Thief of Shadows

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  She closed her eyes and obeyed, but as she drifted off, the realization came to her:

  She loved this man, now and forever.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Harlequin was bound by love, but he still stared from sightless white eyes. The Harlequin’s True Love carefully unstopped her glass vial of tears and, standing on tiptoes, tilted the vial over his eyes. At the first drop on his eye, the Harlequin roared, thrashing his head back and forth, but the True Love persevered, washing both his eyes with her tears of sorrow. When the vial was empty, she stepped back and saw that his eyes were once more brown and seeing…

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

  Winter woke before the dawn the next morning. Isabel lay beside him, breathing deeply in sleep, smelling of soft, warm woman. He thought of what he’d told her the night before: Sometimes doing the right thing is no sacrifice. Perhaps it was past time that he took his own words to heart. If he was to marry Isabel, he must give up being the Ghost of St. Giles. All along, the idea had been brewing at the back of his mind: He could not have Isabel and be the Ghost, too. It was the reason, after all, that he’d remained celibate so many years: The Ghost was an all-consuming job. A married man, on the other hand, must make his family his first priority, and he’d do nothing less for Isabel.

  But before his Ghost disappeared for the last time, he needed to finish the hunt for the lassie snatchers and the “toff” behind them. He needed to confront d’Arque and either discover he was the toff or eliminate him from the search.

  And there was one more thing he must do.

  Quietly he rose, dressed, and placed a few things in his bag. He looked at Isabel. She slept deeply, one hand curled under her chin like a small child. He had the urge to kiss her before he left, but in the end suppressed it—he didn’t want to wake her.

  Outside, London was only just beginning to wake. A sleepy maid knelt on the step next door to Isabel’s house, polishing the door, not even looking up as he strolled by. A milkmaid called out saucily to him as he passed and he nodded in return.

  By the time Winter made it to St. Giles, the sun was up fully, but the sky was so overcast it looked like evening. He pulled his long cloak about himself, glad he’d decided to wear it today. If he wasn’t mistaken, there would be rain before noon.

  The home was up, of course, the single kitchen window bright. He knocked softly at the back door.

  Mistress Medina opened the door, her normally neat cap askew. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. “Have you come back to the home, then, Mr. Makepeace?”

  “I’m sorry, no,” Winter replied. “I gave my word to leave and so I have. But I wonder if I might speak with Joseph Tinbox out here.” He gestured to the alley.

  Mistress Medina’s lips pursed. “Don’t seem right, it don’t, you not being able to come inside the home. And Lord knows we need you.”

  She ducked back inside before he could comment.

  There was a series of thuds inside, followed by an angry shout.

  Winter cocked an eyebrow at the door. It sounded as if active warfare were going on inside.

  A minute later, Joseph Tinbox came outside. His hair was down instead of tied back properly and his waistcoat had a stain on it that looked older than breakfast.

  The boy stared at his feet, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Whatcha want?”

  “I’ve come to say good-bye to you, Joseph,” Winter said gently. “You’re to report to your ship tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  Joseph nodded, mute.

  Winter looked away from his sullen face, beset with sudden qualms. Perhaps this wasn’t the right thing for Joseph. Perhaps the boy would hate him for the rest of his life, blaming Winter for sending him to sea and the hard life of a sailor.

  But he wasn’t going to be just a sailor. He would be an officer. The position opened up the possibilities of a career, of good money if not wealth, of a home someday in the country. This commission would change Joseph’s entire life in a way that nothing else could: it gave him the freedom of a gentleman.

  Winter looked back at the boy. “I trust that you’ll write, Joseph. If not me, then Peach and Nell and all the other children at the home.”

  The boy’s lip trembled, but he muttered, “Yes, sir.”

  “To that end, I have something for you,” Winter said. He set down his soft bag and drew out a wooden box.

  Curiosity had always been one of Joseph’s defining characteristics. He leaned forward now, peering at the box. “What is it, sir?”

  Winter unlatched the box, opening the flat lid. Inside was a small glass jar of ink, papers, various newly sharpened pens, and even a tiny penknife. “It’s a traveling writing box. My father used to take it with him when he went to the country to buy hops. See? Everything is fitted neatly so they shan’t move or be spoiled if the box is shaken.”

  Winter relatched the box and stood, holding out the box to Joseph. “I’d like you to have it.”

  Joseph’s eyes widened to saucer size and he opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. It seemed that Winter had succeeded in rendering the boy speechless. Joseph took the box and stood a moment simply staring at it.

  He ran the fingertips of his right hand delicately across the worn surface of the top and looked up at Winter. “Thank you, sir.”

  Winter nodded. For a moment he was speechless as his throat worked. When his voice emerged, it was gruff. “Joseph, would you like to shake hands?”

  The boy’s lower lip trembled. “Yes, sir.” He held out his hand.

  Winter took it and then he did something he’d never done to any of the home’s children. He bent, awkwardly, and drew the boy into a hug, writing desk and all. Joseph’s free arm came about his neck and squeezed fiercely. Winter bent his head and smelled jam and boy sweat. This is what it is like to feel with all one’s soul.

  Winter stepped back, blinking. “Take care, Joseph.”

  The boy’s eyes were sparkling. “I will, sir.” He ran into the home, but an instant later poked his head outside the door again. “And I’ll write you, sir. I promise.”

  He was gone then and Winter stared at the door, his throat thick, wondering when next he’d see Joseph Tinbox again. Would the boy thank him for sending him to sea? Or curse him?

  Winter tilted back his head, feeling the first ice-cold drops of rain spatter against his face. Either way, he’d make the same decision again.

  “I thought I’d had your word to leave the home, Makepeace.” Viscount d’Arque’s voice came from behind him.

  “You do, my lord.” Winter turned slowly, gesturing to the closed kitchen door. “You’ll notice that I’m on the outside of the home.”

  D’Arque stood with his friends the Earl of Kershaw and Mr. Seymour in the alley behind him.

  The viscount grunted suspiciously. “Well, see that you stay away. I can always renege on this bargain.”

  “No, you can’t,” Winter said pleasantly. “You gave your word as a gentleman. Renege and I’ll make sure the news that you broke your word is in every breakfast room by noon the next day.”

  D’Arque looked startled by the sudden steel in Winter’s voice. Good. The man needed to learn that he couldn’t play with lives.

  Mr. Seymour cleared his throat. “If you’re not here to visit the home, Mr. Makepeace, then why are you here?”

  “I believe I could ask the same of you,” Winter said. “I do notice both you and Lord Kershaw hanging about the place quite a lot.”

  Lord Kershaw stiffened, clearly offended by Winter’s familiar tone, but Mr. Seymour merely smiled sheepishly. “You’ll have to forgive us gentlemen of leisure, Mr. Makepeace. An orphanage is quite fascinating in its own way. ’Sides, we heard that the Ghost of St. Giles delivered a pack of feral children here the night before last. Kershaw and I thought we’d see what it was about.”

  “Ah, then your mission is not so very different from my own,” Winter replied. “I’m interested in finding out who was
holding these children. To that end, I thought I’d search again the place where the Ghost found them.”

  “Indeed?” Mr. Seymour looked eager. “You know where they were found by the Ghost?”

  Winter nodded, watching the man. Only Seymour seemed interested in the illegal workshop. Kershaw was yawning and d’Arque merely stared into space as if thinking of something else.

  “Then with your permission I would like to accompany you and investigate the site as well,” Mr. Seymour said.

  Winter frowned. “I had thought to go alone…”

  “But two pairs of eyes are better than one, don’t you think?” Mr. Seymour asked.

  “True.” Winter glanced at the other two gentlemen. “Would anyone else like to participate in our investigations?”

  Looking bored and impatient, d’Arque, shook his head. Lord Kershaw raised his eyebrows haughtily. “I think not.”

  Winter nodded and turned to Mr. Seymour. “Then shall we proceed?”

  “NO,” ISABEL SAID with all the authority she could muster, which as it happened, was quite a lot. It was early—much too early for fashionable calls—but Louise had arrived just after Isabel had risen.

  Louise’s pretty eyes opened wide. “But I’m Christopher’s mother. He should be with me.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought at first as well,” Isabel murmured as she poured tea. She’d invited Louise into her sitting room to discuss Christopher. “But then I considered the matter and realized that wasn’t quite true.”

  Louise blinked. “You can’t mean I’m not his mother.”

  “In a way I do, actually.” Isabel held out the teacup and the other woman took it absently. “You see, Christopher has lived with me ever since he was a baby. I provided for him, saw that he was clothed and fed and had a competent nanny, and lately I’ve enjoyed his company as well. You, on the other hand, see him once a month, if that, and have never thought to inquire about his welfare.”

  “I… I’ve been busy.” Louise’s mouth looked mutinous.

  “Of course you have,” Isabel soothed. This next bit was going to be tricky. “But that’s just it, don’t you see? You have a busy social life with so many things to do. Do you really want a little boy around, getting in your way?”

  Louise’s brows drew together.

  “And I”—Isabel waved her hand, indicating her town house—“have this great empty house. It just makes sense that I keep Christopher and raise him. And besides, I’ve come to love him.”

  Louise’s brow cleared. “Well, since you put it like that…”

  “Oh, I do,” Isabel murmured. “Have some more tea.”

  “Thank you.” Louise stared down at her cup, looking very young. “I can visit him still, can’t I?”

  Isabel smiled, relieved and so happy she felt like twirling about the room. Instead she said, “I’m sure Christopher would like that.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Isabel watched as Butterman shut the door behind Louise.

  She turned to the butler. “Has my carriage been called?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good. Please inform Pinkney that I wish to go out.”

  She paced restlessly until the lady’s maid appeared and then hurriedly entered her carriage. The ride to St. Giles was uneventful, which made her even more impatient when at last they arrived.

  Isabel stepped down from her carriage outside the home and found herself looking around eagerly for Winter. Silly! Just because he wasn’t at her house—had gone out without a word to her, in fact—didn’t mean he’d left her. Of course, his bag was gone, too, but one ought not to panic over that. He’d left behind his clothes—what there were of them—and surely such a frugal man wouldn’t just abandon wearable clothes.

  Would he?

  She took a deep breath, steadying herself before she mounted the steps to the home. Harold followed at a discreet distance behind her. She’d thought they’d reached a new accord last night, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps, despite his protestations, she’d driven him away with her theatrics. Wretched thought!

  Well, she could at least inspect the home while she was here. Lady Hero, Amelia, and the younger Lady Caire were all still away; Lady Phoebe was a girl and could hardly act alone. That left her to see if Lady Penelope was dressing all the boys in primrose coats or making the children march in circles or any other idea that flew into her scattered brain.

  Isabel knocked on the front door.

  Usually it was opened at once, but there was a very long wait this morning. Isabel tapped her toe, glanced at the sky to see if it was about to rain, and started when something crashed inside.

  She raised her eyebrows at the still-shut door.

  Which suddenly opened. One of the smaller girls—oddly still in her night rail—stood there with her thumb in her mouth, staring at Isabel mutely.

  Isabel cleared her throat. “Where is everyone, darling?”

  The child pointed down the hall behind her.

  Well. Isabel raised her skirts and prepared to enter.

  “Shall I stay out here, my lady?” Harold asked anxiously.

  Isabel looked at him and then back into the home from which an odd screeching sound was coming. “I think you’d better come in with me. You, too, Pinkney.”

  The lady’s maid had been loitering near the bottom of the steps but now climbed them reluctantly.

  The hallway looked normal enough—if one discounted the long smear of something green at child height. Isabel peered closer. The smear looked suspiciously like pea soup. The sitting room was empty—except for a broken bowl on the floor—and the kitchen seemed normal enough save for the angry muttering of Mistress Medina. Something thundered across the ceiling overhead, and Isabel picked up her skirts and hurried up the stairs.

  She was nearly to the top when Soot came tearing past, closely followed by Dodo, trailing a long red ribbon tied around her neck. They went roaring down the stairs, and then Isabel heard the scrabbling of dog and kitty claws on the marble floor below before a scream and a crash from the kitchen.

  Oh, dear.

  She ran the rest of the way up the stairs and to the first classroom, skidding to a stop in the doorway and ducking only just in time as a small missile went whizzing past her head.

  Sadly, Harold wasn’t so quick.

  “Ow!” Harold picked up something from the floor. “They’re flinging walnuts, the little buggers!”

  Pinkney clapped both hands over her mouth to muffle a giggle.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Harold,” Isabel said faintly, for she was busy staring in horror at the classroom. Who knew that such well-mannered, sweet children could do… well, this.

  To one side, a pitched battle was going on between some of the younger boys, apparently without any rules at all, for they were using slingshots, pillows, and what looked like the remains of their breakfast porridge. On the other side of the room, relative quiet reigned as the babies who could just walk intently painted the wall with more porridge and what looked like jam. In the middle, a bunch of girls had made a maze of tables and benches and were busy hopping from one to the other, screeching at the top of their lungs.

  And in the midst of all this, Lady Penelope stood, her face a mask of stunned confusion. “Children,” she pleaded. “Children, please.”

  As Isabel watched, a glob of porridge hit Lady Penelope’s lovely hair and stuck, sliding a bit over her left ear.

  Naturally, Isabel started forward, ready to confiscate slingshots, yank girls down from tables, and wash a passel of babies. She opened her mouth, about to give a stern command… and then she thought about what she was doing. If she saved Lady Penelope now, helped her run the home and discipline the children, then there would never be a need to call Winter back to the home.

  “Oh, Lady Beckinhall!” Lady Penelope had caught sight of her. She held out dainty white hands pitifully. “Surely you know what to do with children? I sent Artemis down to fetch Lord d’Arque or Nell or the cook or one of the
maids or anyone, but she hasn’t returned. You don’t think they’ve captured her, do you? Tied her up and stuffed her under a bed?”

  Lady Penelope essayed a laugh, but it came out more a frightened titter.

  Isabel looked at her gravely. “I’m sure I have no experience with children, my lady, but in any case I wouldn’t be able to help. Mr. Makepeace has only ever been the one who could control these children. Didn’t you know? They come from St. Giles.”

  “But… but…” Lady Penelope raised her hands to her head and unfortunately found the porridge stuck there. She let out a scream that for the moment made all the children pause.

  Isabel backed from the room. “Oh, dear. I expect I should go find Miss Greaves, oughtn’t I?”

  She whirled and was halfway to the stairs before she heard the wail from Lady Penelope. “Waaaiiit!”

  Isabel climbed back down the stairs much more sedately than she’d come up, Harold and Pinkney trailing along silently. She tried the sitting room again first, and then went back to the kitchens.

  Miss Greaves sat at the kitchen table with the cook, a pot of tea between them. Miss Greaves leaped to her feet at the sight of Isabel. “Oh, my lady. I was just… just…”

  “Having tea, it looks like,” Isabel said soothingly. “I wouldn’t mind a cup myself. Harold, can you find Lord d’Arque for me and request he come speak to me?”

  The footman nodded and trotted from the kitchen.

  “Now, then.” Isabel sat and poured herself a cup of tea before glancing up at the cook and Miss Greaves. “How long has it been like this?”

  Miss Greaves heaved a sigh.

  The cook grimaced. “Almost as soon as Mr. Makepeace left. It’s been a right riot ’round ’ere. The little monsters don’t pay a whit of attention to anyone. Got Lord d’Arque quite smartly on the back of the ’ead with a walnut, one of ’em did.”

  Mistress Medina sounded almost pleased.

  “Lady Penelope did try,” Miss Greaves said earnestly. “She brought hothouse cherries for the children the second day, but—”