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.

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.

Hastily Winter jumped from the other side of the carriage and rushed into the shadows. When he was at a safe distance, Winter paused and leaned against a wall, catching his breath. His arms ached from the duel and swinging over the stage, he hadn’t learned a thing from the coachman, and the night wasn’t over yet.

He still had an opera to attend.

Chapter Nine

Now, the Harlequin’s True Love soon heard tales of his fate. How he’d been attacked and left for dead. How he’d somehow survived and now roamed the streets of St. Giles at night killing the wicked. She knew that the man she loved was never that violent and so she determined to find the Harlequin and talk to him to see if she might bring him to his senses…

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

Ten minutes later, Lady Penelope said, “Here at last is Mr. Makepeace,” and Isabel finally drew breath.

She kept herself facing forward as he greeted the other occupants of Lord d’Arque’s lavish opera box. Lord d’Arque had invited a crowd to oversee his defeat of Winter in their silly contest of manners, it seemed. Besides herself, Lady Penelope, and Miss Greaves, there was also his friends, the Earl of Kershaw and Mr. Charles Seymour, along with Mrs. Seymour, a rather plain-faced woman older than her husband.

“I think it obvious that Mr. Makepeace has lost the duel of gentlemanly manners,” Lady Penelope said. “Shall we declare my lord d’Arque the winner?”

“I am flattered, my lady,” came d’Arque’s habitual drawl, “but because of the unexpected appearance of the Ghost, I think it best to call this round a draw and reconvene on a different night. Perhaps we can use my grandmother’s ball tomorrow night?”

“But—” Lady Penelope began.

She was interrupted by Miss Greave’s soft voice. “Oh, well done, Lord d’Arque. Fairness toward one’s opponents is surely the greatest mark of a gentleman. Don’t you agree, Mr. Makepeace?”

Isabel nearly laughed. Miss Greaves had thoroughly spiked Lady Penelope’s guns. She just hoped the lady’s companion wouldn’t pay for her presumption later.

“I do, Miss Greaves,” Winter replied, and the matter was settled.

Isabel stared sightlessly at the stage where two men were wrestling the stage curtain. It wouldn’t do to let Winter Makepeace know how sick with worry—and rage—she’d been. If he wanted to run about in a mask and cape, think himself invincible and her a fool, well then let him!

A moment later she heard the slight rustle of clothing as he sat beside her. “Good evening, my lady.”

She nodded without turning his way.

After the turmoil of the duel, the excited inquiries and exclamations over Lord d’Arque’s minor wound, the viscount had settled his party into his opera box situated directly over the stage. Lord d’Arque had arranged for sweetmeats and wine to be served to them in the box, and Isabel thought rather cynically that Winter would’ve lost the contest of gentlemanly manners even if the duel hadn’t already made Lord d’Arque the hero of the night.

Below, the stagehands—who had succeeded in tying up the curtain—were taking elaborate bows from the stage to cheers from the pit.

“It seems that you have decided not to talk to me.” Winter Makepeace sighed. “I do apologize for my delay in arriving. I was detained at the home. One of the children—”

She pursed her lips impatiently. She’d had quite enough of his lies. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that you missed an appearance by the notorious Ghost of St. Giles.”

At last she turned to look at him. His mouth was set—an expression that she’d learned meant he was impatient—but otherwise he seemed exactly as usual.

On her other side, Lady Penelope fanned herself vigorously. “I nearly fainted when I saw that Lord d’Arque was risking his life battling that fiend! If you had fallen from the balcony…” She shuddered dramatically. “Truly your bravery saved us all this night, my lord.”

Viscount d’Arque had long since regained his habitual aplomb. The wound at his shoulder was wrapped rather dashingly in a scarlet handkerchief. Several ladies had nearly come to blows vying for the privilege of offering their fichus, handkerchiefs, or even petticoats in sacrifice for his bandage.

Lord d’Arque looked a trace sardonic as he bowed to Lady Penelope. “Had I given my life in such service, I would deem it a more-than-worthy sacrifice.”

“It is only too bad that no other gentleman was brave enough to challenge the Ghost,” Lady Penelope said with a significant glance at Winter.

“Some of us are a bit aged to be hopping about on a balcony with swords,” Lord Kershaw said drily. His words were meant sardonically, for he couldn’t be more than forty years. “Although I’m sure Seymour could’ve given the Ghost a good fight—he’s rather renown at the fencing club. Beat both Rushmore and Gibbons last time you were there, didn’t you, Seymour?”

Beside him, Mr. Seymour looked modest.

But Lady Penelope ignored them both. “I meant a younger man—such as Mr. Makepeace, perhaps.”

“But Mr. Makepeace was not here—and besides, he does not wear a sword,” Miss Greaves protested softly. “Even had he been here when the Ghost was running amok, surely one wouldn’t expect a gentleman to fight without a weapon.”

“True, but then I don’t believe Mr. Makepeace has the right to wear a sword, has he?” Lady Penelope asked archly. “Only an aristocrat may do so.”

“Quite correct, my lady,” Winter murmured, unconcerned.

“Would you wear a sword if you could do so?” inquired Miss Greaves.

Winter bowed in her direction. “I believe that civilized men can find ways to settle arguments other than with the use of violence, ma’am, so no, I would not.”

Miss Greaves smiled.

Isabel snorted under her breath, causing Winter to shoot her a sharp glance.

“What a noble sentiment,” Lord d’Arque drawled. “But I fear that when I saw the Ghost accosting Lady Beckinhall, I had more concern for her welfare than a philosophical argument.”