Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(43)

“My lady?” Pinkney wrinkled her brow in confusion.

“Never mind.” Isabel touched the jeweled red silk rose in her coiffure and nodded to herself. “Has Mr. Makepeace arrived yet?”

“No, my lady.”

“Curse the man,” Isabel muttered just as she caught sight of a small foot sticking out from under one of her armchairs. “Go ahead and make sure the carriage is ready. I’ll be down in a few more minutes.”

Isabel waited until both maids left and then approached the armchair. “Christopher.”

The foot withdrew under the chair. “My lady?”

She sighed. “What are you doing down there?”

Silence.

“Christopher?”

“Don’t want to have a bath,” came the tiny, mutinous mutter.

She bit her lip to keep from smiling even though he couldn’t see her. “If you never bathe, you’ll become caked with dirt and we’ll have to scrape it off with a shovel.”

A giggle drifted out from under the armchair. “Can you tell me about the Ghost again, my lady?”

She cocked an eyebrow at the armchair. Was this blackmail in one so young? “Very well, I’ll tell you a story about the Ghost of St. Giles, but then you must go back to Carruthers.”

A heavy sigh. “All right.”

Isabel cast her gaze about her bedroom for inspiration. Butterman had reported on his findings about the Ghost just this afternoon. Most of it was silly rumors and fairy tales, obviously meant to frighten little children. The Ghost was scarred in some and ate the livers of maidens. He could be in two places at once and his eyes burned with an orange flame. In others he could fly and knocked at the windows of misbehaving boys. But some of the stories sounded like they might have a grain of truth in them.

“My lady?” The small foot was inching back out from under the armchair and Christopher’s voice sounded impatient.

Isabel cleared her throat. “Once upon a time…” Didn’t all stories begin thus? “There lived a poor widow who sold currant buns. Every morning she would get up well before the rooster crowed and bake her buns. Then she would pile them onto a great, wide basket and, placing the basket on her head, walk the streets of London crying, ‘Currant buns! Currant buns! Ye’ll ne’er taste better! Buy my currant buns!’

“All day she walked and cried, and by suppertime her basket was empty and her feet sore, but the poor widow would have a few pennies in her pockets from her labors. Then she would buy a bit of meat, a bit of bread, and a bit of milk and walk home to feed her children.”

Isabel paused to see if she’d lost her listener, but almost at once Christopher said, “But what about the Ghost?”

“I’m coming to that,” she said. “One day as the widow walked home, a gang of men set upon her and beat her and took all her pennies. ‘Oh, stop, stop!’ the widow called. And, ‘Who will help me?’ But all were afraid of the robbers and none would come to help. The widow was left crying in the street and had to sell her shawl to pay for her children’s dinner. The next day she baked and sold her currant buns, but again as she walked home, she was set upon by the same gang of robbers. Again they beat the poor widow and took her pennies and they merely laughed when she called, ‘Who will help me?’ ”

“Oh,” Christopher whispered from under the armchair. “If’n I had a pistol, I would shoot those men for her!”

“That would be very brave of you.” Isabel had to clear her throat—a lump had formed at the thought of the little boy wanting to help a stranger. “This time the poor widow had to sell her shoes to pay for her children’s dinner. The third day the widow was in despair, but she could do naught but bake her currant buns and walk the streets of London in her bare feet to sell them. When she headed for home that night, her feet were bloody and she was very weary. When the robbers again set upon her, she could only whisper, ‘Who will help me?’ ” Isabel paused. “But this time someone heard her. The Ghost of St. Giles swept down upon those mean robbers like a terrible windstorm.”

“Huzzah!” Christopher’s head peeked out from under the armchair and he hugged himself with excitement as Isabel continued.

“The Ghost has two swords, you know, one long and one short, and he used both as he attacked those robbers. He made them yell with pain and fear, and by the time he was finished with them, he’d shredded the clothes from their bodies. The robbers were forced to run naked and barefoot through St. Giles to escape the Ghost. The people of St. Giles made sure they were very sorry for the sorrow they’d caused the poor widow and they never bothered her again.”

“Oh!” Christopher said as he hugged himself. “Oh!”

His eyes were wide and his cheeks red, and Isabel hoped she hadn’t overexcited him.

“That’s the best story ever,” Christopher said.

Isabel smiled, feeling a bit embarrassed, for she’d gotten carried away in the story herself. Strange to think that she’d actually met the dashing, mythical Ghost. Stranger still, she had a mad suspicion of who he might be under that grotesque mask.

She blinked and focused on the boy. “There’s more. Would you like to hear it?”

Christopher nodded.

The epilogue wasn’t as full of action, but it was Isabel’s favorite part. “The next morning when the widow got up to make her currant buns, guess what she found next to her oven? A bag of money—more than she’d lost from the robbers—and a pair of new shoes.”