Thief of Shadows

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  He shook his head. “I think you’re biased.”

  She remembered the look on his face when Lord d’Arque had flirted with her at the Duchess of Arlington’s ball. “I think you may be biased as well.”

  He shrugged moodily, not speaking.

  She took the opportunity to serve herself some cheese and fruit. “Why don’t you show Lord d’Arque the scrap of paper? Ask him who he wrote it to?”

  He gave her an ironic look but remained silent.

  She poured herself a cup of tea, adding a dollop of milk and a spoonful of sugar before sipping. “What were they making in this workshop anyway? You never said.”

  “Stockings.” He sounded bitter. “Can you imagine? They work these children to death to make lace stockings with fancy embroidered clocks on the ankles in the French style for silly ladies.”

  Isabel’s chest felt tight with sudden dread. She set down her teacup. “Have you seen the stockings?”

  “Not until last night,” he replied. “They left a box of finished clocks behind to be sewn on the lace stockings later.”

  They were alone in the breakfast room. Isabel got up and rounded the table to Winter’s side. He looked at her quizzically until she placed her foot on the chair next to his and lifted her skirts.

  “Did the clocks look like this?” she asked quietly.

  He’d frozen, staring at the dainty pink, gold, and blue embroidery on her ankle. It was oversewn onto a stocking that was white lace from the sole of her foot to over her knee. Delicate, enormously expensive lace, sold for a fraction of what it would cost elsewhere. She’d been a fool.

  Then his eyes rose to hers. “Where did you get those?”

  She let her skirts fall and lowered her foot to the floor. “My lady’s maid, Pinkney, got them. I’m not sure where, but I know she was thrilled by the price.”

  His mouth tightened grimly. “Could you call her here, please?”

  “Of course,” she said, keeping her tone calm as she crossed to the door and gave the order to the footman outside.

  Winter was terribly angry, she could see. Silly ladies. Did he think she was one of those silly ladies he’d spoken of? The ones who never cared who made their stockings as long as the style was the latest? Well, she was one of those ladies, wasn’t she?

  She sank into her chair, waiting for Pinkney.

  He didn’t say anything else, instead staring at the table between his hands, a line incised between his brows.

  The door opened to the breakfast room and Pinkney came in. “You wanted to see me, my lady?”

  “Yes.” Isabel folded her hands in her lap. “I want to know about the lace stockings you have been buying for me.”

  Pinkney’s pretty forehead wrinkled. “Stockings, my lady?”

  “Where did you get them?” Winter asked, his voice dark.

  Pinkney’s blue eyes opened wide, a mixture of confusion and fear in them. Winter looked quite daunting at the moment. “I… I… that is, there’s a little shop on Baker’s Street, my lady. The shopkeeper has the lace stockings in back. One has to know to ask for them.”

  “And how did you know?” Isabel asked.

  Pinkney shrugged helplessly. “One hears rumors of such things, my lady. Where to find the latest kid gloves, what cobbler makes the finest heeled slippers, and who has lace stockings made in the best French fashion at half the price. It’s my job, my lady.”

  Pinkney looked at them with an odd sort of dignity, for she was quite right—it was her job and she did it well.

  “Thank you, Pinkney, that will be all,” Isabel said quietly.

  The lady’s maid curtsied. “Yes, my lady.” She turned to leave the room.

  “Wait.” Isabel swiftly lifted her skirts again and rolled down both stockings, removing them. She held out the limp bits of silk lace to the lady’s maid. “Burn these along with the others, please.”

  Pinkney’s mouth had dropped open when Isabel lifted her skirt in front of Winter. Now she snapped it shut. “Of course, my lady.”

  She took the stockings and fled.

  “Why did you dismiss her?” Winter asked abruptly. “She might have known more if we’d questioned her.”

  “I doubt it.” Isabel shook her head. “She’s a superb lady’s maid, but I think all the minutia of her position—the things she just enumerated—take up every available bit of her mind.” Isabel shrugged apologetically. “She’s not that interested in anything outside of fashion.”

  Winter shoved back from the table. “Then I shall go and visit this shop on Baker’s Street. Perhaps the shopkeeper can give me more information.”

  “But what about Christopher?” Isabel asked. “Don’t you have lessons for him today?”

  Winter turned and glanced at her from the door. “Indeed I do, but his mother, it seems, had other plans. I was told that she took him away on some errand very early this morning.”

  “What—” Isabel began, but he was already gone.

  That was odd. Louise visited Christopher only once a month—if that—and usually only for an afternoon. She rarely woke before noon, let alone rose from bed.

  Sighing, Isabel ate her luncheon. Should she have vetted all the clothes that Pinkney brought to her? Made sure they were made in legitimate workshops? Or should she simply give up fancy lace stockings, heeled slippers made of gold cloth, gowns that took months to embroider?

  She could dress like a female monk, ban all color from her life… and go quietly mad within the week. She liked extravagant gowns, pretty underthings, clocked stockings, and all the other fripperies that Winter no doubt frowned terribly upon. She could no more stop wearing them than a peacock could divest himself of his feathers.

  Well, then this was yet another reason that they couldn’t marry. Even if Winter truly did love her, he couldn’t help but be disgusted by her delight in clothing and jewels. It was yet another nail in the coffin of their affair. They simply were not matched in any way.

  Isabel wrinkled her nose and mashed what remained of the cheese under her fork tines. She should be glad to find one more reason to give him of why they should not, could not, would not marry, and yet all she felt was a dismal roiling in her tummy. Her brain was convinced, but her heart rebelled.

  The door opened and Isabel turned, glad of a diversion from her gloomy musings.

  Louise swept in, her cheeks pink, her eyes sparkling, her golden hair highlighted by a pink ribbon rosette, and—if Isabel weren’t mistaken—she wore a new dress. “Oh, Isabel, the most marvelous thing has happened! I’ve found a protector and he’s given me a house. I can take Christopher to live with me by the end of the week.”

  Isabel’s mouth opened, but no words emerged. Louise continued to chatter about her new protector, and the house she would soon have, but it was as if her voice were muffled.

  Isabel had accepted the responsibility of Christopher only reluctantly and because really there hadn’t been anyone else to look after him. He’d been a burden, an innocent reminder of Edmund’s infidelity and her own barrenness. She should be glad that Louise had finally found a way to take care of him herself. A child needed his mother, and Louise, no matter how flawed, was Christopher’s mother.

  And if she felt some small disappointment in Christopher’s leaving, that was only to be expected. She’d grown… fond of the boy.

  “I’ll come fetch him tomorrow, shall I?” Louise said.

  Isabel blinked. “Yes. Yes, of course. That will be quite all right.”

  And it would, wouldn’t it?

  LATE THAT NIGHT, Winter pushed open the door to his room in Isabel’s house, weary both in mind and spirit. The sight within brought all his senses to the alert, however: Isabel lay in his bed, and from what he could see, she wasn’t wearing anything.

  He closed the door behind him. The room she’d given him was much nicer than his former room at the home. On the same floor as her own bedroom, it was, he suspected, a guest room rather than one usually assigned to a servant. The bed
was large and comfortable, and there was just enough furniture to make the room pleasant: a chair to sit by the fire, a chest of drawers and a dresser with a basin and pitcher for washing. She’d made sure, he was certain, to give him a room that he’d find homey without being ostentatious.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Her eyelashes drooped and a smile played about the corners of her lush mouth. “Why, Mr. Makepeace, I know our lessons were short, but I do think I covered enough for you to be able to understand why I might be here.”

  Her tone was so brittle that he immediately was worried. “What has happened?”

  She pouted. “Must there be something wrong for me to be here?”

  “In these circumstances, yes.” He crossed to the bed, looking down at her. “Tell me, Isabel.”

  She turned her face aside, saying nothing, but her sweet lips trembled.

  He could not bear the sight. He climbed into the bed fully clothed and gathered her warm little form against himself, smoothing back her glorious hair. “Isabel.”

  Her breath caught raggedly. “Do you remember when you first came here and you met Christopher?”

  “Yes,” he murmured into her hair, wondering where this was leading.

  “I was quite cold to him,” she said.

  “Isabel,” he protested.

  She swiped at her face. “No, I was. He’s but a little boy and it wasn’t his fault, but he reminded me of everything I don’t have—everything I can never have—and I just couldn’t stand the sight of him. He made me feel too much. Back then I wished desperately that Louise would simply take him away. Find another home for him to live in.” She laughed and then quieted. “You’re going to laugh, but my wish has been granted.”

  He closed his eyes in sorrow. She’d just begun to open her heart to the boy. Just begun to let herself feel some joy in their relationship. To have Christopher taken away now was a terrible blow.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Where does she plan to go with him?”

  She twisted her fingers in the front of his coat. “She’s found herself a protector—a rich importer of goods. That’s where she was this morning: She’d taken Christopher to outfit the both of them in new clothes at this man’s expense. He dotes on her, Louise says, and has leased her a fine town house.”

  He frowned, staring over her head. “That does not sound like it would be the best place for the boy to live and grow up.”

  She stilled. “I thought the same, but I fear my affection for him is clouding my judgment. I want Christopher to be happy. Surely he would be happiest with his mother?”

  Her voice was both hopeful and fearful as she asked him the tentative question.

  He sighed. “I don’t know if he would or not. All I know is that he seems quite happy here. You seem quite happy to have him in your house with you.”

  “Yes, but what I feel and think isn’t the point,” she said earnestly. “I should think only of Christopher and his interests. I need to do the right thing.”

  He laid his head against hers, breathing in her scent, content simply to hold her. “Sometimes doing the right thing is no sacrifice.”

  ISABEL LAY AGAINST Winter’s wool coat, the coverlet pulled to her shoulders, listening to his breath under her ear.

  “There’s more.” His voice rumbled against her cheek. “More than Christopher, isn’t there?”

  She burrowed into his warmth. She didn’t want to face it, didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t he simply make love to her and make her forget?

  But he stroked her hair gently instead. No one had ever done that before, and she thought now that she might forever miss his hands in her hair when he left.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  She squeezed her eyes shut like a little girl, as if not seeing him would make the telling easier. “I saw a… friend today, a dear friend, and she confided to me that she is expecting a child.”

  His hand stilled against her hair before resuming. “I’m sorry.” His voice was a deep whisper. “I know that must’ve been hard for you to hear.”

  “It shouldn’t be,” she insisted, balling her fingers in the lapel of his coat and tugging. “I should be able to hear joyous news and celebrate with a friend. I shouldn’t be so small, so concerned only with my own problems. I should be a better person.”

  His chest moved beneath her cheek as he shrugged. “So should we all.”

  “You don’t need to,” she whispered. “You’re perfect the way you are.”

  “I’m far from perfect,” he murmured. “I thought you would know that by now.”

  No, the more she knew him, the more perfect he became: selfless, strong, kind, caring… the list went on and on. In contrast, she felt small and mean and undeserving of love.

  “You don’t know the worst,” she said.

  “Then tell me.”

  She inhaled to steady herself for her confession. “My friend is not married. The child she carries is out of wedlock. Naturally she’s distraught. She hardly knows what to do. In her despair, she wept as she told me her plight, and all I could think was…”

  It was too terrible; she couldn’t say the words.

  But he knew them anyway. “You wished the babe was yours.”

  “Why?” She jerked back from his embrace but still clutched his lapels. “Why? Why must she carry a child who will destroy her life while I… while I cannot—” She couldn’t go on. Her throat was clogged with all the tears she’d held back for years.

  He wrapped his arms around her and for a moment she resisted, pulling back. Her fears, her little jealousy, her weeping, were all so horrid. So ugly. He must hate her or at the very least feel pity for her, and pity was the last thing she wanted from him.

  It wasn’t fair that he of all men should be the one to see beneath her protective façade.

  But in the end she did relent, because he was Winter and she’d realized in the last several days that she could never resist him for long. Somehow he’d become more than a lover, more than a friend. What he was to her she couldn’t put into words, but she was very much afraid that it was permanent and forever, as if he’d embedded himself into her very flesh.

  Pray he never found out.

  She turned her face up and kissed him like an untried girl, her lips soft and closed, her face wet with tears. Her eyes were closed as she kissed him and she could feel when his arms stiffened.

  He pulled away. “Isabel, we shouldn’t, not with you feeling this way.”

  He did pity her—she could tell by the look on his face. He was going to set her aside, leave her because he could no longer face her.

  She flung back the covers and lunged at him, all but knocking him to the bed and climbing atop him.

  “Don’t, Isabel,” he said, but his voice had already deepened, roughened, and she knew she’d have him soon. She could feel the fabric of his breeches and coat against her naked skin.

  She caught his face between her palms and kissed him again, her mouth open and needy—for she did need him, more than he’d ever know. He groaned under her mouth, angling his head for better access to her tongue. He tasted of wine and man and need. He tasted of everything she’d never thought she’d wanted but somehow had needed all along.

  He tasted of Winter.

  “Isabel,” he whispered, his fingers trailing along her cheeks. “Isabel, no.”

  “Why not?” she murmured, nipping his lips, stroking his jaw. “I need you now. I need to forget.”

  His eyes were sad. “Perhaps you do, but not this way. I’ll not be used as a male whore, and you, my darling Isabel, are better than this.”

  Her head reared back involuntarily. She felt as if he’d hit her.

  “How do you know?” she asked viciously, scrambling away from him. “Perhaps I see you as no more than a male whore. Maybe I’m not any better than this.”

  He was up and over her so fast she didn’t even have time to gasp. He wound his arms around her, pinning her arms to her
sides, holding her fast, and when she looked up at him, into his face, she expected to see anger.

  Instead she saw compassion.

  It was too much. She inhaled, the breath searing her chest, breaking open her heart, spilling all the rage and fear and disappointment out into the open. She cried, great, heaving sobs, blinded by her own tears, her mouth open in a silent wail.

  He gathered her closer, his face against hers, and rocked her in his arms as if she were a newborn babe.

  But his gentleness only gave fuel to the fire of her despair. She twisted, hitting his shoulders with her balled fists, convulsing in her grief. He only held her tighter, murmuring soothing sounds as she sobbed for the marriage that hadn’t lived up to her dreams, the miscarriages, and the children she would never have. The grief came boiling out of her, hot and ugly, too long suppressed, too long denied.

  She sobbed until her hair was matted with sweat, until her eyes were swollen, until her weeping quieted and she could hear what Winter said as he rocked her.

  “So brave,” he murmured into her hair, stroking it. “So beautiful and brave.”

  “I’m not beautiful,” she rasped. “You shouldn’t see me like this.”

  She must look like a hag, and the horror of her gauche tantrum and her naked vulnerability made her hide her face in his shoulder.

  But he placed a gentle palm under her chin and turned her face back to him. “I’m privileged to see you like this,” he said, his eyes fierce. “Wear your social mask at your balls and parties and when you visit your friends out there, but when we are alone, just the two of us in here, promise me this: that you’ll show me only your true face, no matter how ugly you might think it. That’s our true intimacy, not sex, but the ability to be ourselves when we are together.”

  She stared at him, stunned, and laid her palm against his cheek, rough with the day’s stubble. “How can you be so wise?”

  He shook his head. “Not me. You were the one who started this. You were the one who showed me the way.”

  He gave her too much credit, but she was too tired to argue the point.

  He rolled to his back and settled her against him. “Sleep.”