Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(42)

ISABEL BACKED INTO the doorway of the ladies’ retiring room and stared down the hallway thoughtfully. If she wasn’t mistaken, Lady Margaret had just exited a room farther down the hall, where the passage became dimly lit. Now why—Isabel’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Mr. Roger Fraser-Burnsby had just come out of the room Megs had left.

Well.

She was enough of a woman of the world to know that clandestine tête-à-têtes sometimes took place at balls. But Lady Margaret was an unmarried heiress. True, Mr. Fraser-Burnsby seemed like a nice enough young man, but Megs risked her reputation and thus the rest of her life by meeting him in private.

Isabel checked that her skirts were straight and then started back to the ball. She’d have to find a way to gently hint to Megs that she wasn’t quite as discreet as she thought she was. But in the meantime, Isabel had to return to the ball and Winter Makepeace. She’d already taken too long in the retiring room and had the sneaking suspicion that she might’ve been hiding from him. Isabel sighed. She’d never been a coward before. She’d just have to face the man and make light conversation until this wretched evening was over.

And then she must find a way to put Winter Makepeace from her mind—and perhaps her heart.

Chapter Eight

That night the Harlequin took revenge upon those who had wronged him. His attackers had not even left St. Giles when he found them, and though they screamed at his unholy white eyes and tried to defend themselves, they were ill matched against the Ghost of St. Giles! He fought with inhumane strength and skill and he killed them all without word or look of mercy. But he didn’t stop there. The Harlequin went hunting the next night as well. Soon, all who had ever done a misdeed knew to stay well away from St. Giles at night, for the Ghost was thirsty for blood…

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

“Oh, my lady, those stockings are the very height of elegance,” Pinkney exclaimed the next night as Isabel rolled her new lace stockings over her calf. “And such a reasonable price. Shall I order another dozen?”

Isabel pointed her toes to better view the embroidered clocking overlaying the lace on the outside of her ankle. It really was rather fine. No doubt Winter Makepeace would think clocked lace stockings a shocking waste of money.

She nodded defiantly to Pinkney. “Buy two dozen.”

The lady’s maid grinned, ever enthusiastic when it came to the procurement of expensive clothing, and held open Isabel’s petticoat for her to step into. “I will indeed, my lady.”

“Good,” Isabel said absently as she studied herself in the mirror. Her chemise had heavy lace at the elbow-length sleeves and neck, and the gossamer material revealed the deep red of her nipples. Would such a sight tempt the priestly Winter?

Did she even want to tempt him?

“My lady.” Pinkney held out her silk stays and Isabel nodded, raising her arm so that the maid could slip the stays on over her head.

Pinkney came around to Isabel’s front and began to tighten the laces while Suzie the little undermaid knelt to hold the stays firm.

He’d said that he didn’t want a liaison with her, or any woman, in as plain language as she’d ever heard. He’d devoted himself—mind, soul, and cock, it seemed—to St. Giles and its people. Why humiliate herself chasing a man—a mere schoolmaster at that!—when other gentlemen were willing? Lord d’Arque, for instance. He was handsome and witty and would no doubt be a very experienced and skilled bed partner.

The maids stood and began gathering her skirts. Tonight Isabel wore a violet brocade with a darker purple medallion pattern woven into the material. She stepped carefully into the pool of fabric and stood as the maids drew the skirt up and began fastening it about her waist.

The problem was that she wasn’t particularly interested in a romantic affair with d’Arque—or anyone else save Winter. Strange how only a week or so ago she would’ve laughed at the mere notion—she and the home’s manager. But in the past week, her perception of him had changed. He spoke to her as an equal, as if her rank and his position simply didn’t matter. But it was more than that. Many men considered women either ethereal beings to be placed on a pedestal or childlike and unable to hold logical thought. Winter talked to her as if she were as intelligent as he. As if she would be interested in some of the same things that engaged him. As if he might want to know what she thought about. He talked to her as if she mattered.

And considering it now, she realized no one had ever been curious about her, Isabel the woman. She had been wife and daughter, lover and witty society lady. But no one had ever looked beneath those masks to find out what the woman who wore them really thought.

Was it so terrible to want to be closer to a man who saw her as a person?

Pinkney helped her slip into the tight bodice of her dress. She slid the V-shaped embroidered stomacher in front of the bodice and then carefully pinned the edges to the stomacher. The maid picked and tugged gently at the lace of the chemise so just the edge showed at the square bodice and then tied the sleeves of the bodice at Isabel’s elbows to show the fall of lace beneath.

“There.” Pinkney stood back reverently. “You do look splendid tonight, my lady.”

Isabel arched her brow, turning first one way and then another to examine herself in the mirror over her vanity. “Splendid enough to seduce a priest, do you think?”