Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(15)

Winter lifted his eyebrows. “That was nine years ago,” he said mildly. “Is a boy of seventeen ever the same as a man of six and twenty?”

She snorted and began bundling his new costume. “That I don’t know, but I wonder sometimes if Sir Stanley knew exactly what ’e was about when ’e gave you them swords and mask.”

“Do you disapprove of my actions?”

She waved an impatient hand. “Don’t try to trap me with your arguments. All I know is that ’tisn’t natural for a man to spend all ’is time roamin’ the streets of St. Giles, making other people’s troubles ’is own business.”

“Would you have me ignore people in trouble?” he asked in simple interest.

She turned abruptly and pinned him with her gaze. Her eyes might be ruined from years of sewing in too-dim light, but her regard was still acute. “I saw the knife cut in that old pair of leggings you brought to me—and the dried blood about the edges. There must be a terrible wound ’iding beneath your breeches.”

He shook his head, amused. “I’m young and strong. I heal fast.”

“This time.” She pushed the bundled costume into his chest. “What’ll you do when the wound is deeper? Longer? You ain’t immortal no matter what Sir Stanley might’ve told you, Winter Makepeace.”

“Thank you, Mistress Medina.” He took the clothes and retrieved a small purse from his pocket—most of the money he’d saved since the home had had the fortune to gain patronesses. “Call around at the home tomorrow morning. We’re in need of a cook, I think, now that we’ve new quarters. In the meantime, I’ll keep your admonitions in mind.”

“Humph.” She took the purse and unlocked the door for him, scowling. But as he passed by her, he heard her say gruffly, “Take care, Mr. Makepeace. St. Giles needs you.”

“Good night.”

He pulled his greatcoat more securely about himself as he headed into the chilly dark. If he were wearing his harlequin motley, he could go in search of other people’s troubles right now and lose himself in the night and danger. Winter shrugged irritably at the thought. His shoulders itched to swing a sword or throw a blow. He’d lain abed for almost a week, letting his leg heal, and now he was almost ready to charge the filthy walls of the little courtyard.

Tomorrow night, he promised himself. Tomorrow would be soon enough to find someone to help. To find someone to fight.

The thought pulled him up short. He’d always regarded himself as a man of peace—despite his nocturnal wanderings. He went out as the Ghost of St. Giles to right wrongs. To help those unable to help themselves.

Didn’t he?

He shook his head at himself. Of course he did. St. Giles was a weeping wound of humanity. Those too poor to live elsewhere came here. The prostitutes, the thieves, the ones enslaved to gin. All the dregs of London. And with them came their problems: rape and thievery, starvation and want, abandonment and despair. He’d long ago learned that there weren’t enough hours in the daytime to help the destitute of St. Giles, so he’d taken to the night. Some wrongs needed more than good intentions and prayer to correct.

Some could only be helped with the point of a sword.

Winter walked around a corner and into a slightly wider street, startling a skeletally thin, small mongrel that looked like a terrier of some kind. The dog yipped once and cowered back into the pile of rags it lay on. Winter passed the animal, but something made him pause. Perhaps he sensed movement or the scent of something else besides the dog.

Or perhaps it was Providence.

In any case, he turned and took another look. A pale thing lay among the dog’s dark fur, like an exotic starfish lost from the sea: a child’s hand. Winter bent and lifted away a rag, ignoring the uncertain rumbling coming from the dog’s thin chest. A frightened face cringed away from him, the eyes wide and staring, the mouth stretched in a rictus of terror.

He crouched to make himself less intimidating. “I’ll not hurt you, child. Are you all alone?”

But the little creature seemed too petrified to speak.

“Come. I know a warm, safe place.” Winter carefully lifted the child, bundled rags and all, ignoring the creature’s feeble attempts to push him away. Lord only knew what had made the child so terrified, but he could not leave it here to freeze to death.

The dog tumbled from the rags, falling to the street with a yelp.

The child whispered something and held out a pleading hand to the mongrel.

Winter lifted his chin to the dog. “Best you come along, too, then.”

And without looking back to the mongrel, he turned to continue toward the home. The dog would follow or not, but in either case the animal was not his main concern.

The child was.

He could feel the little body shaking against his chest, whether from fear or cold, he couldn’t tell.

Half an hour later, the new Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children loomed ahead. The building was utilitarian brick, but it still stood out from its surroundings, a shining beacon of hope. Winter stumbled at the thought. What would he do if Lady Beckinhall was correct and he was driven from the home? He had no idea—the home and helping the children within it were all he’d ever wanted to do in his life. Without it—without them—he was less than nothing.

He shook away the thought and continued walking. The child needed to get inside. There was a rather grand front entrance with a set of wide stairs, but Winter chose the more accessible servant’s entrance at the back.