Thief of Shadows

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  The first spurt was strong and almost tasteless on her tongue, but the second brought salt and man and a groan from his lips as if he suffered untold agonies, and she flexed within in sympathy.

  She sucked and sucked, gripping his hips to keep him within her mouth, for she’d worked for this prize and thus she’d earned every drop. When at last he began to soften, she relented and instead licked him softly. She was wet between her thighs, her body primed and ready to receive him, but he wouldn’t be able to—

  His sharp movement caught her by surprise. One moment she was on her knees before him; in the next he’d hauled her upright. The grip on her arms was painful and she gave a little yelp, her eyes widening as she saw—

  Then his mouth was on hers, his tongue taking possession of her, his strength all around her. She sagged against him, ready for anything he would do…

  And then he was gone.

  Isabel blinked, touching her bruised lips with her fingertips. Dear God, what had she done? The rest of the world came rushing back—who she was and, more importantly, who he was. For the moonlight had shone upon his face before he’d kissed her and she’d clearly seen them sparkling on his hard cheeks:

  Tears.

  WINTER MAKEPEACE STUMBLED to a halt in a dark corner and leaned against the wall, rubbing his hands over his face. It was wet with his tears. He’d cried like a babe. Dear Lord, what Isabel had done was earth-shattering. To be so close to another human being, for her to actually kneel before him and… It was as if another new sense had suddenly opened up. He’d felt her, felt the world around him, and at the same time knew that they were the very center, just the two of them. In that moment, the animal he’d tried to bind and cage for years had broken entirely loose and roared.

  He gasped, straightening. Did she know who he was beneath the mask? Had she been doing that to Winter Makepeace or to the Ghost? If it was the Ghost, he’d feel like dying, but if it was Winter Makepeace, then she’d just changed everything. Beautiful, stubborn, terrible woman! What was she playing at?

  He shook his head angrily. He could’ve stopped her. He was bigger than she, stronger than she. But he simply hadn’t wanted to stop her. At that moment with her hands upon his fall, his cock straining for release, he might’ve died had she walked away and not touched him. It’d been all he could do to keep his hands off her as long as he had. And when she’d finally held him—her sweet, beautiful mouth on the rude head of his cock…

  Merely thinking about it made him hard again.

  Winter cursed and cautiously stepped away from the shadows. He should rejoin the ball, should put in an appearance, but he had other matters to consider now. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Swiftly, he ducked inside a room. It was small and dark—a dressing room, perhaps—but there was a window, dimly lit by the moon. He picked up the bag containing his clothes, which he’d hidden here after changing into his Ghost costume. It’d been safer to search d’Arque’s house as the Ghost, in case he’d been discovered. His plan had been to don his suit again and go back to the ball, but no more.

  Winter crossed to the window and threw up the sash, looking out. He was over the back garden, the moonlight casting shadows on geometrically trimmed hedges, and he was still three stories up. Fortunately, though, there was a decorative ledge under each windowsill. Only three inches wide—if that—but it should be sufficient.

  Five minutes later, Winter dropped to the ground. He bent to take out the scrap of paper he’d hidden in his boot and tilted it so the moonlight illuminated the scrawled words: 10 Calfshead Lane.

  A St. Giles address. He’d found the paper tucked under the blotting paper on d’Arque’s desk. His lip curled. Was d’Arque so sure of himself that he’d written down the address where the children were held? It seemed unlikely, but Winter wasn’t going to ignore the lead.

  A woman’s laughter drifted on the night wind. Winter stilled, looking toward the house. Light spilled out into the garden as a door opened and a couple came out. The lady was leaning toward her suitor, obviously quite enthusiastic about whatever might happen in a dark garden.

  Winter picked up his bag and turned away, running lightly on the mown grass, heading for the gate that would let out into the mews.

  Had their tryst been merely a game for Isabel? A frivolous distraction during a frivolous ball?

  Or had she known who he really was?

  ISABEL HURRIED BACK to the ballroom, hoping that her absence had not been missed, but she need not have worried.

  Something else had the room buzzing.

  People were crowding around a man by the entrance of the ballroom, shocked murmurs and cries coming from that area. Isabel was too far away to hear what the commotion was about. She started forward only to find Lord d’Arque in front of her.

  She grasped his sleeve. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  He glanced distractedly down at her. “I don’t know. I couldn’t hear what he said. Come, let us find out.”

  The viscount led the way through the crowd and Isabel fell in behind him. As they neared the doorway, Isabel saw that the man was in dark green livery—d’Arque’s colors were white and blue—and he was agitated. She was shocked to see tears streaming down his face.

  “My lord!” the man cried as he caught sight of the viscount. “Oh, my lord, it’s terrible.”

  People were exclaiming and talking, but quite distinctly, Isabel still heard someone say, “No.” She looked to her left and saw Lady Margaret.

  The girl’s face had gone ashen.

  Isabel started for her.

  “What is it?” Lord d’Arque said, his aristocratic voice seeming to calm the man. “Tell me.”

  Isabel had reached Lady Margaret by now, and she touched the other woman’s arm. Lady Margaret gave no sign that she saw her. Her large brown eyes were fixed imploringly on the servant.

  “My master…” The footman gulped as fresh tears spilled from his eyes. “Dear God, my lord, Mr. Fraser-Burnsby has been murdered!”

  A woman screamed. Lord d’Arque went white, his face as if graven from stone, and Isabel remembered that he was—had been—good friends with Mr. Fraser-Burnsby.

  “I… I didn’t know where else to go, my lord,” the footman said before breaking down again.

  Around them, the crowd’s murmuring rose, but Isabel’s attention was caught by Lady Margaret. The girl swayed where she stood, her mouth open, but no words were emerging. She looked like a small child suddenly struck in the face.

  Isabel caught her arm. “Don’t.”

  Her words at least had the effect of making Lady Margaret turn toward her, though she stared sightlessly. “Roger…”

  “No,” Isabel whispered fiercely. “You mustn’t. Not now.”

  Lady Margaret blinked dazedly. Suddenly she sank straight toward the floor without a sound. Isabel moved, but she wasn’t nearly fast enough to catch the girl.

  Fortunately, someone else was. Mr. Godric St. John swooped with lightning-fast speed, catching Lady Margaret before her head could hit the ground. He stared as if mesmerized down at the girl’s white face.

  Isabel touched his arm. “Come with me.”

  He arched an eyebrow, but without a word swung the girl’s limp form into his arms. Isabel couldn’t help noticing how easily he lifted her. Odd. She wouldn’t have thought Mr. St. John, a man known for being a scholar of philosophy, was so strong.

  But that mattered little at the moment. Isabel walked swiftly toward the side of the ballroom, away from the chattering crowd, away from all the potential gossips.

  “Bring her in here,” she instructed Mr. St. John. She’d found a little sitting room, just off the ladies’ retiring room. Fortunately there was no one around—they’d all gone to see what the commotion in the ballroom was.

  He placed Lady Margaret gently down on a settee, then looked at Isabel, speaking for the first time. “Is there anyone I can send for?”

  “No.” She knelt by the settee, touching Lady Margaret’s chee
k. The girl was moaning softly as she woke. She glanced at Mr. St. John. “Thank you for your help. It would be best if this isn’t talked about.”

  His lips firmed. “You can rely on my discretion.”

  He glanced once more at Megs and then quietly left the room.

  “Roger?” Megs whimpered.

  “Shhh,” Isabel murmured. “We can stay here a little while, until you’ve regained your composure, but we mustn’t stay too long. Someone will notice your disappearance and put it together with Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s death and—”

  “Oh, God,” Lady Margaret gasped, and began to sob so hard her body shook.

  Isabel closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the other woman’s soul-deep grief. What right had she to intrude? What right to make the girl realize that she must not let anyone else know of her despair—and the love for Mr. Fraser-Burnsby that must’ve caused it.

  But there was no one else.

  So Isabel opened her eyes and sank down next to the sobbing Lady Margaret. “There, there,” she said inadequately as she wrapped her arms around the girl. “You mustn’t take on so. You’ll become sick.”

  “I loved him,” Lady Margaret whimpered. “We were to be married. He’d just… just…” She shook her head, as if unable to say the words.

  Oh, why must there be death in the world? Despair and grief? Why must a sweet young girl have her hopes dashed, her dreams of a family and love crushed? It simply wasn’t fair—wasn’t right. When men plotted and schemed against each other every day, what kind of god punished an innocent girl?

  Isabel’s mouth twisted bitterly. Except Lady Margaret would never be innocent again. She’d drunk of the cup of sorrow and loss and it would mark her evermore.

  Isabel inhaled. “Come. We can find your mother and—”

  But Lady Margaret was shaking her head. “She isn’t here. She’s away at a house party in the country.”

  “Then your brother, the marquess.”

  “No!” Lady Margaret looked up dully. “He doesn’t know about me and Roger. No one knows.”

  Isabel bit her lip. “We must be discreet, then. If the guests out there see you taking on so, they’ll think the worst—say the worst.”

  Lady Margaret closed her eyes. “They’d be right. We are—were—in love.”

  Ah. Well, Isabel wasn’t one to judge. In fact, she rather admired the other woman’s simple statement: there was no shame in Lady Margaret’s voice over her affair, only grief.

  Which didn’t change the fact that Lady Margaret would be ruined beyond repair if word got out that she and Roger Fraser-Burnsby had been lovers.

  “All the more reason to pull yourself together,” Isabel said gently.

  “I don’t care,” Lady Margaret whispered.

  “I know, dear, but in the future you will.” Isabel’s words were blunt to the point of cruelty, she knew, but they must be spoken. “Pull yourself together, my lady. We need to walk through that ballroom to your carriage. Now, who did you come with tonight?”

  “My… my great aunt is staying with me while Mama is away.”

  Isabel had a vague recollection of an older, gray-haired woman sometimes accompanying Lady Margaret. “Good. I’ll get you settled in the carriage first and then send her to you.”

  It wasn’t as simple as that, of course. It took another fifteen minutes and much cajoling on Isabel’s part, but at last Lady Margaret was ready to step from the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face puffy, and she’d obviously been crying, but at least she no longer was.

  “You only need to get to your carriage,” Isabel murmured as she accompanied the girl back to the ballroom. “A few steps and then you can relax.”

  Lady Margaret nodded mechanically.

  “Good girl,” Isabel said. They’d reached the ballroom. People were still crowded around the entrance, and no one seemed to pay them any attention, thank goodness. “We’ll simply tell your aunt that you’ve a migraine. Can you trust your lady’s maid?”

  “What?” Lady Margaret looked dazed.

  The girl probably hadn’t thought how fast gossip spread among servants. “Never mind. Just get rid of your lady’s maid as soon as she helps you to undress. Lock your door and rest.”

  “Lady Beckinhall, there you are!” The voice was masculine and to Isabel’s side.

  She turned, half blocking the speaker’s view of Lady Margaret. Mr. Seymour stood with Lord d’Arque. Both men looked grave. The viscount was still a bit green about his mouth.

  Mr. Seymour’s color in contrast was hectic. “Monstrous, this business. The cold-blooded murder of a gentleman right here in London.” He glanced curiously at Lady Margaret. “The news must’ve been overwhelming for those of delicate sensibilities.”

  Isabel sent the man a quelling glance. “Quite. And even for those who have normal sensibilities. Mr. Fraser-Burnsby was a very nicely mannered gentleman, and a favorite to many. He will be missed.”

  Lord d’Arque muttered something under his breath and abruptly strode away.

  “They were close,” Mr. Seymour said, nodding in d’Arque’s direction. “Apparently were at school together. I had no idea. D’Arque keeps everything close to the vest, and Roger was friendly to everyone.” He shook his head. “We’ll find his murderer, never you fear, ladies. We’ve called in the dragoons and they’re searching St. Giles even now. We’ll have him in prison by dawn.”

  Isabel stared, perplexed. “Who?”

  Mr. Seymour raised his eyebrows at her words.

  “Who killed Roger Fraser-Burnsby?” Isabel asked impatiently.

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Beckinhall, but I thought you’d heard,” Mr. Seymour said gently. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby was murdered by the Ghost of St. Giles.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Harlequin’s True Love wept bitter tears, but she did not give up. The next morning she went to consult a wisewoman.

  “Ah!” said the wisewoman when she’d heard the True Love’s tale. “The Harlequin has relinquished his soul to the Master of the Night and can no longer walk in the sunlight. He will spend eternity thus, neither seeing nor truly hearing those about him, bent only on revenge. It is a thing not easily done, but if you want to bring him back into the light, you must first bind him with Love, then wash his eyes with Sorrow, and finally make him touch Hope…”

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

  The moon hung low in the night sky, a goddess guiding his way as Winter Makepeace leaped from one rooftop to another half an hour later. He landed on all fours, but was up at once, running lightly over the shingles. So close. He was so close now he could feel it in his veins. The children who needed his help were near and he would find and rescue them. He must try to forget the emotions that Lady Beckinhall provoked. Try to recapture and contain everything she’d let loose. He would be strictly Winter Makepeace with her, make sure she never met the Ghost again. If he could do that, then perhaps he had a chance of going on with his life exactly as he had been before. Because as wonderful as it was to be with her, he’d pledged himself to another path. This. This was what he was made for: bringing justice to those who had no voice.

  Righting the wrongs that threatened to overwhelm St. Giles.

  He jumped from the rooftop down to a wall and thence into Calfshead Lane. Number 10 was a crooked doorway with no light outside. Above his head, two doors down, a sign swung in the wind, but if it had something painted on it, it was too dark to see. Winter tried the door handle, and when that refused to give, he backed a pace and simply kicked in the door.

  It swung back on rusty hinges, banging against the wall inside and rebounding. Winter caught it with one hand and peered inside.

  “Go ’way!” a shrill voice shouted from inside.

  Winter peered into the gloom. A woman crouched just inside the door, a knife held in one wavering hand. “Dear God, ’tis the devil himself!”

  “Where are the children?” Winter rasped.

  The woman
stared around dazedly. “Children? Ain’t no children ’ere.”

  Winter advanced inside as she scurried back. “I know there are children here. Where are they?”

  The woman’s rheumy eyes opened wide. “ ’Ave you come to take me to ’ell?”

  Winter stared at her. A couple of shapes—dead or dead drunk—lay in the corner of the tiny room, but they were obviously adult. And the woman before him didn’t seem capable of running a child work mill. “Is there anyone else here?”

  She blinked, her mouth hanging half open. “Not since th’ pawnshop owner left. That were months ago now.”

  Swiftly Winter went to the only door in the room and opened it. Beyond was a bare little space, the ceiling not even tall enough for a man to stand upright in it.

  And it was entirely empty.

  Disappointment tightened his chest. This was supposed to be the place where the children were kept. The address was the only clue he’d been able to find in d’Arque’s bedroom. If it was false, then he was lost.

  The children were lost.

  From without came the clatter of hooves on cobblestones.

  Winter ran from the room.

  Outside, a phalanx of mounted men were bearing down. Trevillion’s dragoons, holding torches high. In the flickering light, he just had time to catch sight of the sign two doors down as they galloped toward him.

  On the sign was a candle.

  “Halt!” the captain bellowed.

  Well, he wasn’t doing that. Winter leaped, grabbing hold of the corner of the building. He began scaling it, using only his fingertips and toes. The wall exploded by his face, sending shards of brick into his mask. Belatedly, the sound of the shot rang out.

  “Come down or I’ll shoot you where you are,” Trevillion called.

  Winter grasped the edge of the gutter and was up and over the roof just as another shot hit the tiles by his heels. He ran, flat out, unmindful of his footing, aware that the horses were following him below. He made for the crest of the roof, bounding over it and down the other side of the house, tiles loosened by his feet clattering to the ground. The dragoons rounded the corner and galloped into the alley below. The leap across to the next house was too great; he couldn’t make it without falling, and falling meant immediate capture.