Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(35)

“That,” Isabel said as she lounged on one of the settees in her sitting room, “is the most refined waistcoat I think I’ve ever seen. A duke wouldn’t be ashamed to wear it.”

She couldn’t hide her satisfaction—both with the excellent cut of his suit and the fact that he’d finally returned to her home. Since the dancing lesson, Mr. Makepeace had sent his excuses, avoiding another lesson, or even a meeting, until tonight. She’d begun to think that she’d scared him off entirely.

Now he was standing before her mantelpiece mirror making perturbed little pokes at his neck cloth. He shot her an ironic glance. “I’m not a duke.”

“No, but you’ll be mingling with dukes.” Isabel stood and caught Mr. Makepeace’s hand. “Stop that. You’ll undo all the good that my rented valet did dressing you.”

Mr. Makepeace turned his hand suddenly so that now he gripped her fingers. He cocked his head at her, watching her with those mysterious brown eyes, and then slowly—so very slowly—lowered his head and kissed her fingertips.

She inhaled and met his eyes. Damn him! Why should the touch of this man’s lips on her fingers of all things make her belly heat? And why was he playing with her thus?

“As you wish,” he murmured as he straightened.

“I do wish,” she said rather incomprehensibly. She snatched her hand away and smoothed her skirts. “The carriage is waiting, if you’re finished having maidenly nerves.”

“Quite finished.” His mouth quirked as he held out his arm to her.

“Good,” she humphed, just to say something, and laid her fingertips on his forearm as he led her to the door.

The night was pleasantly cool against her shoulders as he helped her into the carriage. Tonight she wore her embroidered cream, the skirts heavy and sweeping, and it occurred to Isabel as she settled in the carriage that Mr. Makepeace’s colors complemented her own quite nicely.

She looked across at him as he sat. There was a rustling sound as he moved and she noticed that the pocket of his coat was tented.

“Have you something in your pocket?” she asked. “I can’t believe Mr. Hurt even made them to work.”

“I asked him to.” Mr. Makepeace shot her a look as he drew a crumpled piece of paper out of the pocket. “It seemed a waste of material to make false pockets.”

“But you’ll ruin the line if you go putting things in your pocket.” Isabel leaned forward to peer at the splotch on the paper. “What is that anyway?”

He shrugged. “Something I found in a little boy’s hand.”

“That’s d’Arque’s emblem,” she said as she finally realized she was looking at a red wax seal. “Who was the little boy who had it?”

“You recognize this?” His broad thumb smoothed over the blob of hardened wax.

“I think so.” She took it from him, holding it up to the swaying carriage light. “Yes, you can see the owl. It’s quite distinct in the d’Arque coat of arms.”

The paper looked like it had been torn from a letter, the seal still attached to one edge. On it, scrawled in a hand that looked barely literate, were two words:

chapl allee

She looked on the other side. Here there was more writing, but in an elegant, cultured hand:

12 Octob

The last two letters of October had been torn off. She turned the paper back over and looked up at him. “I doubt this is d’Arque’s handwriting on this side, though the date might be and the seal is definitely his. How strange. How do you suppose a small boy in St. Giles found such a thing?”

He took the scrap of paper from her hand, turning it over thoughtfully. “That’s a good question. Tell me about this d’Arque.”

She looked away from him and shrugged carelessly. “You’ll meet him soon enough—I’m sure he’ll be here tonight. He’s the Viscount d’Arque. Inherited the title from his uncle, I believe, not that long ago—perhaps three years?”

“He’s a young man?” He’d sat back against the cushions, so a shadow was cast across the upper half of his face. She couldn’t read his eyes and could see only his lips.

“Young is relative, isn’t it?” She cocked her head, staring at him. “I suppose he’s not much older than I, if you call that young.”

He smiled faintly. “I do.”

She could feel the blush creep up her cheeks—damn the man! “Most wouldn’t, I think. I’m two and thirty and have buried a husband. I’m far from a dewy maid, Mr. Makepeace.”

“But you’re also far from a doddering crone, my lady,” he retorted. “Do you consider Lord d’Arque old?”

“Of course not.” She sighed and looked away. “But then men age less rapidly than women. Many would consider him to be in his prime.”

“Do you?”

She smiled—not kindly—and looked back at him. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I do.”

His mouth tightened. “He’s a handsome man.”

Was he jealous? And why did the possibility send a wicked thrill through her?

“Yes.” She couldn’t help it—her voice emerged a throaty purr. “He’s tall and well built and he moves with a kind of animal grace that makes ladies stare. And he’s witty. He has the knack of saying the most mundane things—and only afterward do you realize the double entendre or the devastating put-down. It’s quite a talent, really.”