Thief of Shadows

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “The Duchess of Arlington’s ball is in just five days. You can make up a suit in that amount of time, can’t you, Mr. Hurt?” she asked after the girls had been dismissed. She poured two cups of tea, handing one to Winter before adding both sugar and cream to hers.

  The tailor bowed. “Yes, my lady. I’ll set all my lads to the task of making Mr. Makepeace’s suit.”

  “Splendid!” Lady Beckinhall took a sip of tea. “Oh, I say, this is much better than last time I visited.”

  “I’m so glad it meets with your approval,” Winter said.

  “Sarcasm, Mr. Makepeace. We’ve discussed this before,” she chided, then without waiting for a reply, said, “I think your conversation is much improved, but we never did get to dancing yesterday. So after Mr. Hurt is finished…”

  The tailor took his cue. “If you’ll stand and remove your outer garments, Mr. Makepeace.”

  Winter sighed silently, setting aside his cup of tea. He noticed that both Lady Beckinhall and, behind her, her maid had stopped what they were doing and were staring at him. He arched an eyebrow.

  “Oh! Oh, of course.” Lady Beckinhall straightened and motioned for her maid to turn around. She glanced questioningly one last time at Winter, and when his expression didn’t change, she turned as well, muttering something about “Puritan ideas of modesty.”

  Winter waited a moment to make sure she wouldn’t turn back and then stripped off his coat and waistcoat. It was brought home with forceful memory that he’d been nude before this woman only a sennight ago.

  Even if she didn’t know it.

  His breeches followed and then he was in shirtsleeves and smalls. He glanced at the tailor.

  “The shirt as well, sir,” Mr. Hurt said. “The fashion is for a tight-fitting waistcoat and coat.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Lady Beckinhall called over her shoulder, “I want the suit to be in the first stare of fashion.”

  Winter grimaced but took off his shirt.

  The tailor nodded. “That shall do for now, sir.”

  Winter stood with arms outstretched, feeling exceptionally silly as the tailor moved about him, wielding a measuring tape.

  “Have you been practicing flattery?” Lady Beckinhall asked just as the tailor’s thumb, holding the tape, pushed up the lower edge of Winter’s smallclothes.

  “As per your instructions,” Winter replied, watching as Mr. Hurt caught sight of the end of the scar revealed by the rucked smalls.

  The tailor hesitated, then continued his work.

  Lady Beckinhall sighed very quietly.

  Winter’s attention snapped back to her. “I am in admiration of the way in which you can order tea so very… er… efficiently, my lady.”

  Mr. Hurt shot him a pitying look.

  There was a slight pause.

  “Thank you, Mr. Makepeace.” Lady Beckinhall’s voice was choked. “I must say, you give the most imaginative compliments.”

  “Your tutelage has inspired me, ma’am.”

  The tailor looked doubtful.

  Winter cleared his throat. “And, of course, who would not be, ah… exhilarated by the loveliness of your countenance and form.”

  He arched an eyebrow at Mr. Hurt.

  The tailor made a face as if to say, Not bad.

  Which was probably as good as Winter was likely to get at this art.

  But Lady Beckinhall wasn’t done. Her head had tilted to the side at his words, making some type of jeweled ornament in her glossy dark hair sparkle in the light. “My form, Mr. Makepeace?”

  Ah, this was dangerous territory. “Yes, your form, my lady. It is a strong and feminine form, but I think you already know that.”

  She chuckled, low and husky, sending shivers over his arms. “Yes, but a lady never tires of hearing compliments, sir. You must keep that fact in mind.”

  Her little maid nodded vigorously in agreement.

  “Indeed?” Winter stared at Lady Beckinhall’s back, wishing he could see her face. Her plump mouth would be curved slightly in amusement, her blue eyes dancing. His body reacted at the thought and he was heartily glad that Mr. Hurt had moved to his back.

  “But you must be awash in a sea of compliments, my lady,” Winter said. “Every gentleman you meet must voice his admiration, his wish to make love to you. And those are only the ones who may voice such thoughts. All about you are men who cannot speak their admiration, who must remain mute from lack of social standing or fear of offending you. Only their thoughts light the air about you, following you like a trail of perfume, heady but invisible.”

  He heard her startled inhale.

  The maid sighed dreamily.

  Mr. Hurt had stopped his quick, capable movements, but at Winter’s glance, he blinked and resumed his work.

  “Thank you, Mr. Makepeace,” Lady Beckinhall said quietly. “That… that was quite wonderful.”

  He shrugged, though she couldn’t see him. “I only speak the truth.”

  “Do you…” She hesitated, then said throatily, “Do you think me shallow for enjoying such compliments?”

  Her back was confident and straight, but her neck, bared by her upswept hair, was white and slim and held a hint of vulnerability. She was so forthright, so assured of herself that he’d not noticed the tender spot before.

  “I think you sometimes like to hide behind a facade of gaiety, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “I also think that when you enter a room, all eyes turn to you. You blaze like a torch, lighting the darkest corners, brightening even those who thought they were already well lit. You bring joy and mirth and leave behind a glow that gives hope to those you’ve left.”

  “And you, Mr. Makepeace? Are you one of those who thought themselves well lit?”

  “I am as dark as a pit.” Now he was glad her back was turned. “Even your torch will have difficulty lighting my depths.”

  A DARK PIT? Isabel couldn’t help but turn around at Mr. Makepeace’s words.

  He stood, arms outstretched to either side, as Mr. Hurt measured the length of his sleeve. She caught her breath. The pose was a living Vitruvian Man sketch. And, like a masterpiece by da Vinci, his bare chest was a work of art. Muscles rolled over his outstretched arms, the veins at his biceps clearly delineated. The plains of his chest were smooth and broad. Only a sprinkle of curling hair was scattered between his dark nipples, while thicker tufts grew under his arms.

  Isabel found her breath quickening at the sight. This was wrong, she knew. She shouldn’t stare at the man. Shouldn’t wonder how a schoolmaster had come to be so wonderfully muscled. It was as if he’d dropped a layer of concealment along with his clothes. His form was as masculinely lovely as that of the last nude man she’d seen—the Ghost of St. Giles. As her eyes dropped to his legs, he pivoted slightly, hiding his right thigh. For a moment her eyes narrowed.

  The tailor gave a little gasp, bringing Isabel out of her reverie. Her gaze flew up to meet Mr. Makepeace’s eyes. Despite his insistence that she turn her back when he disrobed, he showed no trace of embarrassment now at standing in front of her in only his smalls.

  His eyes met hers, proud and challenging, but she could see at the back those depths he spoke of.

  “Why are you a pit of darkness?” she asked.

  He shrugged, his shoulders moving elegantly. “I live and work in the bleakest part of London, my lady. Here people beg, steal, and prostitute themselves, trying to obtain the most basic of human needs: food, water, shelter, and clothing. They have no time to lift their heads up from their toil, no time to live as human beings, graced with God’s gifts of laughter and love.”

  He’d dropped his arms as he spoke, unconsciously stepping closer to her. Now he raised his hand and pointed to the ceiling, the muscles on his forearm rigid. “Peach still lies abed above. She was abandoned and used. A child who should’ve been cherished and loved as the very embodiment of all that is good in this world. That is what St. Giles is. That is what I live in. Wouldn’t you find it strange, therefore, if I capere
d and skipped? Laughed and giggled?”

  His bare chest heaved with his vehemence, nearly touching her bodice now he was so close. She had to tilt her head back to keep his gaze, and she found that every inhale brought with it his heady scent.

  Man, pure man.

  She swallowed. “Others work here and are not a black pit. Your sisters have worked here. Do you think them any less discerning than you?”

  She saw his nostrils flare as if he, too, had caught her scent. “I do not know. I only know that the darkness almost consumes me. It is an animal I battle every day. Darkness is my burden to bear.”

  Was this the real Winter Makepeace, hidden under the mask he wore normally? She wanted to touch him, wanted to stroke his cheek, feel the warmth of his skin and tell him that he must prevail, must fight the darkness invading him. Tell him that she would beat it back for him if she could. At the same time, she reveled in this part of him. Was the man beneath really all darkness?

  Or was he part passion as well?

  But Mr. Hurt cleared his throat at that moment. “I believe I am finished, my lady.”

  Mr. Makepeace immediately stepped away, his eyes shuttering, and picked up his shirt.

  “Of course.” Isabel’s voice came out in a near squeak. She swallowed. “Thank you, Mr. Hurt, for your time.”

  “My pleasure, my lady.” The tailor bowed and hurried from the room with his notes.

  Mr. Makepeace was donning his breeches now, his back turned.

  Pinkney watched him avidly from across the room.

  Isabel sent her a stern look even as she searched for something to say to him. It was just so hard to have an intimate conversation with his back. “I hope that my… my torch, as you term it, can bring light into your darkness, Mr. Makepeace. I truly—”

  He turned abruptly, catching up his waistcoat and coat. “I beg your pardon, Lady Beckinhall, but I have tasks to do today that really cannot wait. I hope you will excuse me.”

  Well, she certainly knew a dismissal when she heard one. Isabel smiled sunnily, trying to hide the sharp crystal of hurt his words had engendered in her breast. “Naturally, I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your work. But we do need to start your dancing lessons. Shall we say tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yes, that will do,” he said brusquely, and with an abbreviated bow, he strode from the room.

  “He’s going to need a lot more tutoring,” Pinkney said, apparently to herself. She caught Isabel’s look and straightened. “Oh, I’m sorry, my lady.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Isabel replied absently. Mr. Makepeace did need a great deal more tutoring—perhaps more than could be done before the Duchess of Arlington’s ball.

  Isabel sent Pinkney to find a boy to fetch the carriage and then paced the small sitting room, considering the problem of Mr. Makepeace. His curtness—which at times verged on outright rudeness—was more than simply learning social manners. After all, the man hadn’t been born in some cave, left to be raised by wolves. No, he’d come from a respectable family. His sister, Temperance, had managed to obtain all of the social graces—so much so that she adapted easily to being the wife of a baron—even if she hadn’t been entirely accepted by aristocratic society.

  Pinkney came back to announce that the carriage had arrived. Isabel nodded absently and led the way out the home’s door to the carriage. She murmured a word of thanks to Harold as he helped her in and then settled back against the squabs.

  “Have you decided what you’ll wear to the Arlington ball?” Pinkney asked hesitantly from across the carriage.

  Isabel blinked and glanced at her lady’s maid. Pinkney was looking a might droopy. “My newest cream with embroidery, I think. Or perhaps the gold stripe?”

  Talk of fashion always perked up Pinkney.

  “Oh, the embroidered cream,” the maid said decidedly. “The emeralds will be lovely with it, and we’ve just got a half dozen of those lace stockings I ordered. Made in the French fashion.”

  “Mmm,” Isabel murmured, her mind not really on the topic. “I suppose I can wear the cream embroidered slippers as well.”

  There was a disapproving silence from the other side of the carriage that made Isabel look up.

  Pinkney’s pretty eyebrows were drawn together in what was nearly a stern frown. “The creams are frayed about the heel.”

  “Really?” Isabel hadn’t notice the fraying, so it must be small indeed. “But surely it’s not enough—”

  “ ’Twould be better to get new ones—perhaps in cloth of gold.” Pinkney looked eager. “We could call on the cobbler this afternoon.”

  “Very well.” Isabel sighed, resigning herself to an afternoon of shopping.

  Usually the activity was quite enjoyable, but at the moment her mind was on the conundrum of Mr. Makepeace, for she’d just come to an important realization about the wretched man.

  If Mr. Makepeace’s rudeness didn’t come from his upbringing, then it must be innate to him—an essential part of his character. If this was so—and Isabel very much feared it was—then teaching him graceful manners was a much more difficult matter than she realized. For either Mr. Makepeace must learn to wear a constant mask of false propriety in society—one that he in no way believed in—or she must bring him into the light and teach him to view the world as a more cheerful place.

  And that was a daunting task indeed.

  Chapter Six

  As the Harlequin lay on the ground, his life’s blood running into the channel in the middle of the street, a strange man approached. The man wore a cape that hid most of his form, but still one could see that he walked on a goat’s cloven hooves. The man sat down beside the dying Harlequin and took a white clay pipe from his pocket. He lit the pipe and looked at the Harlequin. “Now, Harlequin,” said he, “would you like to revenge yourself on your enemies…?”

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

  Winter Makepeace leaped the gap between building roofs and landed lightly. He slid backward a bit on the steeply pitched second roof, his boots scraping on the shingles, but he caught himself with the ease of long practice.

  Tonight he was the Ghost of St. Giles.

  He heard a faint gasp on the street below as he passed, but he didn’t stop to look. He was taking a risk, for the sun had not yet set, and he preferred to do his Ghostly activities under cover of night, but he wasn’t going to lose another child. Earlier this evening, the residents of the home had barely sat down to supper when word had come that a child was in need of their help. A harlot had succumbed to one of the many diseases that plagued her profession, leaving behind a child of only three.

  Sadly, this was a common tale in St. Giles—and the reason for the home’s existence. Winter could not count the times that he had sent a servant or gone himself to find an orphaned or abandoned child and bring him or her back to the home. What was different in this case was the fact that someone had beaten the home’s emissary to the child the last two times they had been sent out.

  Winter very much feared that someone—someone organized—was stealing orphaned children off the streets of St. Giles.

  Winter ran along the peak of a house and jumped down to its lower neighbor. The buildings of St. Giles had not been properly planned. Tenements, shops, warehouses, and workshops had all been built, higgledy-piggledy, cheek by jowl, sometimes literally one on top of another. It made for a confusing warren of buildings to the outsider, but Winter could traverse St. Giles with his eyes closed.

  And by rooftop at that.

  Naturally, he’d sent Tommy out to fetch the child back to the home, but Winter hoped to reach the child before Tommy. He’d excused himself from the supper table, saying his leg was bothering him again, hurriedly donned the costume of the Ghost, and set out from his bedroom window under the eves.

  Now he glanced down and saw that he was over Chapel Alley. The chandler shop owner who’d reported the orphan had said that the child’s mother had lived in a room just off Phoenix S
treet, only a stone’s throw away. Winter leaped to a balcony below, ran along the rail, and used the corner of the brick building for fingerholds as he climbed down to the alley.

  By the alley wall, a girl of about ten had watched his descent with wide eyes, clutching a basket to her bosom. A few wilted posies at the bottom of the basket were obviously leftover from her day of hawking flowers.

  “Where does Nelly Broom live?” Winter asked the girl, giving the name of the dead whore.

  The girl pointed to a crooked house at the end of the alley. “Second floor, back o’ th’ ’ouse, but she died this morn.”

  “I know.” Winter nodded his thanks. “I’ve come for the child.”

  “Best pick up your feet, then,” the flower girl said.

  Winter paused to look back at her. “Why’s that?”

  She shrugged. “The lassie snatchers ’ave gone in already.”

  Winter turned and ran. Lassie snatchers? Was that the organized group of kidnappers working in St. Giles—and were they so well known then that a little girl had a name for them?

  He shoved open the outer door to the house the girl had pointed to. Inside, a narrow staircase directly faced the outer door. Winter ran up it on the balls of his feet, careful not to alert his quarry.

  The stairs let out into a tiny landing with a single door. Winter opened it, surprising a family at their evening meal. Three children crowded their mother’s skirts, mealy bread crusts clutched in their hands. The father, a gaunt fellow with a full head of red hair, pointed a thumb over his shoulder to where Winter could see another door. Winter nodded silently at the man and swept past. The door led into a smaller room that had obviously been divided off from the main room. Two bedraggled women cowered together in a corner. Across from them, the window stood open.

  Winter didn’t have to ask. He strode to the window and leaned out. The drop to the street was at least twenty feet, but a narrow ledge ran directly below the window. Winter swung his leg over and, gripping the top of the window, stood on the ledge. About a yard above him, he could see a man’s legs disappearing over the eves. Winter grasped the crumbling edge of the eves and hauled himself up. On the roof stood a man and a youth, and in the youth’s arms, a child, so frightened it wasn’t even crying.