Thief of Shadows

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “Pits,” Mistress Medina said succinctly. “Not to mention cherry juice stains right proper. Any ’alf-wit knows that.”

  “I think she would’ve handed the home back after that,” Miss Greaves murmured, “if it were not for Lord d’Arque’s insistence that they keep it. He hasn’t even bothered to hire a manager.”

  “But why?” Isabel asked.

  “Because,” Lord d’Arque said from the doorway, “it irritates Makepeace for me to be here. That’s why. Besides I’m right in the middle of the Ghost’s haunting grounds here. If he shows, I’ll be the first to hear about it.”

  Miss Greaves squeaked at his entrance and hurriedly made her excuses. Mistress Medina rose from the kitchen table, her very slowness an insult.

  Fortunately, Lord d’Arque was in no state to notice. He leaned against the doorway, almost a parody of insouciance, quite obviously the worse for drink. “Do you still hate me?”

  “Oh, yes,” Isabel said sincerely. No matter what his reasons—if there were any—he’d hurt Winter very badly. Her loyalties were quite confirmed. “But I’ve come with a question for you anyway.”

  Lord d’Arque pushed off from the doorjamb and walked overly carefully toward her. “Given him up? Come for a real lover?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never known you to be crude before.”

  He sank rather abruptly into the chair opposite her. “Sorry.”

  She studied him. Something was obviously tearing at his soul. Perhaps Winter was right. This d’Arque might very well do something shady and immoral. “I want to ask you about your coachman.”

  “My coachman?” The viscount blinked as if that were the last thing he expected. “Don’t tell me he’s in trouble—I only hired him the other day.”

  It was Isabel’s turn to look puzzled. “I thought you’d had him for months.”

  Lord d’Arque rolled his eyes. “No, that was my old man. He disappeared while we were attending the opera. Damned inconvenient. I had to get one of the footmen to drive me home, and the man had never handled the reins as far as I could tell.”

  Isabel frowned, thinking. Had someone killed the coachman to keep him from telling Winter anything? If so, that hardly exonerated Lord d’Arque. She pulled the scrap of paper with his seal from her pocket. “Is this yours?”

  He leaned down to peer at the paper, his brows drawing together. “It’s my seal, certainly, and this is my handwriting.” He turned the letter over, staring at the misspelled words there. “Looks like someone reused the paper for a note.” He shrugged and straightened. “Where did you get it?”

  “It was found in St. Giles,” she said. “And I would very much like to know what it was doing there.”

  “How should I know?”

  She pursed her lips impatiently. “It’s your letter.”

  “Do you remember everyone you write to?”

  “Actually, yes,” she said. “Because the people I write to are usually personal friends.”

  He stared at her a moment. “Let me see that.”

  She handed the scrap of paper over.

  He peered at it, turning it over. “Well, it says October…” He looked up at her suddenly. “Why do you want to know whom I wrote to anyway?”

  “Because,” she said with a hard smile. “Why do you wish to conceal whom you wrote it to?”

  “I don’t.” He shrugged again and let the paper fall to the table. “I write my grandmother when she’s out of town—but she was in London during October. I might’ve written this to a paramour or…” He frowned, thinking.

  “Who?” she whispered.

  “I wrote a note on a matter of business to Seymour in October.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “What business?”

  He shook his head. “It was a delicate matter. I gave my word not to reveal it.”

  “Adam.”

  He smiled suddenly with some of his normal attractiveness. “I do like the way you say my given name.”

  “I haven’t the time for this,” she said sternly.

  He sighed. “Oh, all right. Seymour had a moneymaking scheme he wanted me to invest in. I declined in a letter.”

  “Why did you decline?”

  “I’ve found that moneymaking schemes are a good way to lose all one’s blunt.” He smiled, dissipated and handsome. “And despite my devil-may-care exterior, I have the heart of a conservative miser.”

  “Hmm.” Isabel thought for a bit. Was Mr. Seymour’s moneymaking scheme somehow connected to the lace stocking workshop? Or was the whole thing a false trail? “What was Seymour’s scheme?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  The viscount shrugged elegantly. “We never got as far as specifics. I declined at once.”

  She grimaced. “Very well, I’ll ask the man himself. I’ll visit Mr. Seymour at his home.” Isabel rose, gesturing to Harold, but Lord d’Arque was shaking his head again.

  “He’s not there. We met Makepeace when we came here. He and Makepeace set off together for the place where the Ghost had rescued all those girls the other night.”

  Alarm caused Isabel’s hands to tremble, but she made herself ask calmly, “Did anyone go with them?”

  “No, they went alone. Why?” The viscount was staring at her curiously.

  “It’s probably nothing.” Isabel tried to think. She looked at him. “How did you come to hire your former coachman anyway?”

  “What very odd questions you’re asking this morning,” Lord d’Arque murmured. He threw up his hands at a fierce glance from her. “All right! Seymour recommended him, in fact.”

  Oh, God! Mr. Seymour must be the aristocrat behind the workshops, and Winter had gone off with him alone. Why else would Mr. Seymour do that except that he’d realized that Winter was the Ghost and wished to kill him? How could she get to Winter in time to warn him?

  She balled her hands into impotent fists. “I don’t even know where they’ve gone. I don’t know where the workshop is.”

  “Well, that’s settled easily enough,” the viscount drawled. “I do.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You do?”

  He smiled, looking almost boyish. “Makepeace told us where the place was before he left with Seymour.”

  WINTER PAUSED BESIDE a tall house, looking up. Four stories plus the attic. This was the building that he’d found the children in the night before last.

  He lowered his gaze to his companion. “This is the place.”

  “You’re sure?” Seymour looked doubtfully at the building. “It looks like all the others around here.”

  “I’m sure,” Winter said. “Would you like to go first?”

  “Oh, no,” Seymour said. He smiled and gestured. “After you, Mr. Makepeace.”

  Winter nodded and entered the building. It had been divided up into multiple small rooms, each for let, some sublet again, and some with beds rented yet again within the rooms. A typical St. Giles house. Luckily the stairs were here at the front of the house and they wouldn’t have to travel the warren to find them.

  Winter started up the stairs. “I was surprised to see you and Lord Kershaw in St. Giles today.”

  “Really?” Seymour’s voice echoed off the bare walls eerily.

  “Mmm.” Winter turned a corner. “Why were you here?”

  “We came to help d’Arque look for Fraser-Burnsby’s murderer,” Seymour said. “The Ghost of St. Giles. You still know nothing about him?”

  His voice was suddenly very close.

  Winter paused and turned, unsurprised to find Seymour on a tread just below him. “You move very quietly, Mr. Seymour.”

  The other man was no longer smiling. “So do you. I noticed on the walk here that you’re quite at home in St. Giles.”

  Winter smiled thinly. “I have lived here for nine years. And, no, I don’t know anything about the Ghost.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Very.”

  Winter started up the stairs again, aware that
the other man followed him closely. The house was old and made odd noises—creaks and groans. This time of day it was mostly deserted. The inhabitants were out, scrabbling for what money they could earn or steal so they could afford to sleep tonight in this wretched place.

  If they were attacked, probably no one would hear. And if anyone did, they were very unlikely to do anything about it. People minded their own business in St. Giles out of desperate necessity. They might as well be trekking through some African desert.

  “I was surprised you knew about the children the Ghost brought to the home,” Seymour said. They were nearing the top floor now.

  Ah, at last. “Were you?”

  “You seemed to know almost before anyone else outside the home. Almost as soon as the Ghost himself.”

  “I have my sources,” Winter said easily. The climb was making him warm and he folded back the edge of his cloak.

  “Your sources must be nearly as good as the Ghost’s.”

  “Perhaps.” Winter paused outside a small door. “The workshop is in here. Would you like to go in first?”

  “Please, Mr. Makepeace,” Mr. Seymour said.

  Winter looked at him a moment and then opened the door. The outer attic room was even smaller in daylight. The wood from the broken roof door lay on the floor in jagged pieces among a layer of dust. Oddly, the machines were all gone.

  Behind him the door to the attic room closed.

  Winter felt the jolt of warning rush through him.

  A moment too late.

  When he turned, Seymour already had his sword drawn. “I think you’d better kneel before me, Mr. Makepeace. Or do you prefer to be called the Ghost of St. Giles?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Now the Harlequin could see, but he still stood mute and unmoving before his True Love. So once more she stood on tiptoe, this time kissing him on the cheek before whispering, “Remember how we once lay together, love? Remember how we became lovers and hoped for a future? That future is alive and here.”

  And taking his hand, she laid it upon her gently swelling belly, where a new life grew. Thus she made him touch Hope…

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

  She’d pushed him away from her again and again, but she never thought he’d go far. He’d always be in her life, always be in this world, living his own life, perhaps marrying, managing his home, happy, damn it.

  Winter Makepeace wasn’t supposed to die. Isabel simply couldn’t conceive of it. He was too athletic, too young, too vital. He wasn’t like other men. He challenged her. He saw all her faults—and they were myriad—and he said he loved her anyway. If she lived a thousand lifetimes, she’d never find another man like him, and she didn’t want to.

  She loved Winter Makepeace and no other.

  The thought was dizzying. Isabel actually stumbled in the dank, awful St. Giles alley.

  “Are you all right, my lady?” Harold said as he caught her arm.

  “Yes, yes,” she panted. “We must hurry.”

  The way to the address that Viscount d’Arque had given her was too narrow for her carriage. Besides, one moved faster on foot in St. Giles—the alleys and lanes twisted too much for a carriage and horses. So she’d run all the way. They’d left d’Arque behind, for the man had been far more the worse for drink than he’d at first appeared. Harold jogged along beside her, though she’d ordered him to go ahead. He’d stoutly refused, saying St. Giles was too dangerous for a lady alone.

  Which was right, but that wouldn’t save Winter if Charles Seymour were even now plunging a dagger into his back.

  A tall house loomed up ahead.

  “That’s it,” Isabel gasped. “Hurry!”

  Harold yanked open the door and they started climbing a nightmarish length of stairs. Around and around they went, never ending it seemed, and the entire time Isabel climbed, she listened for a shot. The cry of a wounded man. Voices raised in anger.

  And heard nothing.

  At last they made the final turn and came out on the attic level. Straight ahead was a mean little door, and Isabel rushed it even as Harold flung out an arm to catch her back.

  The door burst open and Isabel’s momentum sent her crashing into the room—and into the back of a man.

  Strong arms wrapped around her and for a split second everything was calm.

  Then a voice spoke above her. “Ah, Makepeace, I believe your inamorata has joined us.”

  WINTER FELT THE sweat slide down the small of his back. He’d suspected the moment that Seymour volunteered to accompany him to the workshop that Seymour was the “toff.” Seymour had been the only one of the three aristocrats who had been interested in Winter’s knowledge of the workshop location—knowledge he could only have if he was the Ghost of St. Giles. When Winter had seen the other man’s sword, triumphant victory had swept through him at the confirmation of his hunch, but in the next instant Isabel had come barging in.

  Seymour now held Isabel tightly against his chest, his arm across her throat. Winter had felt the excitement in a fight, he’d felt the thrill of danger, and the pain of a hit.

  But he’d never felt fear.

  Seymour flicked a glance at Harold the footman, who was hesitating by the door uncertainly. “Throw down your pistol, please, or I’ll kill your mistress.”

  Harold dropped the pistol he carried.

  Seymour smiled at Winter. “Now. The Ghost of St. Giles is known for having two swords with him at all times. True, you’re not dressed as the Ghost at the moment, but, please, humor me. Open your cloak, Ghost.”

  Winter opened his cloak and held the edges apart, looking into Isabel’s wide, blue eyes. She was terrified. That alone signed Seymour’s fate. “It’s very kind of you to come save me again, my lady, although I would’ve thought Harold would know better.”

  Behind her, Harold shrugged by the door.

  She licked her lips. “I love you. No matter what happens, I love you, Winter. If—”

  “Enough.” Seymour yanked hard on her neck, cutting her off. “I seem to see a hilt peeking from your cloak lining. Place both your swords on the ground—slowly—and slide them across the room.”

  Winter’s chest was full of the splendor of Isabel’s love, but he couldn’t linger over that now. He did as Seymour said.

  “Now kneel.”

  Winter shook his head gently. “No. If I kneel, you’ll kill me and then kill Lady Beckinhall. I really don’t see any incentive to do so.”

  For a moment, Seymour looked nonplussed and Winter used his distraction to drift closer.

  “I’ll… I’ll kill her,” Seymour sputtered.

  Winter shook his head. “You kill her and I’ll kill you, swords or no swords. There’ll be nothing holding me back. Really, it’s a matter of logic.”

  “If it’s a matter of logic,” Seymour said with dripping sarcasm, “then what do you suggest I do?”

  Winter tilted his head. “Fight me man-to-man.”

  “No!” Isabel strained against the arm around her throat. “You’re not armed, Winter! Don’t be a fool.”

  Seymour grinned. “Very well.”

  He shoved Isabel aside in a sudden movement that sent her to the floor and leaped at Winter, his sword aimed at his heart.

  ISABEL LANDED PAINFULLY on her hands and knees. Winter! She sobbed as she rolled to see if he’d been killed with Mr. Seymour’s first sword thrust. To see if he was dying right now, his life’s blood spurting from him.

  But Winter had his cloak wrapped about one arm, using it to defend himself as he maneuvered toward his swords. As she watched, Mr. Seymour thrust and thrust again, the point of his sword landing in the wadded cloak each time.

  But the price of such defense was evident: A dark, wet stain was spreading over the cloak wrapped about Winter’s arm. Dear God, if he was crippled, this would be all over before he reached his own swords.

  Isabel looked frantically about and saw Harold’s pistol. It lay against the wall behind Mr.
Seymour. She began creeping toward it.

  At that moment, Winter lunged for his swords, his right arm outstretched. Mr. Seymour followed, stabbing vindictively.

  Winter rolled aside, his long sword in his right hand, just as Seymour’s sword point pierced the wooden floorboards where he’d just lain. Winter jumped gracefully to his feet and lunged at Mr. Seymour.

  Isabel reached the pistol and grasped it in both hands, lifting the heavy thing and pointing it toward the fighters. But Mr. Seymour and Winter were now in a straight line comparative to her. If she shot and missed, she risked the danger of hitting Winter and killing him. She caught Harold’s eye and he started forward, but she waved him back. Anything he tried would bring him closer to the fighters—and into her own line of fire.

  She held the pistol level and aimed at Mr. Seymour, waiting for her moment.

  Seymour parried a lightning thrust from Winter. “You were supposed to be unarmed. This isn’t fair.”

  “Oh, you aristocrats,” Winter hissed, stomping forward in attack, “you make your own rules that must be followed by all but are only in your own favor.”

  Mr. Seymour sneered, batting aside Winter’s long sword. “It’s the natural order of things that the mighty will rule over the meek. If you don’t like it, then plead your case before God.”

  And he struck, as quick and vicious as an adder, ripping a long tear in Winter’s waistcoat. Isabel moaned, low and terrified. Winter’s waistcoat immediately began to darken, and as he moved, blood spattered to the floor from both his left arm and his side. Dear God, he was losing so much blood! He would weaken if this didn’t end soon. But the men were still too close together for her to shoot.

  “You’re good,” Winter panted, skipping back from another thrust. “But then you aristocrats often are—what more do you have to do than to endlessly practice your sword craft?”

  “You may learn the art of the sword,” Seymour sneered, “but it’s like a parrot talking: he only mimics what he doesn’t truly understand.”

  He lunged and Winter caught the attack with his own sword, the blades shrieking as they slid against each other, each man bearing against the other with his full weight and strength. Winter’s blood smeared the floor and his rear boot slid in it, forcing him to stumble to the side to avoid the tip of Mr. Seymour’s blade.