Winter backed two paces and began running along the roof edge, toward the house closest.

“You’ll never make it, man!”

A shot rang out and he grunted as he leaped. Too far. Too far.

Winter hit the edge of the next building, the impact sending searing pain through his chest. His arms were outstretched, his fingertips scrabbling, and then he began to fall. He slid backward, the leather of his gloves tearing on the rough shingles.

And then he caught.

Only a moment he hung, whispering thanks to God, and then he pushed up with his toes against the house wall and was up and over the edge.

Running for his life.

THE SOUND OF gunfire boomed through the night.

Isabel gasped as if she’d been hit herself. She opened the carriage door and, hanging on to the strap inside, stuck her head out of the moving vehicle. “Drive toward the gunshots, John Coachman!”

Her coachman was usually an imperturbable man, but at her words he swung around, his expression alarmed. “Are you sure, my lady?”

“Yes, yes. Just do as I say.”

Isabel shut the door again but stayed near the window, peering anxiously outside. As soon as she’d heard that the Ghost was being blamed for Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s murder, she’d known that Winter was in dire peril. He’d left before the news of the murder and thus did not know that this night of all nights he must not go out as the Ghost.

She cocked her head, listening anxiously. The shots had been very near. If it was Winter being shot at, then he must be close. Unless the shots had hit their target…

A shadow moved in the gloom.

Her heart jolted. Isabel flung open the door even before she recognized the long-nosed mask. “Quickly! In here.”

He leaped inside the carriage without waiting for it to slow. Isabel slammed shut the door and rapped on the roof. “Home, John!”

Then she sat back on the squabs and stared across at him. His gloves were torn, but otherwise his costume was in place. He was alive. Alive, alive, alive! Thank God and all the angels and any saint that happened to be hanging about. Dear God, she was so relieved!

He took off his floppy hat and threw it on the cushions and then began removing his gloves as if he weren’t put out at all. As if she hadn’t just died a thousand deaths looking for him. And—and!—were it up to him, she wouldn’t have been looking at all because she wouldn’t have known he was the Ghost. Rage—white, hot, and clean—began boiling in her breast.

“You idiot man,” she hissed low. “Don’t you know that every soldier in London is searching for you with orders to take you dead or alive?”

He simply sat, breathing hard, not saying a word as he tucked the gloves into his belt.

She wanted to shake him. “Winter!”

He stilled before tearing the leather mask from his face and the silk mask underneath. His expression was forbidding, but she could see that his eyes were burning even in the dim carriage. “So you know.”

“You weren’t ever going to tell me, were you?” She laughed angrily, too many emotions swirling in her breast. “Of course I know. Do you think I can kiss a man and not know who he is?”

If anything, his face became more stern. “Then you knew earlier tonight when you…”

“Sucked your cock?” If she thought to shock him, she was disappointed.

He didn’t even flinch. He simply watched her with eyes she could not read, no matter how she tried.

Her laughter this time verged on the hysterical. “Were you jealous of yourself, Mr. Makepeace, or did you think me such a wanton that I seek out gentlemen at balls specifically to—”

He never let her finish the awful words. He lunged across the carriage, grabbing her in strong arms, and hauled her back before she could even gasp. She lay across his lap like some thief’s prize, entirely at his mercy.