Thief of Shadows

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “Makes sense,” said the third man, Mr. Roger Fraser-Burnsby. “St. Giles is a dangerous spot, though. Isn’t there a madman who runs about the place?”

  “The Ghost of St. Giles.” Kershaw shook his head with a wry smile. “Tell me you’re not afraid of bogeymen, Fraser-Burnsby? It’s a legend, no more.”

  Winter felt Isabel glance at him, but he was careful to keep his face pleasantly interested.

  “I’ve met the Ghost,” she said. “It was a fortnight ago. I found him insensible in the street and naturally stopped my carriage to help.” Her blue eyes met his in challenge.

  Winter nodded calmly. “The Ghost must be very grateful to you indeed.”

  “Good Lord, had you no care for your precious person, Lady Beckinhall?” Sir Beverly sounded quite scandalized.

  “How brave of you.” Fraser-Burnsby grinned boyishly. “But I’m very glad you escaped unscathed, my lady.

  She shrugged elegantly. “He was hardly in a position to attack me.”

  “We must thank God, then,” Kershaw rumbled. “For keeping you safe, for he sounds a lunatic if even half the accounts are true. Have you seen this Ghost, Mr. Makepeace?”

  “Only at a distance,” Winter replied casually. “He appears to be a shy fellow. Now, if you will excuse us, I’ve promised Lady Beckinhall a glass of punch.”

  The three gentlemen bowed as he led Isabel away.

  “Why did you do that?” she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot.

  He looked at her, brows raised. “Wasn’t that the proper way to excuse ourselves?”

  “Yes, of course, quite proper,” she said grumpily. “But we could’ve stayed longer with them.”

  “I thought the point of this ball was to meet an array of people,” he said with quiet amusement.

  She wrinkled her nose as if ready to argue.

  “Oh, Lady Beckinhall, how nice to see you tonight.” Lady Margaret Reading slipped in front of them and exchanged with Isabel the odd pretend cheek kissing that lady friends seemed to favor.

  Lady Margaret hesitantly extended her hand to him. Winter took it and kissed the air over her knuckles.

  The girl beamed as he straightened, as if he were a spaniel who had performed a particularly clever trick. “Mr. Makepeace, you look quite wonderful.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” he replied.

  Isabel narrowed her eyes at him, probably because of the dryness of his tone.

  He cleared his throat. “Your smile brightens this room, Lady Margaret.”

  “Oh, thank you.” She glanced rather distractedly over his shoulder, and Winter had to repress the urge to look. This wasn’t St. Giles—presumably he was safe from attack here.

  Or at least the type of attack he was used to.

  “Lady Beckinhall, I quite fear I’d grown limp with worry that you would not attend this night,” a tall, handsome man drawled from Isabel’s other side. “And yet here you are and I find my entire constitution lifted with the glory of seeing you.”

  Isabel laughed at this ridiculousness and took her hand from Winter’s arm to offer it to the newcomer. “La, Lord d’Arque, where do you come up with such creative flattery? If I don’t take care, my head may be turned.”

  “Only if you don’t take care?” d’Arque asked lightly as he bent over her hand.

  Winter repressed an urge to growl, for he was sure the other man wasn’t just pretending to kiss her knuckles.

  D’Arque straightened languidly, his eyes intent on Isabel. “I needs must practice my flattery it seems, my lady. But perhaps you could help me? Under your gentle tutelage, I have hope of rising to meet your sweet regard.”

  Winter cleared his throat. “She already has one man to tutor.”

  Isabel started as if she’d truly fallen under the spell of this jackanapes. “My lord, may I present Mr. Winter Makepeace, the manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children? Mr. Makepeace, this is Adam Rutledge, the Viscount d’Arque.”

  “Ah, Makepeace,” Lord d’Arque said after they’d made their bows. “What’s this about tutoring?”

  “Lady Beckinhall has kindly offered her services to give me some polish,” Winter said in a flat voice. “In order to better represent the home.”

  D’Arque’s eyebrows rose lazily. “But what’s the point, pray tell? After all, I shall be replacing you soon as the home’s manager.”

  Winter stilled, the pounding of his pulse loud in his ears. “I beg your pardon?”

  D’Arque tilted his head as if intrigued. “I was given to understand by Lady Penelope that you would be resigning as manager of the home. Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind? I had my heart quite set on the position.”

  “I do not have any intention of relinquishing my position at the home,” Winter said through clenched jaws. “Now or ever.”

  WINTER MAKEPEACE LOOKED absolutely furious.

  For a man who normally kept his emotions under strict control, the sight was rather frightening. Isabel instinctively started to take a step back from him, but he slapped his hand over her fingers on his arm, keeping her close.

  Lord d’Arque’s heavy-lidded eyes flicked to where Winter had trapped her hand, and his cynical smile became fixed. “I’m told that you’ve outstayed your usefulness at the home, Makepeace.”

  Isabel opened her mouth to deny the charge, but Winter was already speaking, low and lethally. “I’ve no doubt that Lady Penelope is the source of your information. The lady knows her slippers and gloves, but she has no practical experience running an orphanage in the heart of St. Giles. I have been and will be the best person to manage the home.”

  “Is that so?” D’Arque’s lips curved cruelly. “You may still be happy at the home, but as I understand it, the home has grown beyond you. Forgive me, but I believe with the illustrious patronesses it now has, you may even be an embarrassment.”

  “Adam!” Isabel’s shocked gasp was out before she could think. She felt Winter’s forearm turn to steel beneath her fingers at the use of d’Arque’s Christian name.

  Lady Margaret glanced at her curiously while d’Arque’s expression grew smug.

  Isabel’s eyebrows rose coolly at him. She and Adam Rutledge may’ve been playing a sophisticated game of seduction for the last year, he may’ve made it subtly known that he was interested in a liaison, and she may’ve hinted that she wasn’t averse to the idea, but she’d never committed herself.

  He had no right to look so damned complacent—and certainly no right to attack Winter in a show of male possessiveness.

  Lady Margaret cleared her throat in the awkward silence. “I think Mr. Makepeace is an excellent manager and… and representative of the home.”

  D’Arque bowed at Lady Margaret. “Your defense of Makepeace reflects well on your gentle character, my lady.”

  Lady Margaret smiled tightly. “You make me sound like a tabby cat, my lord.”

  “A tabby cat with claws.” Isabel grinned. “It really is too bad of you to tease Mr. Makepeace so, my lord. What do you care about managing an orphanage in any case?”

  The viscount shrugged indolently. “Perhaps I’ve discovered a newfound urge to do good works?”

  “Or perhaps you have an interest in something else in St. Giles?” Winter asked softly.

  D’Arque’s brows knit in puzzlement, and Isabel looked up at Winter sharply.

  “Such as?” the viscount drawled. “Do you accuse me of a secret taste for gin?”

  It was Winter’s turn to shrug. “There are other things to consume in St. Giles besides gin. Girls, for instance.”

  D’Arque’s brows slowly arched. “Surely you don’t think I prefer boys?”

  “I have no idea,” Winter said coolly. “I don’t know you, after all, my lord, and there are some who are so depraved as to enjoy debauching children.”

  “I do assure you that I like my females fully, ah, matured.” The viscount cast Isabel a significant glance.

  She arched a brow and look
ed away.

  D’Arque suddenly clapped his hands, the gesture so abrupt and violent that Lady Margaret, standing beside him, shied. He was a man who had a well-established polite facade, but there was real anger now in his light gray eyes.

  “Come,” the viscount cried. “Let us put our social skills, mine and Mr. Makepeace’s, to the test. I propose a contest of gentlemanly manners with an evening at the opera the first playing field. What say you, Makepeace?”

  Isabel started to shake her head. The opera seemed a tame enough outing, but she didn’t trust Viscount d’Arque in his present temper.

  “Done.” Winter’s voice was even and low, but there was no doubt that he was picking up a gauntlet thrown down.

  “Splendid!” D’Arque’s eyes gleamed cruelly. “And to spice the stew, I shall invite several other gentlepersons of quality to help judge us.”

  “Very well.” Winter inclined his head. “And now you must pardon Lady Beckinhall and me, for we are in search of the refreshments.”

  “Ah.” D’Arque bowed ironically. “Please, don’t let me keep you from your social rounds.”

  Winter turned and strode away through the crowd. People took one look at his face and stumbled out of his way, while Isabel skipped to keep up with his long legs.

  “You needn’t run from the room,” she panted, trying to keep her voice low.

  “You would prefer I stay and knock that ass down?” Winter snapped.

  “You would never do such a thing—it’s not in your nature.”

  His oblique glance was sharp. “Perhaps you know nothing of my nature.”

  She lifted her chin. “I think I do. I think you take pride in repressing all your emotions, carefully tucking them away behind the bland mask you wear in public. I think you fear to feel too deeply, perhaps fear to feel at all.”

  He cast her an incredulous look.

  “It’s true. I’ve been studying you this last week. Besides,” she said more practically, “hitting d’Arque would merely make his point.”

  They had come to an alcove off the main ballroom, discreetly hidden by several large vases and statuary. He pulled her inside then halted and swung her around, and she saw his eyes were burning black. He took her upper arms, holding her in an angry grip.

  “His point that I’m some kind of half-ape, barely fit for civilized society?” he demanded, his voice a low vibration of outrage. “Is that what you think? Are you mortified to be seen on my arm in front of your lover?”

  “He’s not my lover,” she hissed.

  “He wants to be.”

  “Yes, he does!” she flung out, tired of male rage, tired of this man flirting with her and then withdrawing.

  “And is that what you want, too?” he growled, his mouth twisted harshly. “Do you want to lie with him?”

  She lifted a taunting shoulder. “Perhaps.”

  His face was so close to hers that she could feel his breath upon her lips. His eyes dropped to her mouth and she knew: He was going to kiss her. She’d finally feel Winter Makepeace’s mouth on hers, finally find out what lay beneath the mask. For a moment she forgot where they were, who they were. She wanted him. Wanted to tear the neck cloth from around his throat, open his shirt, and lay her mouth there, against the hot beat of his heart. She lifted her face, parted her lips, urged him on with her eyes.

  Instead he raised his head, blinking as if he were coming out of a darkened room.

  Winter Makepeace looked at her and she saw it, the moment his eyes shuttered, the second he regained his mask and drew away from her, both physically and emotionally.

  He stepped back, lifting his hands from her. “I beg your pardon, Lady Beckinhall. That was quite unforgivable of me.”

  She wanted to scream with frustration. Instead she inhaled, wishing she could free herself from passion as abruptly as he appeared to. “No, Mr. Makepeace, what is quite unforgivable is your apology.”

  HE’D NEARLY BROKEN his unspoken vow. He’d nearly kissed a woman—nearly kissed Isabel.

  A girl had once kissed him when he’d been young—before he’d reached seventeen. Before he’d realized what his true purpose in St. Giles and this life was. He’d met her on a trip to Oxford and could no longer remember her name—perhaps he’d never known it. Their kiss had been awkward and fumbling, and he’d not seen her again.

  Isabel was as the sun to a candle compared to that girl so long ago. He wanted to touch her more than he wanted his next breath. More than he’d wanted food when he’d been his hungriest. More than he’d wanted water when he’d been his thirstiest. She was a craving under his skin so great that even now he felt his body actually canting toward her. He wanted to take her, to consummate this hunger within himself. Bury his flesh inside hers and conquer her as primitively as any Viking savage.

  And he could not.

  The children of the home—the children like Pilar—depended on him. He’d made a mistake, let himself have too much free rein, pretended that he was something other than what he truly was. Winter stared into Isabel’s beautiful, stormy blue eyes and was aware that a part of him was utterly seduced by this woman and this moment. She made him forget his duty. Made him forget all that depended upon him. She was temptation personified.

  He made himself turn away.

  She caught his arm, her grip surprisingly strong—but then she’d been taking him by surprise with her feminine power ever since she’d found him dressed as the Ghost and insensible in St. Giles.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  He looked away from her face. “We need to return to the ball.”

  “Why?”

  He grimaced. “I’m supposed to be meeting dignitaries, remember?”

  “I remember that you appear to be about to dismiss me as nothing.”

  He finally faced her again—it seemed he must find a way to fight this gut-deep pull, and now was as good a time as any.

  Her plush lips were pressed together, her eyebrows knit, and her fine eyes looked… hurt. Dear Lord. Something inside of him began to bleed.

  “What would you have me do?” he murmured, conscious that the ball—and all the people attending it—was only feet away. “I’ve apologized and you are insulted.”

  “You are avoiding the subject.” She dropped her hand and he felt the warmth seep from his arm where she’d touched him. “You are avoiding me. You were about to kiss me a minute ago. I felt it and—”

  “But I didn’t.” He wanted to tear at his hair, punch the wall, grab her again, and give in to temptation. Kiss her until that awful look left her face.

  He did none of those things, of course.

  “No, you didn’t,” she said slowly. “Obviously I am easily resisted.”

  “Easily.” He scoffed at the word, folding his arms across his chest to keep his hands contained. How could she think this was easy for him? “I’ve no doubt that you are used to men kissing you and more when you look at them the way you just looked at me.”

  Her lips parted. “Are you calling me a whore?”

  His head jerked back. “No. I don’t—”

  She stepped up to him, toe-to-toe, and jabbed a finger rather painfully into his ridiculously embroidered waistcoat. “I may not meet your monkish standards of conduct, but that in no way makes me a loose woman. Do you understand that, Winter Makepeace? I enjoy the company of men and I enjoy bedsport. If you are made uncomfortable by that fact, then perhaps it is your standards that you should look to.”

  Isabel turned in fine fettle, obviously about to sweep out of the little alcove and leave him flat.

  Winter snaked out an arm. It was his turn to arrest her. “I don’t think any of those things about you,” he said, attempting to get her to face him.

  “Then why not take the next step?” she asked, her face averted.

  “I can’t.”

  She turned and he nearly closed his eyes, so blinded was he by her blazing look. “Why not? Are you physically incapable?”

  His mo
uth twisted. “No. At least not to my knowledge.”

  Her eyes softened. “If this is the fear of inexperience, I assure you that I won’t expect an expert lover—at least not at first.”

  Winter’s lips twitched. “No, it isn’t that. You don’t understand—”

  “Then explain.”

  He exhaled and tipped back his head to stare at the plump cupids cavorting on the Duchess of Arlington’s ceiling. “I am dedicated to the home and St. Giles. I have pledged to help those who need my help—need it desperately—in that wretched area of London.”

  “You sound as if you’ve made a priestly vow,” she said wonderingly.

  He glanced away from her, marshaling his thoughts. He’d never put this into words, never told another living soul his mission.

  Then he inhaled and faced her. “It is very similar, in intent if not philosophy, to a priestly vow. I’m not like your society rogues, Isabel. I regard physical lovemaking as something sacrosanct to love. And if I loved a woman enough to take her to my bed, then I would love her enough to marry her. I don’t intend ever to marry, ergo, I do not intend to ever get close enough to a woman—physically or emotionally—to make love to her.”

  “But you’re not a priest,” she said. “Surely you can have both a wife and family and help those in St. Giles.”

  He glanced down at her, so beautiful, so full of that life. “No, I don’t believe so. A husband and father’s first duty is to his wife and family. Everything else is secondary. How can the people of St. Giles ever come first if I am married?”

  Her eyes widened in astonishment. “I don’t believe this. You’re attempting to become a saint.”

  His mouth tightened. “No, I’ve merely dedicated my life to helping others.”

  “But why?”

  “I’ve told you why,” he said, trying to still his impatience. This discussion was like cutting open his chest, putting a hand in, and stirring his organs about. He did not like it at all. “The children, the poor of St. Giles, the terrible lives they lead. Did you not hear me when I spoke?”

  “I heard you well enough,” she snapped. “I’m asking why you. Why must you be the one to make this sacrifice of your entire life?”