Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(48)

Chapter Nine

Now, the Harlequin’s True Love soon heard tales of his fate. How he’d been attacked and left for dead. How he’d somehow survived and now roamed the streets of St. Giles at night killing the wicked. She knew that the man she loved was never that violent and so she determined to find the Harlequin and talk to him to see if she might bring him to his senses…

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

Ten minutes later, Lady Penelope said, “Here at last is Mr. Makepeace,” and Isabel finally drew breath.

She kept herself facing forward as he greeted the other occupants of Lord d’Arque’s lavish opera box. Lord d’Arque had invited a crowd to oversee his defeat of Winter in their silly contest of manners, it seemed. Besides herself, Lady Penelope, and Miss Greaves, there was also his friends, the Earl of Kershaw and Mr. Charles Seymour, along with Mrs. Seymour, a rather plain-faced woman older than her husband.

“I think it obvious that Mr. Makepeace has lost the duel of gentlemanly manners,” Lady Penelope said. “Shall we declare my lord d’Arque the winner?”

“I am flattered, my lady,” came d’Arque’s habitual drawl, “but because of the unexpected appearance of the Ghost, I think it best to call this round a draw and reconvene on a different night. Perhaps we can use my grandmother’s ball tomorrow night?”

“But—” Lady Penelope began.

She was interrupted by Miss Greave’s soft voice. “Oh, well done, Lord d’Arque. Fairness toward one’s opponents is surely the greatest mark of a gentleman. Don’t you agree, Mr. Makepeace?”

Isabel nearly laughed. Miss Greaves had thoroughly spiked Lady Penelope’s guns. She just hoped the lady’s companion wouldn’t pay for her presumption later.

“I do, Miss Greaves,” Winter replied, and the matter was settled.

Isabel stared sightlessly at the stage where two men were wrestling the stage curtain. It wouldn’t do to let Winter Makepeace know how sick with worry—and rage—she’d been. If he wanted to run about in a mask and cape, think himself invincible and her a fool, well then let him!

A moment later she heard the slight rustle of clothing as he sat beside her. “Good evening, my lady.”

She nodded without turning his way.

After the turmoil of the duel, the excited inquiries and exclamations over Lord d’Arque’s minor wound, the viscount had settled his party into his opera box situated directly over the stage. Lord d’Arque had arranged for sweetmeats and wine to be served to them in the box, and Isabel thought rather cynically that Winter would’ve lost the contest of gentlemanly manners even if the duel hadn’t already made Lord d’Arque the hero of the night.

Below, the stagehands—who had succeeded in tying up the curtain—were taking elaborate bows from the stage to cheers from the pit.

“It seems that you have decided not to talk to me.” Winter Makepeace sighed. “I do apologize for my delay in arriving. I was detained at the home. One of the children—”

She pursed her lips impatiently. She’d had quite enough of his lies. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that you missed an appearance by the notorious Ghost of St. Giles.”

At last she turned to look at him. His mouth was set—an expression that she’d learned meant he was impatient—but otherwise he seemed exactly as usual.

On her other side, Lady Penelope fanned herself vigorously. “I nearly fainted when I saw that Lord d’Arque was risking his life battling that fiend! If you had fallen from the balcony…” She shuddered dramatically. “Truly your bravery saved us all this night, my lord.”

Viscount d’Arque had long since regained his habitual aplomb. The wound at his shoulder was wrapped rather dashingly in a scarlet handkerchief. Several ladies had nearly come to blows vying for the privilege of offering their fichus, handkerchiefs, or even petticoats in sacrifice for his bandage.

Lord d’Arque looked a trace sardonic as he bowed to Lady Penelope. “Had I given my life in such service, I would deem it a more-than-worthy sacrifice.”

“It is only too bad that no other gentleman was brave enough to challenge the Ghost,” Lady Penelope said with a significant glance at Winter.

“Some of us are a bit aged to be hopping about on a balcony with swords,” Lord Kershaw said drily. His words were meant sardonically, for he couldn’t be more than forty years. “Although I’m sure Seymour could’ve given the Ghost a good fight—he’s rather renown at the fencing club. Beat both Rushmore and Gibbons last time you were there, didn’t you, Seymour?”

Beside him, Mr. Seymour looked modest.

But Lady Penelope ignored them both. “I meant a younger man—such as Mr. Makepeace, perhaps.”

“But Mr. Makepeace was not here—and besides, he does not wear a sword,” Miss Greaves protested softly. “Even had he been here when the Ghost was running amok, surely one wouldn’t expect a gentleman to fight without a weapon.”

“True, but then I don’t believe Mr. Makepeace has the right to wear a sword, has he?” Lady Penelope asked archly. “Only an aristocrat may do so.”

“Quite correct, my lady,” Winter murmured, unconcerned.

“Would you wear a sword if you could do so?” inquired Miss Greaves.