Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(55)

She smiled for the first time since he’d seen her that day. “Why, Mr. Makepeace, I do believe that’s the loveliest compliment you’ve given me.”

He refused to be distracted. “The boy bothers you. Why?”

He almost regretted his question, for her smile faded and she looked away from him. “Perhaps I’m not very fond of children.”

Then why become a patroness of an orphanage? he thought, but fortunately did not say.

“Well.” Isabel drank the rest of her tea, set the dish down, and then stood. “Lady Whimple—Lord d’Arque’s grandmother—is having a soiree tonight at d’Arque’s town house. I suggest we practice your dancing.”

Winter sighed. Dancing had become his least favorite activity.

“That is,” Isabel said sharply, “if you intend to attend tonight?”

Winter rose, looking down into Isabel’s bright blue eyes. The invitation to d’Arque’s town house would provide a perfect opportunity to search the man’s study and bedroom. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Chapter Ten

For two nights, the Harlequin’s True Love braved the dangerous alleys of St. Giles, searching, searching for her love—only to return home at dawn disappointed. But on the third night, the True Love found him, standing over the body of a thief he’d just slain.

“Harlequin, oh, Harlequin!” the True Love cried. “Do you not remember me?”

But he only turned aside and walked away as if he could neither hear nor see her…

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

Despite Winter’s assurances that he would attend Lady Whimple’s ball, Isabel entered Lord d’Arque’s ballroom that night with no real expectation of seeing him. Once again he’d chosen to arrive separately, this time with the excuse that his schoolmaster duties kept him late.

She was growing tired of such stories—tired of thinly disguised lies from a man who was otherwise strictly moral. Was he ever going to confess to being the Ghost? Or did he think she was so stupid that she couldn’t recognize him under the mask and motley? The longer he pretended that nothing was out of the ordinary, the more her ire rose.

Isabel took a deep, steadying breath and glanced about. The ballroom was extravagantly decorated, naturally, and painted an elegant crimson. Lord d’Arque appeared to have spent a fortune on hothouse carnations—his grandmother’s favorite. White, red, and pink mounds were everywhere in the room, perfuming the air with the heady scent of cloves.

Viscount d’Arque stood next to his grandmother to receive their guests, and as Isabel drew abreast of them, she curtsied to the elderly lady. Lady Whimple lived with her grandson now. She was rumored to have been a beauty in her youth, but age had placed a hand on her face and pulled down, bringing with it the skin around her mouth, eyes, and neck. Her eyelids drooped on either side of the peak of her eyebrows, making her look as if she perpetually grieved, but the light gray eyes beneath sparkled with intelligence.

“Lady Beckinhall,” the elderly lady drawled, “my grandson has informed me that you have championed the cause of the manager of some home for children.”

Isabel smiled politely. “Indeed, ma’am.”

Lady Whimple sniffed. “In my day, society matrons were more interested in romantic intrigue and gossip, but I suppose you gels of today are more saintly for your charitable work.” Her tone made plain that saintliness was not an attribute to be prized.

“I hope I can bear up under the strain,” Isabel murmured.

“Hmm,” Lady Whimple replied skeptically. “D’Arque has also told me that he himself is interested in managing this home for urchins, but he does like to bam me, so I’ve taken no notice.”

“Grand-mère.” The viscount bent to buss his grandmother on the cheek—a move that seemed to irritate her. “I know the idea of my doing anything not immediately beneficial to myself is very strange indeed, but we must learn to move with the times.” He slid a mocking glance at Isabel. “And if I should become bored with the home I can always hire others to oversee it.”

Isabel narrowed her eyes at him. D’Arque was merely baiting her now with his show of fickle ennui. The only good thing about his mercurial moods was that he might grow bored of this “contest” and give up the whole thing before it was too late.

“Ha. Just as long as I’m not expected to join in this madness,” Lady Whimple muttered.

“I concur, my lady,” a masculine voice said beside them.

Isabel turned to see that Mr. and Mrs. Seymour had come up behind her in the receiving line.

Lord d’Arque smiled. “Have you thrown your lot against me as well, Seymour?”

“Not against you, d’Arque.” Mr. Seymour chuckled while his wife looked bored. “But you must admit that Lady Whimple has it right when she says that ’tis odd to think of you as the manager of an orphanage.”

“Odd or not, ’tis my ambition,” d’Arque said stubbornly. “If only because several lovely ladies are patrons of the home. ’Sides, London has begun to bore me. Overseeing urchins might be terribly amusing.”

His grandmother snorted.

“If you say so,” Mr. Seymour replied, shaking his head ruefully. “And it’ll do me no good, I wager, to try and dissuade you. So I’ll turn to Lady Beckinhall instead and ask if she’s recovered from her encounter with her friend the Ghost of St. Giles.”