Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(26)

He smiled back, his heart beating in triple time.

Then she looked away, biting her lip. “Oh, where has the time gone? I think that’s enough for today, don’t you? I’ll come to the home tomorrow and we can continue your studies there.”

He didn’t bother arguing. He’d obviously pushed her as far as she could go today. Instead, feeling protective, he stood and bowed, and with a few murmured words left her.

But as the butler showed him the door, Winter wondered: Who was uncovering who in their little game?

ISABEL SAT AT her vanity that night brushing her hair, having already dismissed Pinkney for the evening. She was playing a dangerous game, she knew, with Mr. Makepeace. He wasn’t of her station, wasn’t even the same age as she. Yet she was strangely addicted to his intent regard. It was heady, being the focus of such a serious man. No man had ever looked at her the way Winter Makepeace did—not her lovers, and certainly not her husband.

She lowered her brush. Was that why she found herself wanting to provoke him into… what? Dropping his mask, perhaps?

Odd thought. For now that she considered it, his bluntness of speech rather reminded her of another man—the masked Ghost of St. Giles. He, too, had declined light flirtation for more direct conversation with her. How bizarre that Mr. Makepeace, a staid schoolmaster, should remind her of the roguish Ghost of St. Giles.

A movement in the mirror caught her eye. The drapes on the bed behind her twitched.

Isabel set her brush down on the vanity, turned, and looked at the bed. “Christopher?”

There was a pause and she began to wonder if she’d been mistaken, and then a small voice said, “Ma’am?”

She sighed. “Christopher, I think I’ve told you before that you mustn’t hide in my rooms.”

Silence.

Isabel stared at the bed, perplexed. What if he refused to come out? Should she have the boy pulled from the bed? Spanked by his nanny? Damn it, where was Carruthers?

The curtains rustled again as if small fingers had trailed across them. “I like it here.”

She looked away, biting her lip, tears smarting in her eyes. He was only a small boy. Surely she could deal with a small boy?

She inhaled. “It’s past your bedtime.”

“Can’t sleep.”

She looked about the room as if searching for help. “I’ll send for some warm milk.”

“Don’t like milk.”

She stared at the curtain, exasperated. “What do you like?”

“Can…” She could hear the hesitation in his little voice and it made her heart squeeze. “Can you tell me a story, my lady?”

A story. Her mind was a blank. All she could think of was Cinderella, and she had the feeling that a little boy wouldn’t be interested in the exploits of a girl and a handsome prince. She looked down, thinking, and saw the brush.

Isabel cleared her throat. “Have you heard of the Ghost of St. Giles?”

The curtain paused in its twitching. “A ghost? A real ghost?”

“Well…” She knit her brows in thought. “No, he’s a living man, but he moves like a ghost and he hunts at night like a ghost.”

“Who does he hunt?”

“Wicked men,” she replied, sure of her ground now. She’d heard the stories of the Ghost ravaging maidens and kidnapping ladies, but having actually met the man, she was sure that the stories were false. “He punishes thieves and footpads and those who prey on the innocent.”

“Pray like in church?”

“No. Prey like a cat catching a mouse.”

“Oh.”

She glanced at the bed and saw that Christopher had parted the curtain. One brown eye peeped out at her.

Isabel tried a smile. “Now, I really think you must go to bed, Christopher.”

“But that wasn’t a story,” he pointed out.

Her chest tightened in near panic. “It’s the best I can do for now.”

“Are you my mother?” That single brown eye was wide and unblinking.

She had to look away first. “You know I’m not. I’ve told you so before.” She got up and briskly opened the curtains to her bed, careful not to touch the boy. “Shall I ring for Carruthers or can you find the nursery yourself?”

“M’self.” He jumped down from the bed and walked slowly to her door. “G’night, my lady.”

Her voice was husky when she replied. “Good night, Christopher.”

Luckily, she held back the tears until he’d shut the door behind him.

“LADY BECKINHALL’S CARRIAGE is outside,” Mary Whitsun said as she entered the home’s sitting room the next afternoon.

Winter looked up from the letter he was reading just in time to see a little white and black terrier trot into the room as if he owned the place.

“Oh, come here, Dodo,” Mary exclaimed. She bent and picked up the dog, who submitted without even a halfhearted growl.

Winter raised an eyebrow, impressed. Dodo had continued his warning growl whenever he came near. “Has Peach come down?”

“No, sir,” Mary said regretfully. “She’s still abed and not speaking, poor thing. But Dodo here has decided to explore the home. Just this morning Mistress Medina had to chase the dog away from some tarts she had cooling on a table in the kitchen.”