Thief of Shadows

Isabel picked up her skirts when she caught sight of the men and quickened her step toward the home.



“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she called as she neared.



Captain Trevillion swept off his tall cap and bowed from his horse, but Winter only glanced in her direction before his gaze landed on Christopher’s small form beside her; then he turned back to the captain. “As I’ve said, I didn’t catch sight of the Ghost last night, Captain.”



Isabel’s heart constricted. Dear Lord, was the dragoon captain suspicious?



“Yet you were out late, the children tell me,” Trevillion said smoothly, worsening Isabel’s fears. “Surely you must have at least heard something.”



“Gunshots,” Winter said mildly. “But I make it a habit to walk away from the sounds of violence, I assure you, Captain.”



Captain Trevillion grunted. “The Ghost killed a gentleman last night, as I’m sure you’ve heard. I trust you’ll alert me or my men if you hear anything about the matter?”



“You have my word,” Winter said gravely.



The captain nodded. “Good.” He turned to Isabel. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news as well, my lady. St. Giles is not a safe place to be walking around at the moment.”



“Your concern warms my heart as always, Captain.” Isabel smiled and gestured toward Harold, standing a respectful few paces behind her. “But I brought my footman with me.”



“Is he armed?” the dragoon officer demanded.



“Always,” Isabel assured him.



“Well, see to it that you’re out of here by nightfall,” Captain Trevillion ordered as if she were one of his soldiers. He turned the head of his big black horse. “And mind your promise, Mr. Makepeace.”



Without waiting for their replies, he trotted away.



“Why was the soldier mad?” Christopher asked as he watched the retreating dragoon. He’d spent the entire exchange staring in awe at the big horse and its rider’s impressive uniform.



“He’s been working all night,” Winter said gently, speaking directly to the boy. “I expect Captain Trevillion is tired. Have you come to visit, Christopher?”



“Yes, sir.” The boy shyly leaned into Isabel’s skirts. “My lady says there are children here to play with.”



“And so there are.” Winter gave Isabel a rare, wide smile that made her heart speed. “I’m glad that Lady Beckinhall thought to bring you. Have you come to teach me more manners, my lady?”



“Not today, though I fear our lessons are far from over.” She pursed her lips. “No, after last night and Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s”—she glanced at Christopher—“demise, I think the contest between you and Lord d’Arque must be temporarily suspended. Which is just as well, considering that you abandoned the ball without bothering to say your farewells to anyone.”



“Your mission is indeed a difficult one,” Winter murmured as he opened the front door, leading them inside.



“Humph.” Isabel rolled her eyes, but she was in far too good a mood to argue etiquette this afternoon.



“I believe Cook has made some fresh buns this morning if you would like to see,” Winter instructed Harold.



“Yes, sir.” The footman headed back to the kitchens.



Christopher gazed after him longingly.



“Perhaps we should see about the buns as well in a bit,” Winter murmured. “But first shall we see what the boys’ class is doing?”



Christopher looked both apprehensive and excited at the mention of children. He said nothing but took the hand that Winter held out. Winter glanced at Isabel over the boy’s head, his eyes warm.



They trooped up the stairs to the classroom level above the dormitories. As they neared, Isabel thought that the schoolrooms were unusually quiet, and when they entered, she could see why: The children were having their afternoon tea. Long tables had been set up, and each child had before him a steaming mug and a plate with a bun on it.



“Ah, I see we’re just in time,” Winter murmured.



Heads turned at his voice and the children chorused—after a prompt by Nell Jones—“Good afternoon, Mr. Makepeace.”



“And a good afternoon to you as well, boys.” Winter gestured to an empty seat on one of the long benches, his expression somehow amused even if he didn’t smile. “Would you care to join us, Lady Beckinhall?”



She gave him a look promising retribution and his mouth relaxed into a smile.



He sat beside her and poured her a cup of the strong tea, adding milk and sugar without prompting before passing it to her. Christopher sat stiffly across from them, without drinking his tea, although he eyed the bun on his plate hungrily.



“Is that your mother?” One of the boys who looked about Christopher’s age leaned over and whispered the question hoarsely.



Christopher darted a cautious look at Isabel. “No.”



“D’you got a mother?” the boy asked.



“Yes,” Christopher asked. “Don’t you?”



“Nope,” the boy said. “Don’t none of us do. That’s why we live here in the home.”



“Oh.” Christopher thought about that for a moment, then picked up the bun and took a bite. “I don’t have a father.”



The boy nodded sagely. “Neither do I. D’you want to see a mouse?”



Christopher looked interested. “Yes, please.”



“Henry Putman,” Winter said without looking up.



“Yes, sir?” The boy who’d been talking to Christopher looked over innocently.



“I do trust that the mouse is outside the home?”



Henry Putman wrinkled his brow.



Winter sighed. “Perhaps after tea you and Christopher can take it outside.”



“Yes, sir.” Henry Putman nodded vigorously and gulped his tea. “Joseph Chance can help us, too. He’s the one who saved it from Soot.”



A third little boy nodded vigorously over his bun.



Five minutes later, Isabel watched as Christopher trotted off with his newfound friends. The rest of the children trooped out as well. Apparently this was the designated hour for outside exercise. “You’re so good with them.”



“It’s not that hard,” he said. “One only has to treat them with respect and listen.”



“Easy for you, perhaps,” she said. “I always seem to be worrying about what I’ve said to him—or what I haven’t said.”



He nodded. “I suspect that all mothers worry about how they raise their children.”



She frowned. “I’m not his mother.”



“Of course not,” he murmured. “Yet you brought him here today. The last I saw you with Christopher, you were ordering him from the room. What changed?”



“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps some of your saintliness rubbed off on me.”



He looked at her, one brow raised.



She sighed. “Or perhaps I got tired of hurting both of us by pushing him away.”



He smiled, sudden and warm, and she wondered for a moment if he would ever laugh in front of her. “In any case, I’m very glad you brought him.”



She shrugged uncomfortably, glancing about the classroom. Besides the long table and benches, there really wasn’t anything else in the room. The marble floor was bare, and a lone bookshelf held a stack of slates and one book—from its size probably the Bible.



She looked back at him. “This room is very spartan. Surely there are funds now to decorate the home.”



Winter raised his eyebrows as if surprised at the comment. “In what way would you change things?”



“It’s hardly up to me…” She trailed off and shook her head. “A carpet, for one. The floor will be very cold in winter. A few framed prints or even paintings for the children to look at. Curtains on the windows…” She trailed off again because he was smiling at her. “Why do you look at me like that?”



“I only admire the way you know how to make a building a home.”



She snorted. “It’s not that hard.”



They were alone in the classroom now and he pulled her suddenly toward him, kissing her hard and fast. He raised his head again while she was still gasping. “Will you make my home a home, Isabel?”



She nodded, uncharacteristically mute, for he looked so satisfied. With dread she wondered if his words meant something more.



ISABEL DIDN’T KNOW whether to expect him that night. Winter had made no sign—aside from that single searing kiss in the children’s classroom—that he wanted to see her again.



Wanted to bed her again.



But she found herself in her library late that night after everyone else in the household had gone to sleep. She wandered around the shelves, trailing her fingers over leather and fabric spines, picking up a book now and again, only to set it down a moment later. Bah! She was as pathetic as any debutante yearning for a glimpse of a potential beau’s carriage behind her mother’s sitting room curtains.



When at last she heard the whispered slide of her library door opening, she couldn’t even feign nonchalance. She whirled to see him and then her heart thrilled.



He was wearing the Ghost’s disguise.



“Do you want to hang?” she scolded as she crossed to him. “Is it some impulse to martyr yourself for the inhabitants of St. Giles? Is it not enough that you give yourself night and day for them—now you must give your very life?”



“I have no wish for martyrdom,” he said mildly as he watched her fling his hat and leather mask to the floor and untie his cloak.



“You have a very odd way of showing it.” She scowled at the buttons on his tunic—it was that or weep. “If they catch you, they’ll hang you as soon as possible, and there won’t be a last-minute rescue as there was for Mickey O’Connor. There isn’t anyone to rescue you.”



“Isabel.” He caught her trembling hands, holding them firm even when she tried to pull away. “Hush. No one is going to capture me.”



She wouldn’t cry in front of him. “You’re not invincible,” she whispered. “I know you think you are, but you aren’t. You’re simply flesh and blood, as vulnerable as any other man.”



“Don’t take on so,” he whispered, brushing his mouth over her neck.



“How can I not when you insist on risking your life like this?”



He picked her up and set her on the library table, standing between her spread legs. “I must find these kidnapped children. They need me, Isabel.”



“Everyone in St. Giles needs you.” She grasped his hair with both hands. “Yet if you needed them, they wouldn’t care one whit. Why, they chased and beat you when you saved the pirate!”



“Should I help only those brave enough to help me?” he murmured as he bunched her skirts in his fists. “Perhaps only save those who pass some test of charity?”



“No, of course not.” She gasped as he ran his broad palms over her thighs. She glared at him. “Even if such a test could be devised, you would completely ignore it. You rescue the deserving and the undeserving without regard. You’re a blasted saint.”



He huffed a single chuckle, and she noted with one part of her mind that it was the first time she’d heard the sound.



Then his hands were there and all thought left her mind.



He leaned close, watching her as his clever fingers found her point and gently stroked. “I’m sorry to worry you. I’d do anything to make you happy.”



She opened her eyes wide and reached out to stroke his cheek. “Even quit being the Ghost of St. Giles?”



But he didn’t answer—either because he didn’t want to disappoint her or because her fingers working on the opening to his breeches distracted him.