And Winter Makepeace himself was nowhere to be seen.
IN A STORAGE room of the opera house, Winter stripped his clothes off with swift, efficient movements.
He’d been delayed at the home by a last-minute emergency when one of the youngest toddlers had gone missing. Mary Morning, barely two, had eventually been found safe and sound and hiding in one of the kitchen cupboards. He’d left the toddler in Nell’s capable hands, but the search for Mary Morning had made Winter’s arrival at the opera house later than he’d planned.
Winter pulled on his harlequin tunic and calculated that he’d have barely twenty minutes to finish changing into the Ghost of St. Giles costume, run through the back of the opera house, find d’Arque’s coachman, and question the man on why he seemed to have a nighttime job as a lassie snatcher in St. Giles. For Winter had recognized d’Arque’s coachman at the Duchess of Arlington’s ball: he’d been the older of the two lassie snatchers who’d tried to kidnap Joseph Chance.
He took his mask out of the soft sack he’d brought with him to the opera house. He’d wanted no questions on the way to the opera, so he’d walked there with his costume and swords hidden in the sack; later, when the evening was over, he’d walk back to the home again. Now he tied the mask onto his face and reveled in the familiar feeling of freedom it gave him. It was as if he were a big cat, uncoiling his limbs, mentally stretching before the hunt.
Contain the animal.
Something within him growled. He must release the beast when he was the Ghost, but he had to control it at the same time. Just a little freedom. Just a bit of fresh air. What would he do if he ever met Isabel Beckinhall in this guise again? Would he take what he dared not in the light of day?
Winter pushed the disquieting thought from his mind and stowed his soft bag with his clothes behind the door. Cautiously, he peered into the corridor. Twenty minutes and when he’d have his answers from d’Arque’s coachman, he’d return and change back into his suit. Draw the protective shell of Winter Makepeace about himself and became again the rigid, upright schoolmaster and orphanage manager.
A man who only dared think about kissing Isabel Beckinhall in his dreams.
ISABEL’S CARRIAGE FINALLY drew opposite the opera’s front doors, and Harold’s plain, honest face appeared at the carriage door. “My lady.”
“Thank you,” she murmured as she stepped down.
The carriage pulled away, and Isabel mounted the steps to the opera house alone. She’d simply have to arrive at d’Arque’s box sans her pupil—even if it would count badly against Winter. Lady Penelope would certainly take note of his tardiness.
The crowd became thicker as she entered the opera. Brightly gowned ladies chattered with gentlemen no less elegantly dressed. Overhead, the vestibule ceiling arched high, recessed box molding painted in blue, cream, and crimson.
“Pardon me,” Isabel murmured as an elderly lady in a fussy lace cap bumped against her. The woman pivoted and Isabel felt the distinctive pull of her skirt. She looked down and saw a bit of lace hanging off her hem.
“Drat,” she muttered under her breath.
She remembered that a retiring room lay in a corridor just off the main lobby. Carefully, Isabel lifted her skirts and headed that way. If she hurried, she should have time to pin up the lace and get to d’Arque’s box before the opera started.
The corridor was ill lit, but the retiring room was the first door on the right. Isabel began to push it open when she saw a form dart at the far end of the corridor.
Black and scarlet motley flashed.
Surely not. Isabel told herself that she must’ve mistaken the pattern even as she began making her way down the dim corridor. The Ghost had never been seen outside St. Giles. Well, except for the day she’d found him. That day he’d ventured out as far as Tyburn to keep a pirate from swinging from the gallows. Further, Winter Makepeace was supposed to be attending the opera right now. If he were indeed the Ghost…
Isabel’s heart was beating in a quick, fluttering rhythm as she neared the place where she’d seen the flash of scarlet. She glanced around. Only a few candles in sconces on the wall lit this part of the hall. Judging from the bare wood floor and unadorned walls, this must be a service passage of some kind. Isabel tiptoed down its length, passing a half-opened door to a storage room. At the end, the hall made a right-hand turn. She peered around the corner. A narrow staircase leading up.
Empty.
She sighed and straightened in disappointment.
“Looking for something, Lady Beckinhall?” The whisper was husky and low, but quite distinctly masculine. She whirled.
He leaned against the hallway wall, as indolently graceful as a lounging leopard. She hadn’t seen him standing last time—then he’d been wounded and ill. Now he was tall and virilely athletic, the formfitting harlequin’s costume outlining muscles on legs, chest, and arms, while the long-nosed mask gave him a faintly satanic aspect.
He tilted his head, his mouth—that familiar, sensuous mouth—curving in sardonic amusement. “Or do you search for someone, my lady?”
“Maybe I do.” She raised her chin even as she felt the blush heat her cheeks. “What are you doing here?”
“Mischief, mayhem, merrymaking?” He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
She took a cautious step closer to him. The voice was the same, and the body was the right height and build, but he had a freedom, a daring recklessness that Winter Makepeace had never shown her. But then Winter Makepeace had never shown any sign of violence, either, and if the stories were to be believed, the man in front of her was not only used to violence, but also skilled at it.
Isabel was utterly fascinated. “It matters if you have no fear for your life. You must know that many wish your arrest and even death.”
“And if they do?” Unbelievably, he sounded amused.
Another step. “I might be… disheartened… should anything happen to you.”
“Would you?”
She slowly reached out and ran a finger down the length of the deformed nose of his mask. “Who are you?”
His beautiful mouth twisted. “Whoever you wish me to be.”
She laughed then, a little breathlessly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, sir.”
“I never do,” his words whispered across her senses.
She met his eyes, brown behind the eyeholes in his mask, and reached around the back of his head. Her fingers found the tie holding his mask and gently pulled.
He lifted his hand and for a moment she was disappointed, thinking he meant to stop her.
Then he took the cured leather mask away from his face.
As he had the last time, he wore a thin black silk half-mask under the leather one.
He cocked his head. “Is this what you want?”
“No,” she whispered, standing on tiptoe, her hands flat against his hard chest. She’d find out for certain one way or the other. “This is.”
She opened her lips against his. He claimed her like a barbarian marauder. The kiss was rough, unpracticed, and without finesse, and yet Isabel felt a trembling thrill go through her. She was used to civilized embraces, carefully thought out, impeccably implemented. Mannered and cool. The Ghost of St. Giles, in contrast, was a storm breaking over her, all passion and emotion.
All real man.
She felt his arms come about her, pulling her tight against his chest as he bent her helplessly, lost, falling, her heart half beating out of her breast. And she knew—she knew—that she kissed not only the Ghost of St. Giles, but Winter Makepeace as well.
She drew back, gasping, her eyes searching for the familiar features beneath the mask.
And then a hand clamped down on her shoulder and she was torn from his arms.
“How dare you!” d’Arque shouted as he flung Isabel at the wall.
She blinked, shocked, and looked at the Ghost.
He was tying the leather mask onto his face.
“Answer me, you coward,” d’
Arque demanded. He drew his sword.
“No!” Isabel screamed, but it was too late.
D’Arque lunged toward the Ghost of St. Giles, his bare sword flashing.
WINTER DREW HIS sword only just in time to counter d’Arque’s attack. He growled under his breath at the cavalier manner in which the other man had handled Isabel and thrust d’Arque’s sword away contemptuously. Winter backed toward the stairs around the corner of the narrow passage. It wasn’t that he was afraid to duel the viscount, but if he pushed the other man, he would retreat… into Isabel, who was behind d’Arque. He simply couldn’t risk her becoming entangled in their swords.
But the viscount wasn’t so easily dissuaded. Evidently thinking he had the Ghost of St. Giles on the run, he pursued Winter.
Winter gritted his teeth and dealt a flurry of thrusts that should’ve had d’Arque on the defensive. The viscount grinned and slapped away Winter’s blade. For a moment Winter stared at the man, nonplussed.
Then he turned and swiftly ran up the stairs, his breath coming in quick pants.
D’Arque followed—the ass—forcing Winter to turn at the top only just in time to avoid a stab in the back.
“Running, Ghost?” d’Arque sneered. He didn’t even seem winded by the run up the stairs. “I hadn’t heard you were such a coward, but then it is easier to fight in the dark and against those untutored in the arts of the sword.”
Oh, but it would be wonderful to reply! Winter didn’t dare—he’d risked enough talking to Isabel. Instead he lunged, silent and lethal, his front foot stomping forward with his thrust.
D’Arque caught his blade, his biceps bulging in his tight-fitting pale blue velvet coat. The viscount’s eyes widened as he teetered on the top of the stairs.
One hard thrust. That was all it would take to send the other man down those stairs and to oblivion. Winter’s breath was tearing at his throat, his pulse beating like a war drum.
He wasn’t an animal.
Winter stepped away, back toward a door behind him, reaching to open it—
D’Arque recovered and leaped toward him.
Winter raised his sword, meeting d’Arque’s savage thrust, the blades shrieking against each other. He half fell through the doorway and was dimly aware of a woman’s scream.
They were in a hallway behind the opera boxes. Around them, people arriving for the opera filled the corridor.
Winter pushed his sword down and away, disengaging their blades, and then kicked d’Arque in the thigh with the flat of his boot. He felt the scrape of the viscount’s blade against his leather jackboot as the other man flailed to keep his balance.
“Damn me!” a florid elderly gentleman exclaimed as Winter backed into him.
D’Arque was flushed, a sheen of sweat showing now at his brow, but he grinned, teeth white against swarthy skin. “Surrender yourself to me, thief.”
Winter bared his teeth and shook his head once.
Then he darted into one of the boxes.
It was occupied, of course. Two gentlemen scattered, leaving a young lady alone, gaping at him.
“Pardon,” Winter whispered to her as he passed by.
He leaned out over the edge of the box. They were only on the first tier, but it was a twenty-foot drop to the pit below. The wide railing ran in a horseshoe all around the theater, ending on either side at the stage. If he could just—
Behind him, the young woman gasped.
Winter whirled. The viscount was already on him, sword flashing. Winter parried, but there wasn’t much room to move. Suddenly d’Arque’s sword was at his throat, held off only by Winter’s own sword. Winter stumbled back a pace, the small of his back hitting the balcony behind him. The blades ground together, shrieking as if for blood, as d’Arque leaned his entire weight against him. Slowly, agonizingly, Winter bent backward over the balcony. He could feel the heat of the other man’s breath, smell his too-sweet perfume mixed with the sharp acid of sweat. His head and upper body hung over nothing but air.
Behind him was a two-story fall.
The viscount panted with his effort as he snarled, “Give up. You’re cornered.”
“No!” cried a familiar, feminine voice from below in the pit. “Adam, no! You must let him go.”
Slowly, Winter grinned, his eyebrows raised behind his mask.
The viscount didn’t like that. His pale eyes narrowed and Winter rather thought that Isabel might’ve sealed his death warrant.
Or she would have if Winter hadn’t spent many, many long nights practicing his sword craft. He took advantage of the viscount’s momentary distraction to shove with all his strength against the other man.
D’Arque fell back and Winter leaped onto the balcony rail.
He heard a scream from the pit below, but he dared not look down. D’Arque leaped onto the rail as well. The other man’s sword flashed out, headed for Winter’s face. Winter batted d’Arque’s sword aside and thrust low toward the man’s pelvis.
No man liked to be hit there. D’Arque’s reaction was too jerky and for a second his balance wavered, his free arm windmilling in the air over the pit.
Gasps from below.
Winter softly tutted.
“Damn you,” d’Arque growled, lunging anew.
Winter didn’t like the man, but then again, he didn’t want to kill the viscount either. He had no clear evidence against d’Arque. The man might still be innocent. Winter skipped backward on the railing, parrying d’Arque’s attack as he retreated toward the stage. He almost laughed aloud. His heart was racing, his limbs were strong and quick, and he felt free.
Only fools take victory for granted. The ghostly voice of Sir Stanley echoed in his mind.
They fought along the rail, nearing the stage, the occupants scattering as they passed each box.
D’Arque slashed at Winter’s face. Winter leaned to the side and pinked the viscount on the upper left arm. The point of his sword slid through the viscount’s pale blue silk coat, ripping a long diagonal hole as Winter jerked it free.
Red began to stain the pale blue.
D’Arque lunged in awkward rage, and Winter easily avoided the attack. But the viscount had put too much weight on his outer foot. He tilted over the pit and began to fall as shrieks rose from below.
Winter didn’t stop to think. He simply grabbed the man’s free arm, pulling him back from death.
D’Arque’s sword fell to the pit, stabbing into a plush chair, where it stood upright, wobbling from side to side.
Winter looked back up and into d’Arque’s wide eyes.
The other man swallowed. “Thank you.”
Winter nodded and let go of the viscount’s arm. He turned and ran the few feet along the railing to the stage. Behind him, there were shouts and someone tried to grab his cloak as he ran past. He reached the stage and found the rope to the curtain, tied to a cleat at the side. Two slashes from his sword and the rope was free. Winter held it, feeling the sharp burn in his biceps as he swung out over the stage. Below, the musicians rose in a wave from their seats.
He dropped onto the stage, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, his sword still in hand. But he needn’t have bothered. The stagehands nearest him backed away. Winter turned and ducked into the wings, running away from the stage and the commotion the duel had caused. He shoved past another stagehand, and then he was sprinting along a darkened corridor, hopefully toward the rear of the theater and a back door into an alley.
This had been madness. He should never have alerted Isabel to his presence. It had been a much too risky move. But when he’d seen her and realized that she’d seen him—was in fact trying to find him—well, he hadn’t been able to control the urge to confront her. To trade quips with her. To kiss her uninhibitedly.
The Ghost could do at night what Winter Makepeace never dared during the day.
The corridor abruptly dead-ended on a door that looked ancient and rarely used. There was a lock, but it was rusted and Winter easily pried it off.
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br /> Cautiously, he eased open the door. This was even better than an alley. He was on a side street and all the carriages that had taken the nobility to their opera were lined up, waiting. Here he could find what he’d been searching for before Isabel had confused his purpose. He’d only been in the opera house in the first place to change into his Ghost costume—Covent Garden was much too bright and populated at night to arrive as the Ghost. Now because of the swordfight he had only minutes to discover the information he’d come for.
Winter sheathed his long sword and took out his short sword.
He slipped through the door and crept along the carriage line, keeping to the shadows. A group of coachmen and footmen were standing in a group ahead, smoking pipes, but he didn’t see d’Arque’s coachman.
Farther along, he spotted the owl on the side of a carriage—and on the seat, the dozing coachman.
Winter leaped onto the seat and grabbed the man’s collar before he’d even woken.
“What’re you about?” the coachman sputtered before he caught sight of Winter’s blade. His eyes widened as he saw the harlequin’s mask.
Even in the dim light from the carriage lanterns, Winter could see this was indeed the same man who had nearly kidnapped Joseph Chance.
He shook him like a rat and whispered, “Who do you work for?”
“M-my lord d’Arque,” the coachman sputtered.
“Why is he having girls kidnapped from St. Giles?”
The coachman’s eyes slid away. “Don’t know what you mean.”
Winter pointed the tip of his short sword at the man’s eye. “Think.”
“It’s n-not d’Arque,” the man stuttered.
Winter narrowed his eyes. “Not d’Arque? What do you mean?”
The man shook his head, clearly frightened.
Winter placed the tip of his sword on the man’s cheek. “Talk.”
“Oi!”
They’d attracted the attention of the pipe smokers. With a sudden twisting movement, the coachman slithered out of his grasp. Winter lunged—and missed—as the man fell off the other side of the carriage, picked himself up, and ran into the night.
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