It was the last glimpse of civilization the alley could boast—farther on, no lantern lit the black shadows. Only the most courageous—or foolhardy—of St. Giles’s residents would brave the dark alley after nightfall.
But then he wasn’t an ordinary resident, was he?
His boots clattered on the remaining cobblestones in the alley as the grim shadows enveloped him. Most would bring a lantern out at night, but Winter had always been more comfortable making his way by moonlight.
A cat screeched with amorous intent nearby and was answered by an equally loud rival. Was he as mindless as the tomcats? Driven by the scent of a willing female and his own innate animal drive?
He shook his head as he entered a covered lane—more a tunnel, really. The walls dripped with slimy moisture and his footfalls echoed off the low arch. Up ahead, something—or someone—moved in the gloom.
Without breaking stride, Winter unsheathed the sword hidden in his greatcoat. As a commoner, he wasn’t technically allowed to carry either it or his short sword, but he’d long ago made peace with his necessary circumventions of the law.
Sometimes it was a matter of life or death, after all.
The lurker ahead made a sudden movement as if to rush him. Still advancing, Winter casually swung his sword up in front of his body. By boldness of attack you’ll seize the advantage, the old words of his mentor whispered across his mind.
The robber thought better of his action. There was a scuttling sound and then the way ahead was clear.
He should’ve felt relief at the lessening of danger—that the potential for conflict and the possible need to harm his fellow man had disappeared. Instead, Winter fought down a wave of irritation mixed with disappointment. He had the primitive urge to fight, to feel the pull and bunch of muscle, the thrill of peril, the satisfaction of victory over another.
Winter stopped dead, breathing quietly in the black night, listening to the drip of fetid water on the tunnel walls.
I am not an animal.
That was, in part, what the mask was for: to let loose some of his baser urges. Carefully. With great control. But he wasn’t wearing the mask tonight. Winter sheathed his sword.
The covered lane let out into a tiny courtyard that was hemmed in on all sides by tall buildings with overhanging balconies that seemed on the point of tumbling down to crush any so unlucky as to be standing beneath. Winter quickly crossed the courtyard and knocked twice on a low cellar door. He paused and then rapped once more.
Inside he could hear the scrape as a bolt was drawn back and then the door opened, revealing a face creased by time like the pages of a prayer book.
“Mistress Medina,” Winter murmured.
Instead of greeting him, the little woman impatiently beckoned him inside.
Winter bowed his head to clear the low lintel and stepped into the cozy room. A fire crackled on the hearth, gently steaming the clean laundry hung overhead on a wooden frame made accessible by a crude rope and pulley. Directly in front of the fire was a low stool and small table, set all about with lit tallow candles. And on the table were the tools of Mistress Medina’s trade: scissors, chalk, pins, needles, and thread.
“I’ve just finished it,” she said as she closed the door behind him and locked it. She limped over to the bed and held up the tunic that had been lying there.
Black and red diamonds paced across the fabric. People see only the surface, his mentor used to say. Give them a showy costume, a mask, and a bit of cape and they’ll swear to phantoms in the night and never notice the man beneath.
Winter crossed to the old woman and fingered the sleeve. “You’ve done excellent work as always, Mistress Medina.”
She scowled at his praise. “Best take care of it, then, ’adn’t you? I don’t know if I can ever make another. My eyes are going.” She jerked her chin at the smoking tallow candles. “Even with all them candles, I can’t see to place my stitches ’alf the time.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Winter said, and meant it. He could see now that her eyes were red-rimmed and watering. “Have you another means of making your way?”
She shrugged. “Might see if I can ’ire on as a cook. I made a fair pie in my day.”
“You did,” Winter said gently. “I can remember enjoying one of your apple pies.”
“Aye, and I remember making you the first one of these,” she said softly, caressing the new hose that went with the tunic. “You were but a shiverin’ lad. I never would’ve thought you could even ’old the swords were it not for Sir Stanley swearin’ you were the quickest learner ’e’d ever seen.”
There was a faint, nostalgic smile at the corner of her mouth. Winter wondered—not for the first time—if the little seamstress had been more to his mentor, Sir Stanley Gilpin, than merely a servant.
Her gaze suddenly sharpened. “You’ve filled out some since then, ’aven’t you? And become ’arder.”
Winter lifted his eyebrows. “That was nine years ago,” he said mildly. “Is a boy of seventeen ever the same as a man of six and twenty?”
She snorted and began bundling his new costume. “That I don’t know, but I wonder sometimes if Sir Stanley knew exactly what ’e was about when ’e gave you them swords and mask.”
“Do you disapprove of my actions?”
She waved an impatient hand. “Don’t try to trap me with your arguments. All I know is that ’tisn’t natural for a man to spend all ’is time roamin’ the streets of St. Giles, making other people’s troubles ’is own business.”
“Would you have me ignore people in trouble?” he asked in simple interest.
She turned abruptly and pinned him with her gaze. Her eyes might be ruined from years of sewing in too-dim light, but her regard was still acute. “I saw the knife cut in that old pair of leggings you brought to me—and the dried blood about the edges. There must be a terrible wound ’iding beneath your breeches.”
He shook his head, amused. “I’m young and strong. I heal fast.”
“This time.” She pushed the bundled costume into his chest. “What’ll you do when the wound is deeper? Longer? You ain’t immortal no matter what Sir Stanley might’ve told you, Winter Makepeace.”
“Thank you, Mistress Medina.” He took the clothes and retrieved a small purse from his pocket—most of the money he’d saved since the home had had the fortune to gain patronesses. “Call around at the home tomorrow morning. We’re in need of a cook, I think, now that we’ve new quarters. In the meantime, I’ll keep your admonitions in mind.”
“Humph.” She took the purse and unlocked the door for him, scowling. But as he passed by her, he heard her say gruffly, “Take care, Mr. Makepeace. St. Giles needs you.”
“Good night.”
He pulled his greatcoat more securely about himself as he headed into the chilly dark. If he were wearing his harlequin motley, he could go in search of other people’s troubles right now and lose himself in the night and danger. Winter shrugged irritably at the thought. His shoulders itched to swing a sword or throw a blow. He’d lain abed for almost a week, letting his leg heal, and now he was almost ready to charge the filthy walls of the little courtyard.
Tomorrow night, he promised himself. Tomorrow would be soon enough to find someone to help. To find someone to fight.
The thought pulled him up short. He’d always regarded himself as a man of peace—despite his nocturnal wanderings. He went out as the Ghost of St. Giles to right wrongs. To help those unable to help themselves.
Didn’t he?
He shook his head at himself. Of course he did. St. Giles was a weeping wound of humanity. Those too poor to live elsewhere came here. The prostitutes, the thieves, the ones enslaved to gin. All the dregs of London. And with them came their problems: rape and thievery, starvation and want, abandonment and despair. He’d long ago learned that there weren’t enough hours in the daytime to help the destitute of St. Giles, so he’d taken to the night. Some wrongs needed more than good intentions and prayer to c
orrect.
Some could only be helped with the point of a sword.
Winter walked around a corner and into a slightly wider street, startling a skeletally thin, small mongrel that looked like a terrier of some kind. The dog yipped once and cowered back into the pile of rags it lay on. Winter passed the animal, but something made him pause. Perhaps he sensed movement or the scent of something else besides the dog.
Or perhaps it was Providence.
In any case, he turned and took another look. A pale thing lay among the dog’s dark fur, like an exotic starfish lost from the sea: a child’s hand. Winter bent and lifted away a rag, ignoring the uncertain rumbling coming from the dog’s thin chest. A frightened face cringed away from him, the eyes wide and staring, the mouth stretched in a rictus of terror.
He crouched to make himself less intimidating. “I’ll not hurt you, child. Are you all alone?”
But the little creature seemed too petrified to speak.
“Come. I know a warm, safe place.” Winter carefully lifted the child, bundled rags and all, ignoring the creature’s feeble attempts to push him away. Lord only knew what had made the child so terrified, but he could not leave it here to freeze to death.
The dog tumbled from the rags, falling to the street with a yelp.
The child whispered something and held out a pleading hand to the mongrel.
Winter lifted his chin to the dog. “Best you come along, too, then.”
And without looking back to the mongrel, he turned to continue toward the home. The dog would follow or not, but in either case the animal was not his main concern.
The child was.
He could feel the little body shaking against his chest, whether from fear or cold, he couldn’t tell.
Half an hour later, the new Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children loomed ahead. The building was utilitarian brick, but it still stood out from its surroundings, a shining beacon of hope. Winter stumbled at the thought. What would he do if Lady Beckinhall was correct and he was driven from the home? He had no idea—the home and helping the children within it were all he’d ever wanted to do in his life. Without it—without them—he was less than nothing.
He shook away the thought and continued walking. The child needed to get inside. There was a rather grand front entrance with a set of wide stairs, but Winter chose the more accessible servant’s entrance at the back.
“Lord love you, sir!” Alice, one of the maids, exclaimed as Winter came in. The servant’s entrance opened into the kitchen, and Alice appeared to be enjoying a before-bed cup of tea at the kitchen table. “I didn’t know you were out this late, Mr. Makepeace.”
“Pour a cup of tea with lots of milk and sugar, please, Alice,” Winter ordered as he brought the child to the hearth.
“Shoo, you!”
Winter turned at Alice’s angry words and saw she was attempting to wave the mongrel back out the door.
The child whimpered in distress.
“That’s all right, Alice,” he said. “Let the dog stay.”
“ ’Tis a smelly, filthy beast,” Alice muttered, sounding scandalized.
“Yes, I can see that,” Winter said drily. The mutt had crept to the fireplace, apparently torn between staying close to the child and fleeing before strangers, and the odor of rotten fish drifted from its matted fur.
“Here you are, then.” Alice handed Winter the milky tea, then hovered as he held the cup steady for the child’s trembling hands so it could drink. “Poor, wee mite.”
“Indeed,” Winter murmured. He smoothed the child’s lank hair away from its dirty little face. The child looked to be four or five, or maybe older, for many children in St. Giles were too small for their age.
The dog sighed heavily and slumped into a corner of the hearth.
The child’s eyelids were heavy with fatigue. Winter tried not to disturb the creature as he gently drew aside the rags. A little chest was revealed, almost blue with cold, the ribs in pitiful relief.
“Bring a blanket to warm by the fire, Alice,” Winter murmured.
“He needs a bath,” the maid whispered when she returned with the blanket.
“Aye,” Winter said. “But he’s been through enough for tonight, I think. We can give him a thorough washing tomorrow morning.”
Assuming the child lived through the night, that is.
Winter drew off the last piece of clothing and then paused, brows raised. “I think you’d best finish this, Alice.”
“Sir?”
He wrapped the sleeping child in the warm blanket and turned to the maid. “She’s a girl.”
LADY MARGARET READING—better known simply as Megs to her intimates—stepped into Lady Langton’s ballroom that night and deliberately did not look eagerly around. For one thing, she knew most of those who would be attending the ball: the very cream of London society, including her brother Thomas and his wife. Distinguished members of parliament would mingle with society hostesses and, no doubt, one or two slightly risqué ladies or gentlemen. They were people she’d associated with ever since she’d come out nearly five years ago—the usual roster of invitees to an event such as this.
But that wasn’t the only reason she didn’t bother looking around. No, it was much more discreet to not gawk after him like a besotted milkmaid. She wasn’t ready yet to let everyone—her brother included—know about their connection. Right now it was a delicious secret she held close to her breast. When they announced their attachment, it would immediately become public property. She wanted him all to herself for just a little longer.
And the third reason she didn’t scan the crowd? Well that was the simplest of all: The first sight of him was just so wonderful. She felt a thrill every time. A quiver in her tummy, a rush of light-headedness, a wobbliness in the knees. Megs giggled. She was making Mr. Roger Fraser-Burnsby sound like a head cold.
“I see that you’re in fine fettle tonight, Margaret,” a rich masculine voice murmured behind her.
She turned to find her eldest brother, Thomas, smiling down at her.
Funny, that. Until recently—until his marriage to the rather notorious Lavinia Tate last December, in fact—Thomas had never bothered smiling at her. Not really anyway. He always had a social smile, of course. As a leading member of parliament and the Marquess of Mandeville, Thomas was always acutely aware of his public aspect. But since the advent of Lavinia into the Reading family, Thomas had been different. He’d been happy, Meg realized now. If love could excite a man as stuffy as her eldest brother, think what it could do to the average person!
“Oh! Is Lavinia here already as well?” Megs asked, grinning.
Thomas blinked as if surprised by her enthusiasm and replied cautiously, “I did escort Lady Mandeville here tonight.”
Hmm. Obviously love could only help so far in such a stodgy case.
“Good. I’d hoped to have a chat with her.” Megs made her expression more sedate.
“You’ll have to seek her out, then. Lavinia is up in the boughs over this escaped pirate business, and the moment we were past the door, she sought out her bosom bows to gossip with. She was telling me all the details about his burned body on the ride here. Quite gruesome, really, and not at all what a lady should be interested in.” Thomas frowned ponderously.
Megs, not for the first time, felt a twinge of sympathy for her new sister-in-law. It might not be correct, strictly speaking, for a lady to be interested in burned-to-a-crisp pirates, but it was very hard not to be. “Most everyone in London is talking about it, I think, both the pirate and the Ghost of…” Megs trailed off as she suddenly lost interest in the conversation.
She’d caught sight of Roger at last and her knees were wobbling right on schedule. He stood with a group of other gentlemen and his head was thrown back in laughter, his strong, tanned throat working. Roger wasn’t exactly handsome in the traditional sense. His face was too broad, his nose too flat. But his eyes were a warm brown and his grin was quite infectious. And when h
e turned that smile on her… well, the rest of the world seemed to fall away.
“… a soiree or ball or some such. I expect you’ll attend,” Thomas murmured next to her.
Megs started slightly. She had no idea what “some such” he was talking about, but she could find out later readily enough. “Of course. I’ll be quite pleased.”
“Good. Good,” Thomas said vaguely. “And Mother will be in town by then as well. Too bad Griffin and Hero have run off to the country. Odd time to do it, in the middle of the season.”
“Mmm.” Roger was talking to three other gentlemen who Megs knew were close friends of his: Lord d’Arque, Mr. Charles Seymour, and the Earl of Kershaw. Unfortunately, she didn’t know the other gentlemen at all well and was thus rather shy around them. In fact, Lord d’Arque was a notorious rake. If she could only catch Roger’s eye, perhaps she could signal a meeting in the garden.
Plum-colored silk overembroidered in gold and silver thread blocked her line of sight.
“Oh, Lady Margaret, I’m so relieved to see you here!” Lady Penelope spoke to Megs, but it was at Thomas that she batted her eyelashes. Beside her, Miss Greaves smiled shyly at Megs. “I must speak to you about Mr. Makepeace.”
“Makepeace?” Thomas frowned. “Who is this chap, Megs?”
Megs opened her mouth, but Lady Penelope was already talking. “He is the manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, my lord. Or I should say the current manager, for I must speak frankly and say that I am deeply doubtful of Mr. Makepeace’s qualifications. I think if we could only find a more polite manager, the home would be vastly improved.”
Thomas looked both confused and bored by this explanation, but Megs couldn’t let it go by unchallenged. Mr. Makepeace might be nearly as stodgy as Thomas, but he’d devoted his entire life to the home. It seemed a shame to let a bully like Lady Penelope take it away from him.
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