Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(47)

Gasps from below.

Winter softly tutted.

“Damn you,” d’Arque growled, lunging anew.

Winter didn’t like the man, but then again, he didn’t want to kill the viscount either. He had no clear evidence against d’Arque. The man might still be innocent. Winter skipped backward on the railing, parrying d’Arque’s attack as he retreated toward the stage. He almost laughed aloud. His heart was racing, his limbs were strong and quick, and he felt free.

Only fools take victory for granted. The ghostly voice of Sir Stanley echoed in his mind.

They fought along the rail, nearing the stage, the occupants scattering as they passed each box.

D’Arque slashed at Winter’s face. Winter leaned to the side and pinked the viscount on the upper left arm. The point of his sword slid through the viscount’s pale blue silk coat, ripping a long diagonal hole as Winter jerked it free.

Red began to stain the pale blue.

D’Arque lunged in awkward rage, and Winter easily avoided the attack. But the viscount had put too much weight on his outer foot. He tilted over the pit and began to fall as shrieks rose from below.

Winter didn’t stop to think. He simply grabbed the man’s free arm, pulling him back from death.

D’Arque’s sword fell to the pit, stabbing into a plush chair, where it stood upright, wobbling from side to side.

Winter looked back up and into d’Arque’s wide eyes.

The other man swallowed. “Thank you.”

Winter nodded and let go of the viscount’s arm. He turned and ran the few feet along the railing to the stage. Behind him, there were shouts and someone tried to grab his cloak as he ran past. He reached the stage and found the rope to the curtain, tied to a cleat at the side. Two slashes from his sword and the rope was free. Winter held it, feeling the sharp burn in his biceps as he swung out over the stage. Below, the musicians rose in a wave from their seats.

He dropped onto the stage, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, his sword still in hand. But he needn’t have bothered. The stagehands nearest him backed away. Winter turned and ducked into the wings, running away from the stage and the commotion the duel had caused. He shoved past another stagehand, and then he was sprinting along a darkened corridor, hopefully toward the rear of the theater and a back door into an alley.

This had been madness. He should never have alerted Isabel to his presence. It had been a much too risky move. But when he’d seen her and realized that she’d seen him—was in fact trying to find him—well, he hadn’t been able to control the urge to confront her. To trade quips with her. To kiss her uninhibitedly.

The Ghost could do at night what Winter Makepeace never dared during the day.

The corridor abruptly dead-ended on a door that looked ancient and rarely used. There was a lock, but it was rusted and Winter easily pried it off.

Cautiously, he eased open the door. This was even better than an alley. He was on a side street and all the carriages that had taken the nobility to their opera were lined up, waiting. Here he could find what he’d been searching for before Isabel had confused his purpose. He’d only been in the opera house in the first place to change into his Ghost costume—Covent Garden was much too bright and populated at night to arrive as the Ghost. Now because of the swordfight he had only minutes to discover the information he’d come for.

Winter sheathed his long sword and took out his short sword.

He slipped through the door and crept along the carriage line, keeping to the shadows. A group of coachmen and footmen were standing in a group ahead, smoking pipes, but he didn’t see d’Arque’s coachman.

Farther along, he spotted the owl on the side of a carriage—and on the seat, the dozing coachman.

Winter leaped onto the seat and grabbed the man’s collar before he’d even woken.

“What’re you about?” the coachman sputtered before he caught sight of Winter’s blade. His eyes widened as he saw the harlequin’s mask.

Even in the dim light from the carriage lanterns, Winter could see this was indeed the same man who had nearly kidnapped Joseph Chance.

He shook him like a rat and whispered, “Who do you work for?”

“M-my lord d’Arque,” the coachman sputtered.

“Why is he having girls kidnapped from St. Giles?”

The coachman’s eyes slid away. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Winter pointed the tip of his short sword at the man’s eye. “Think.”

“It’s n-not d’Arque,” the man stuttered.

Winter narrowed his eyes. “Not d’Arque? What do you mean?”

The man shook his head, clearly frightened.

Winter placed the tip of his sword on the man’s cheek. “Talk.”

“Oi!”

They’d attracted the attention of the pipe smokers. With a sudden twisting movement, the coachman slithered out of his grasp. Winter lunged—and missed—as the man fell off the other side of the carriage, picked himself up, and ran into the night.

Hastily Winter jumped from the other side of the carriage and rushed into the shadows. When he was at a safe distance, Winter paused and leaned against a wall, catching his breath. His arms ached from the duel and swinging over the stage, he hadn’t learned a thing from the coachman, and the night wasn’t over yet.

He still had an opera to attend.