Thief of Shadows

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  No response save the tightening of thin arms about the dog’s neck.

  “Ah. I almost forgot.”

  Winter took the wedge of cheese out of his pocket. Dodo craned her head forward, sniffing eagerly even before he had fully unwrapped the cheese. Joseph Tinbox had been quite correct: the dog did like cheese.

  “Mistress Medina, our cook, has made you some supper. I can attest that it’s quite tasty.” He glanced back at Mistress Medina, who had taken up a silent position by the door.

  Mistress Medina caught his eye and nodded soberly at him.

  Winter looked back at the girl. “I brought a present for your dog, Dodo, as well. Would you like to give it to her?”

  For a moment he was afraid his ruse wouldn’t work. Then Peach stretched out a hand.

  Winter broke off a bit of cheese and placed it in her tiny palm.

  “You must have been very scared and cold that night,” he said, watching as she gave the dog the cheese. He broke off another piece and held it out.

  After a hesitation, that, too, was fed to the dog.

  “I’ve been wondering where you might’ve come from.” Winter went on giving her bits of cheese. “It was quite cold that night, so I don’t think you’d been there very long. Did you live close? Or had you walked there, you and Dodo?”

  Silence, broken only by the munching of the very happy dog.

  The last of the cheese was gone, and Winter had the feeling that the girl wouldn’t eat her supper while he was still in the room.

  He rose. “When you are able, I would very much like to hear your voice, Peach.”

  He was turning away, so he nearly missed the whisper from the bed.

  Winter looked back. “I’m sorry?”

  “Peela,” the child whispered. “Me name’s Peela.”

  Winter blinked. “Peela?”

  “Pilar,” Mistress Medina said suddenly. Winter saw she had a strange look on her face. She took a step toward the bed. “It’s Pilar, isn’t it?”

  The child nodded once, jerkily, then shrunk into her covers.

  The cook glanced at Winter and then left the room. He followed, closing the door softly behind him.

  “How did you know her name?” Winter asked curiously. “Pilar is a Spanish name, isn’t it?”

  Mistress Medina had her hand over her mouth and for a moment he thought he saw tears sparkling in her eyes.

  Then she took her hand away and he saw her mouth was twisted with anger.

  “Pilar’s also a Portuguese name.” She pronounced Portuguese with an accent that wasn’t English. “I know because she’s like me. She’s a daughter of Abraham.”

  “I CANNOT WEAR this,” Winter Makepeace stated with maddening calm five days later.

  Isabel prevented herself from rolling her eyes only by the greatest of willpower. “It is black and brown. Quite sedate.”

  Mr. Makepeace looked at her dubiously, probably because while the breeches and coat of his new suit were indeed black and the waistcoat brown, the waistcoat could be called sedate only by the most outrageous stretch of imagination.

  The coat and breeches were superbly cut of shimmering midnight silk, so black it had a bluish cast. Embossed silver buttons trimmed the pockets, sleeves, skirts, and front. And the waistcoat. Well, the waistcoat was a masterpiece. Isabel sighed as she looked at Mr. Makepeace’s fine torso. It really was a crime to call the waistcoat’s color “brown.” The waistcoat was the loveliest shade of tobacco, elegantly embroidered along the edges and pocket flaps in apple green, silver, light blue, and pink.

  “That,” Isabel said as she lounged on one of the settees in her sitting room, “is the most refined waistcoat I think I’ve ever seen. A duke wouldn’t be ashamed to wear it.”

  She couldn’t hide her satisfaction—both with the excellent cut of his suit and the fact that he’d finally returned to her home. Since the dancing lesson, Mr. Makepeace had sent his excuses, avoiding another lesson, or even a meeting, until tonight. She’d begun to think that she’d scared him off entirely.

  Now he was standing before her mantelpiece mirror making perturbed little pokes at his neck cloth. He shot her an ironic glance. “I’m not a duke.”

  “No, but you’ll be mingling with dukes.” Isabel stood and caught Mr. Makepeace’s hand. “Stop that. You’ll undo all the good that my rented valet did dressing you.”

  Mr. Makepeace turned his hand suddenly so that now he gripped her fingers. He cocked his head at her, watching her with those mysterious brown eyes, and then slowly—so very slowly—lowered his head and kissed her fingertips.

  She inhaled and met his eyes. Damn him! Why should the touch of this man’s lips on her fingers of all things make her belly heat? And why was he playing with her thus?

  “As you wish,” he murmured as he straightened.

  “I do wish,” she said rather incomprehensibly. She snatched her hand away and smoothed her skirts. “The carriage is waiting, if you’re finished having maidenly nerves.”

  “Quite finished.” His mouth quirked as he held out his arm to her.

  “Good,” she humphed, just to say something, and laid her fingertips on his forearm as he led her to the door.

  The night was pleasantly cool against her shoulders as he helped her into the carriage. Tonight she wore her embroidered cream, the skirts heavy and sweeping, and it occurred to Isabel as she settled in the carriage that Mr. Makepeace’s colors complemented her own quite nicely.

  She looked across at him as he sat. There was a rustling sound as he moved and she noticed that the pocket of his coat was tented.

  “Have you something in your pocket?” she asked. “I can’t believe Mr. Hurt even made them to work.”

  “I asked him to.” Mr. Makepeace shot her a look as he drew a crumpled piece of paper out of the pocket. “It seemed a waste of material to make false pockets.”

  “But you’ll ruin the line if you go putting things in your pocket.” Isabel leaned forward to peer at the splotch on the paper. “What is that anyway?”

  He shrugged. “Something I found in a little boy’s hand.”

  “That’s d’Arque’s emblem,” she said as she finally realized she was looking at a red wax seal. “Who was the little boy who had it?”

  “You recognize this?” His broad thumb smoothed over the blob of hardened wax.

  “I think so.” She took it from him, holding it up to the swaying carriage light. “Yes, you can see the owl. It’s quite distinct in the d’Arque coat of arms.”

  The paper looked like it had been torn from a letter, the seal still attached to one edge. On it, scrawled in a hand that looked barely literate, were two words:

  chapl allee

  She looked on the other side. Here there was more writing, but in an elegant, cultured hand:

  12 Octob

  The last two letters of October had been torn off. She turned the paper back over and looked up at him. “I doubt this is d’Arque’s handwriting on this side, though the date might be and the seal is definitely his. How strange. How do you suppose a small boy in St. Giles found such a thing?”

  He took the scrap of paper from her hand, turning it over thoughtfully. “That’s a good question. Tell me about this d’Arque.”

  She looked away from him and shrugged carelessly. “You’ll meet him soon enough—I’m sure he’ll be here tonight. He’s the Viscount d’Arque. Inherited the title from his uncle, I believe, not that long ago—perhaps three years?”

  “He’s a young man?” He’d sat back against the cushions, so a shadow was cast across the upper half of his face. She couldn’t read his eyes and could see only his lips.

  “Young is relative, isn’t it?” She cocked her head, staring at him. “I suppose he’s not much older than I, if you call that young.”

  He smiled faintly. “I do.”

  She could feel the blush creep up her cheeks—damn the man! “Most wouldn’t, I think. I’m two and thirty and have buried a husband. I’m far from a dewy
maid, Mr. Makepeace.”

  “But you’re also far from a doddering crone, my lady,” he retorted. “Do you consider Lord d’Arque old?”

  “Of course not.” She sighed and looked away. “But then men age less rapidly than women. Many would consider him to be in his prime.”

  “Do you?”

  She smiled—not kindly—and looked back at him. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I do.”

  His mouth tightened. “He’s a handsome man.”

  Was he jealous? And why did the possibility send a wicked thrill through her?

  “Yes.” She couldn’t help it—her voice emerged a throaty purr. “He’s tall and well built and he moves with a kind of animal grace that makes ladies stare. And he’s witty. He has the knack of saying the most mundane things—and only afterward do you realize the double entendre or the devastating put-down. It’s quite a talent, really.”

  “Mmm.” Those mobile, wide, sinfully delicious lips hardly moved. “And I only speak frankly—too frankly most often.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned forward suddenly, the movement startling a squeak from her. He thrust his face into the full light and she could see an edge of anger—hot and wild—in his usually calm brown eyes.

  Her heart began to beat in triple time.

  “Would you like me more if I knew how to simper and twist my words?” he demanded.

  His sudden aggression made her reply without thinking, straight from her heart. “No. I like you as you are.”

  She licked her lips at her admission and his gaze settled broodingly on her mouth. It felt like a brand, that look. A physical touch more intimate than any embrace. Her lips parted in wonder and his eyes rose slowly to meet hers, for once unshielded.

  Dear God, what she saw in that look! How he had hidden these many years behind the guise of a simple schoolmaster, she didn’t know. Anger, passion, lust, and surging hunger swirled in his stormy eyes. Emotions so stark, so strong, she didn’t understand how he kept them under control. He looked as if he were about to attack her, ravish her, and conquer London and the world itself. He could’ve been a warrior, a statesman, a king.

  The carriage drew to a halt, and it was he who moved first.

  He held out his hand to her. “Shall we descend so I can meet this Viscount d’Arque?”

  As she laid her trembling fingers in his, she wondered, Why does it feel like I’ve just accepted a challenge?

  Chapter Seven

  With his last breath, the Harlequin whispered, “Yes.” The mysterious man’s eyes glowed red even as the Harlequin’s lost all color, becoming the white of death, and he whispered, “Let it be.”

  At once the Harlequin was whole again, his limbs straight and strong. In every respect he was the same as ever, save for two things: his eyes remained white and now he carried two swords… and neither one was made of wood…

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

  Winter felt Isabel’s slim fingers on his arm and knew a thrill of satisfaction. She might be attracted to this d’Arque—a witty man closer to her age and of her same social standing—but right now it was his arm she held.

  He stepped from the carriage and remembered to turn and help her descend. She smiled her thanks as another carriage began pulling away. Winter glanced up in time to see the distinctive owl in a coat of arms on the carriage door. He squinted, staring at the coachman, who looked ominously familiar.

  “There’s no need to be nervous,” Isabel whispered, evidently mistaking the reason for his pause.

  He nodded down at her. “Naturally not with you on my arm, my lady.”

  Only then did Winter face the Duchess of Arlington’s town house. It was one of the grandest houses in London, rumored to have been partially paid for by a former duchess’s royal liaison. Even so, the present duchess had entirely redecorated the house, putting her husband’s estates into deep debt.

  Not that one could tell from the opulence of the ball.

  Scores of liveried footmen showed the guests into a wide hall, brilliantly lit with huge chandeliers. A sweeping staircase led to the upper floor and a grand ballroom already crowded with sweating, perfumed bodies.

  Winter leaned down to whisper in Isabel’s ear, aware that she smelled of lavender and lime. “You’re sure mingling with these aristocrats will do the home good?”

  “Positive,” she breathed, laughter in her husky voice. “Come, let me introduce you to some people.”

  They stepped into the ballroom, and Winter felt his senses quicken. D’Arque was here tonight. Soon he would meet the man who was his only connection to the lassie snatchers in St. Giles.

  Isabel’s fingers were on his arm, but it was she who guided him discreetly through the mass of people. The walls of the ballroom were a soft shade of blue-green, highlighted in cream and gold. It should have been a soothing room with those colors, but it was anything but. Around them people laughed and talked loudly. A quartet of musicians attempted to play dancing music, and the stench of burning candle wax and humanity was nearly overpowering.

  Strange that the perfumed ballroom of the aristocracy could be nearly as foul as the manure-smeared streets of St. Giles.

  “Who do you intend for me to meet tonight?” Winter murmured as they slowly made their way.

  Isabel shrugged. “Oh, the very cream of society, I think.” She leaned toward him and tapped his arm with her folded fan. “Those people who can do the most for the home, in fact.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Such as?”

  She nodded toward two upright gentlemen who seemed to be the very epitome of pillars of London society. Their heads were bent together as they obviously discussed something important. “The Duke of Wakefield, for instance.”

  He glanced at the tall, dark man. “Lady Hero and Lady Phoebe’s elder brother, I recollect.”

  “The very same.” Isabel nodded. “He’s quite powerful—and of course fabulously wealthy. Wakefield is a guiding force in parliament. It’s rumored that Sir Robert Walpole doesn’t make a move without consulting him. And his companion, the Marquess of Mandeville, is nearly as influential. He’s Lady Margaret’s elder brother, of course. I’d introduce you now, but it rather looks as if they are intent upon some serious discussion.”

  “Then we look for other quarry.”

  “Indeed.” Isabel made a slight moue as she scanned the crowd.

  Winter had to tear his gaze away from the sight of her pursed lips.

  “Oh, poor man!” Isabel exclaimed gently.

  “Who?”

  But she was already leading him to a man who stood by himself at the side of the room. He wore a gray wig and his eyes were aloof behind half-moon spectacles. He seemed entirely removed from the crowd. The gentleman was facing partly away from them and didn’t turn until they were nearly upon him.

  “Mr. St. John,” Lady Beckinhall greeted him.

  St. John’s brown eyes widened behind his spectacles, flicking between them and then shuttering so quickly that most would’ve missed the reaction. “Lady Beckinhall.” He took her fingers, bowing over them.

  She waved her other hand gracefully at Winter. “May I present Mr. Winter Makepeace, the manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children? Mr. Makepeace, Mr. Godric St. John.”

  Winter held out his hand to the other man. “Actually, we’ve already met.”

  Lady Beckinhall raised her eyebrows. “You have?”

  “I’m a friend of Lord Caire,” St. John said as he took Winter’s hand. He didn’t smile, but his manner was pleasant enough. “I was there when the old home burned last year. Good to see you again, Makepeace.”

  “And you, sir,” Winter replied. “You were quite a help that night as I remember. I was surprised not to see you at my sister’s wedding.”

  A muscle flexed in the other man’s jaw. “I regret not attending. It was soon after Clara—” St. John clamped his mouth shut and looked away.

  “I was very sorry to hear of Mrs.
St. John’s death,” Lady Beckinhall said quietly.

  St. John nodded once, jerkily, and swallowed.

  “But we must be moving on, as I have other gentlepersons to introduce Mr. Makepeace to,” Lady Beckinhall continued smoothly.

  Godric St. John seemed not to notice as they moved away.

  Lady Beckinhall leaned her head close to Winter’s jaw, making her delicate scent for a moment break through the stinking miasma of the room. “Mr. St. John lost his wife last year after a long illness. They were quite devoted to each other. I hadn’t known he had reentered society.”

  “Ah,” Winter murmured. He glanced over his shoulder. St. John was standing alone again, staring into space. “He’s like the walking dead.”

  “Poor, poor man.” Lady Beckinhall shivered. “Come. I see some gentlemen I’d like to introduce you to.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Lady Beckinhall smiled brilliantly as they came upon a small group. “Gentlemen, I wonder if you all have had the pleasure of meeting my companion, Mr. Winter Makepeace?”

  At the general murmur in the negative Isabel introduced Winter to the three gentlemen.

  “The Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, eh?” Sir Beverly Williams said. “Quite the mouthful, ain’t it? In St. Giles, you say?”

  “Indeed, sir,” Winter said.

  “Best move it out of that cesspit, is my advice,” Sir Beverly snorted. “Ought to be farther west in the newer parts of the city. Hanover Square or such.”

  “I doubt we could afford the rents in Hanover Square,” Winter said gently. “Besides, our customers don’t frequent the newer parts of London.”

  “Eh? Customers?” Sir Beverly looked confused.

  “He means the orphans, Williams,” said the Earl of Kershaw, a congenial man with a broad nose and twinkling eyes in a round face. “Isn’t that right, Makepeace?”

  Winters bowed to the earl. “Quite correct, my lord. The orphans come from St. Giles; therefore the home is situated there.”