Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(36)

“Mmm.” Those mobile, wide, sinfully delicious lips hardly moved. “And I only speak frankly—too frankly most often.”

“Yes.”

He leaned forward suddenly, the movement startling a squeak from her. He thrust his face into the full light and she could see an edge of anger—hot and wild—in his usually calm brown eyes.

Her heart began to beat in triple time.

“Would you like me more if I knew how to simper and twist my words?” he demanded.

His sudden aggression made her reply without thinking, straight from her heart. “No. I like you as you are.”

She licked her lips at her admission and his gaze settled broodingly on her mouth. It felt like a brand, that look. A physical touch more intimate than any embrace. Her lips parted in wonder and his eyes rose slowly to meet hers, for once unshielded.

Dear God, what she saw in that look! How he had hidden these many years behind the guise of a simple schoolmaster, she didn’t know. Anger, passion, lust, and surging hunger swirled in his stormy eyes. Emotions so stark, so strong, she didn’t understand how he kept them under control. He looked as if he were about to attack her, ravish her, and conquer London and the world itself. He could’ve been a warrior, a statesman, a king.

The carriage drew to a halt, and it was he who moved first.

He held out his hand to her. “Shall we descend so I can meet this Viscount d’Arque?”

As she laid her trembling fingers in his, she wondered, Why does it feel like I’ve just accepted a challenge?

Chapter Seven

With his last breath, the Harlequin whispered, “Yes.” The mysterious man’s eyes glowed red even as the Harlequin’s lost all color, becoming the white of death, and he whispered, “Let it be.”

At once the Harlequin was whole again, his limbs straight and strong. In every respect he was the same as ever, save for two things: his eyes remained white and now he carried two swords… and neither one was made of wood…

—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles

Winter felt Isabel’s slim fingers on his arm and knew a thrill of satisfaction. She might be attracted to this d’Arque—a witty man closer to her age and of her same social standing—but right now it was his arm she held.

He stepped from the carriage and remembered to turn and help her descend. She smiled her thanks as another carriage began pulling away. Winter glanced up in time to see the distinctive owl in a coat of arms on the carriage door. He squinted, staring at the coachman, who looked ominously familiar.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Isabel whispered, evidently mistaking the reason for his pause.

He nodded down at her. “Naturally not with you on my arm, my lady.”

Only then did Winter face the Duchess of Arlington’s town house. It was one of the grandest houses in London, rumored to have been partially paid for by a former duchess’s royal liaison. Even so, the present duchess had entirely redecorated the house, putting her husband’s estates into deep debt.

Not that one could tell from the opulence of the ball.

Scores of liveried footmen showed the guests into a wide hall, brilliantly lit with huge chandeliers. A sweeping staircase led to the upper floor and a grand ballroom already crowded with sweating, perfumed bodies.

Winter leaned down to whisper in Isabel’s ear, aware that she smelled of lavender and lime. “You’re sure mingling with these aristocrats will do the home good?”

“Positive,” she breathed, laughter in her husky voice. “Come, let me introduce you to some people.”

They stepped into the ballroom, and Winter felt his senses quicken. D’Arque was here tonight. Soon he would meet the man who was his only connection to the lassie snatchers in St. Giles.

Isabel’s fingers were on his arm, but it was she who guided him discreetly through the mass of people. The walls of the ballroom were a soft shade of blue-green, highlighted in cream and gold. It should have been a soothing room with those colors, but it was anything but. Around them people laughed and talked loudly. A quartet of musicians attempted to play dancing music, and the stench of burning candle wax and humanity was nearly overpowering.

Strange that the perfumed ballroom of the aristocracy could be nearly as foul as the manure-smeared streets of St. Giles.

“Who do you intend for me to meet tonight?” Winter murmured as they slowly made their way.

Isabel shrugged. “Oh, the very cream of society, I think.” She leaned toward him and tapped his arm with her folded fan. “Those people who can do the most for the home, in fact.”

His eyebrows arched. “Such as?”

She nodded toward two upright gentlemen who seemed to be the very epitome of pillars of London society. Their heads were bent together as they obviously discussed something important. “The Duke of Wakefield, for instance.”

He glanced at the tall, dark man. “Lady Hero and Lady Phoebe’s elder brother, I recollect.”

“The very same.” Isabel nodded. “He’s quite powerful—and of course fabulously wealthy. Wakefield is a guiding force in parliament. It’s rumored that Sir Robert Walpole doesn’t make a move without consulting him. And his companion, the Marquess of Mandeville, is nearly as influential. He’s Lady Margaret’s elder brother, of course. I’d introduce you now, but it rather looks as if they are intent upon some serious discussion.”