Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(21)

“I believe so.” Winter set his plate aside, bracing himself. “Charming as this visit is, I think we need to get to the point now, my lady.”

She smiled ruefully. “The arguing so soon?”

That smile sent a bolt straight through his middle, but he soldiered on, keeping his face expressionless. “If we must.”

“Oh, I think we must,” she said softly. “I’ve heard that Lady Penelope intends to hire a new manager for the home.”

He’d been expecting something like this, but the blow was hard nonetheless. This wasn’t just the children’s home—it was his as well. Last night’s rescue of Peach had made him realize that. He could no more walk away from the home than he could cut off his right hand.

But he didn’t let those ragged emotions show on his face. They were carefully hidden. Carefully contained. “And how will you help me keep the home?”

She shrugged elegantly, though he noticed that she couldn’t quite conceal the tension in her face. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one concealing emotions. “I’ll tutor you in social manners, prove that you can be as graceful as any popinjay Lady Penelope finds. It’s the only way to defeat her plans.”

He raised his eyebrows in amusement at her choice of words. “And you’ve appointed yourself my savior? Why?”

“Why not?” She smiled carelessly. “I’ve found I’ve acquired a taste for saving gentlemen lately. Did you know that I helped the Ghost of St. Giles escape from a maddened mob the other day?”

His heart stopped. “No, I did not.”

“Quite brave of me, don’t you think?” Her lips curved mockingly at her own words.

“Yes,” he said with perfect seriousness. “I do.”

She glanced up and he snared her eyes. Her soft mouth wobbled. What was she thinking, this beautiful, exotic creature? She didn’t belong here in his plain sitting room, didn’t belong in St. Giles or in his life. And yet he had a near-impossible-to-resist urge to drag her into his lap and kiss her.

He took a deep breath, beating down the animal. “Well, then. I suppose I’d best put myself under your tutelage.”

“Good.” She rose abruptly and without her usual grace. “Then we shall start tomorrow morning.”

THE NEXT MORNING, Winter stood looking up at the facade of Lady Beckinhall’s town house. It was exactly what he’d expected: new, ostentatious, and in the most fashionable part of London.

The inside was another matter altogether.

Winter paused on the threshold of the grand doors, giving his right leg a rest and trying to understand the difference, ignoring for a moment the supercilious butler who had admitted him. The house was grand, yes, rich and elegantly appointed, but there was something else here as well.

The butler cleared his throat. “If you’d care to wait for Lady Beckinhall in the small sitting room, sir?”

Winter tore his gaze from the sunbeam dancing across the marbled entryway floor and nodded absently at the man.

He was ushered into the “small” sitting room, which, naturally, wasn’t small at all—it was nearly the size of the new home’s dining room. But the room had been appointed in such a way that its large size didn’t seem cold or uncomfortably formal. The walls were a buttery yellow with a gray-blue wainscoting. Groups of chairs and settees were scattered here and there, making smaller, more intimate seating spaces. Overhead, cherubs frolicked on the painted ceiling, peeking from behind billowy white clouds. Winter snorted under his breath at the sight. He strolled toward a fireplace at the far end of the room, not bothering to hide his limp now that he was alone. A pink and white gilded clock ticked on the mantel, its face nearly hidden by curlicues and cupids. The sitting room was at the back of the house and the sounds from the street were muffled, making the room pleasantly quiet.

Winter touched the clock. It was a silly thing, and yet… oddly adorable and utterly fitting in Lady Beckinhall’s sitting room. He frowned, puzzled. How could a clock be adorable?

Something scuttled behind one of the pink settees.

Winter raised his brows. Surely Lady Beckinhall wasn’t troubled by rats? But perhaps she had a lap dog like so many fashionable ladies. He stretched to peer over the back of the settee.

Large brown eyes stared back from a small boy’s face. The child couldn’t be more than five, but he was dressed in a fine scarlet coat and breeches with lace at his throat. Not a servant’s child, then.

He hadn’t known she was a mother. The thought made something in his heart contract.

Winter inclined his head. “Good day.”

The boy slowly rose from his place of hiding and scuffed one foot in the thick, plush carpet. “Who’re you?”

Winter bowed. “Mr. Makepeace. How do you do?”

Some instinct—or more likely hours of tutelage—made the child bow in return.

Winter felt his lips twitch in amusement. “And you are?”

“Christopher!” The answer came not from the boy, but from a frazzled-looking female servant at the door. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, if he was bothering you.”

Winter shook his head. “No bother at all.”

Lady Beckinhall appeared behind the maidservant, her face expressionless. “Christopher, you’ve worried Carruthers terribly. Please make your apologies to her.”