Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(50)

Winter looked at him, his face expressionless. “Is it?”

Did the wrenched man want to be discovered?

“I believe the opera is about to begin,” Isabel interrupted. The orchestra had ceased their vague tuning noises and started into Mr. Handel’s latest wonderful composition.

“Yes.” Miss Greaves leaned forward eagerly. “There is La Veneziana. She’s said to be the greatest soprano of our age.”

“Is she?” Lady Penelope employed a pair of jeweled opera glasses. “But she’s such a scrawny little thing.”

Isabel peered at the soprano on the stage. She wore a spangled red and white dress, and even with her lack of height, she commanded the stage.

And that was before she opened her mouth.

As the high, sweet voice soared through the opera house, Winter leaned close to Isabel. “Her voice is magnificent,” he whispered. “One might even forget her scrawniness.”

She turned and looked at him and saw that his grave dark eyes were sparkling with mischief. Her senses suddenly spun. Only half an hour before, those same eyes had stared at her through the holes of a mask with passion and yearning and a blunt hunger that had taken her breath away. She felt the exact moment, the sudden loss of footing, the sensation of falling, and knew sheer terror.

Dear God, this man could utterly destroy her.

IT WAS PAST midnight by the time Winter made his way wearily back to the home. The opera house was less than a mile away from St. Giles, and it seemed a terrible waste of money to hire a hack for such a short ride. Not to mention that he had a soft, long sack containing his Ghost costume and swords slung over his shoulder—something he’d rather not have to explain to anyone.

A carriage rumbled by and Winter hastily skipped back as the wheels hit a puddle in the road and sent up a wave of foul water and mud. Splatters hit his legs and he looked down ruefully at the dark splotches on his formerly white stockings. Wonderful. Now he reeked of the sewers and would have to wash out his stockings before he went to bed.

Winter sighed. What matter if his new stockings were stained? The only reason he’d not lost the bet with d’Arque before it had even begun was because d’Arque had declared the night a draw. Lady Beckinhall had been chilly the rest of the evening, shooting him suspicious glances and making snide asides to him—when she would speak to him at all. Did she know he was the Ghost? She must at least suspect after that kiss… or did she? Surely such an outspoken woman would’ve taken him to task already if she knew he was the Ghost. And if she didn’t suspect he was the Ghost, maybe she wasn’t interested in Winter Makepeace at all. Maybe she just liked kissing masked men. Winter kicked a broken cobblestone so savagely it ricocheted with a clang off the bricks of a building.

Winter stopped to calm his breath. He never should’ve kissed her. Had he not been in the Ghost’s disguise, he would’ve been able to resist her—or at least he hoped he would’ve been able to resist her. The truth was, the moment she’d touched her mouth to his, he’d been lost. Isabel tasted of heat and mint, honey and longing. When she’d stroked her tongue across his mouth, he’d come fully, achingly erect. With that one touch, she’d opened a Pandora’s box of passion within him.

Prudence demanded that he stay as far away from the lady as humanly possible. He should take tonight as a warning and retire. Yet he knew he would not. Isabel offered the only hope that he might continue at the home. More, she offered a means to investigate d’Arque, for without Isabel and her “tutelage,” he would not normally frequent the rarified circles that d’Arque swam in.

Winter snorted. He’d be lying to himself if he thought that was the real reason he would see her again. As important as the home and discovering d’Arque’s involvement with the lassie snatchers were, he knew in his heart that he simply couldn’t stay away from Isabel. She drew him. Whether it was animal instinct rising to the surface—the male part of him that he’d thought he’d long ago suppressed—or something more spiritual, it hardly mattered. He could no more leave the lady alone than he could stop breathing.

For a moment Winter leaned against the crumbling corner of a brick house. He was dangerously involved with Isabel. And he was chasing his tail with d’Arque. What had d’Arque’s coachman meant when he said that it wasn’t the viscount? Was some other “toff” behind the lassie snatchers? And if so, then why had Joseph Chance been clutching a scrap of paper with d’Arque’s seal on it?

Winter straightened, shaking his head. He was probably making the whole thing too complicated. No doubt the coachman had been lying simply to save his master’s—and his own—neck. D’Arque must be involved, otherwise why—

The sudden clatter of hooves on cobblestones made Winter draw back into the shadows, but there wasn’t much room to hide.

Captain Trevillion came around the corner, followed by a half dozen of his dragoons.

Trevillion must’ve seen Winter, for he drew his gelding to an immediate halt. “Mr. Makepeace, St. Giles isn’t a safe place to loiter late at night, as I’m sure you know.”

“I do know.” Since the dragoon captain had already spotted him, Winter emerged into the moonlight. “Out hunting old women gin hawkers, Captain?”

Trevillion’s lips tightened and Winter wondered how much ribbing the captain might’ve taken over his less-than-successful campaign to clean the gin makers and sellers out of St. Giles.