Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(65)

As he stood there, the clouds opened up and the rain began in earnest. Winter lifted his face to the downpour, letting the rain wash away doubts and the failure of the night. Letting the rain wash him clean.

A light began to glow in a ground-floor window. It was well past midnight. Perhaps a maid was tidying up. Or a footman was taking an illicit drink of brandy. Or maybe Isabel couldn’t sleep.

In any case, he’d soon find out.

Chapter Twelve

The True Love thought long and hard about the wisewoman’s words. Then she unbound her long, golden hair and, plucking several strands, began to braid them into a fine cord. And as she did so, she thought of all the hours she had known the Harlequin, all the moments she’d longed for him, and all the thousands of seconds she’d loved him…

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

This was stupid.

Isabel stared sightlessly at Edmund’s carefully compiled library. Her late husband had enjoyed owning an outrageously expensive collection of books, though he’d hardly read any of them. Still, they were a source of solace for her on nights like this when sleep stubbornly stayed just out of her grasp.

She sighed and took a small book of erotic poetry off the shelf. It was rather banal—the poet had been entirely too pleased with his own wit—but perhaps that would make her drowsy. She’d already taken a hot bath and called for both warm milk and a glass of wine. Little else was left to try if she were to get any sleep this night.

Isabel settled into a deep leather chair before the unlit fireplace, tucking her slippered feet beneath the skirts of her wrap. The room was a bit chilly without the fire, but she wouldn’t stay long enough to make it worthwhile to light it.

She opened the book, tilting it to catch the light of her candle, and began to read.

The poetry must’ve done its job, for she didn’t know how much longer it was when next she looked up, and at first she wondered if she might be dreaming.

He stood there, only a few paces in front of her, still in full Ghost of St. Giles regalia.

Her heart leaped with foolish joy. Until now she’d wondered if it had only been a physical relief for him. Like eating a nice meal when one was particularly peckish. One was grateful and happy for the meal, but one never really thought about it afterward.

He’d come to her again unbidden, though. At least she wasn’t a steak and kidney pie to him.

“You’re dripping on my hearthrug,” she said.

He took off his mask, moving rather slowly. “You need new locks.”

She raised her eyebrows and closed her book. “My locks aren’t that old.”

“Yes, but”—he drew off the silk mask as well and let it drop to the hearthrug—“they’re more ornamental than useful.”

She watched as he doffed his hat. “Does that explain how you got in?”

“Partially.” He unbuckled his sword belt and carefully laid it on the tiles before the fireplace. “I would’ve gotten in anyway, no matter how good your locks, but I shouldn’t have gotten in quite so easily.”

He began unbuttoning his tunic.

“Perhaps I don’t have anything worth locking away,” she said a bit distractedly.

He shot her a sparkling glance from underneath lowered brows. “You have yourself.”

Gratifying. Why did his plain words mean so much more than any number of flowery flatteries she’d received in the past?

Isabel bit her lip. “What are you doing here?”

He removed his tunic but didn’t bother looking up as he sat to take off his boots. “I want you to show me.”

“Show you what?”

He did look up at that, one boot in his hands, and his eyes bored straight into her woman’s soul. “Everything.”

She swallowed, for she’d clenched internally at his single word. “What makes you think I’m interested in teaching you?”

He stilled and his sudden and complete lack of movement made her heart beat faster, as if he were a predator readying to pounce. “Do I presume?”

She licked dry lips. “No.”

“Don’t tease, Isabel.” He bent to the other boot.

She watched for a minute as he stripped the boot from his foot and then unbuttoned his shirt. “Why do you do it?”

He shrugged and pulled the shirt over his head, revealing again that wonderfully muscled chest. “No one misses them.”

“Who?”

“The poor, the children of St. Giles.” He paused, his hands on the fall of his breeches, and glanced at her. She saw that there was an angry fire in his eyes. “They send soldiers in for the death of one aristocrat, yet dozens of children die every month and they care not.”

She cocked her head to the side, realizing that she must speak cautiously. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby was a good man.”

He nodded. “And had he beat his servants, seduced maidens, and neglected his elderly parents, his murderer would still be hunted just as ferociously.”

“True.” His anger was more fresh tonight. Something had happened after he’d left her carriage. “What would you have society do, exactly?”

“Care.” He ripped open his breeches and stepped from them, standing only in his smallclothes. His erection strained at the thin material. “I want them to care just as much about a poor child as they do a gentleman. I want them to make sure every child is fed and clothed and housed. I want them to see that London cannot continue this way with people dying in the gutter.”