Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(7)

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

Winter Makepeace, mild-mannered schoolmaster and manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, crouched on the sloping roof shingles as the sun came up over London. His back was to the roof edge and the drop below. He gripped the eve with both hands before kicking out and letting his body fall over the edge. For a moment he hung, three stories up, his entire weight suspended only by his fingertips, and then he swung through the attic window below. He landed with a wince, not only because of the pain his injured thigh caused him, but also because of the soft thump he made as he hit the floor.

Usually he entered his room through the window without any sound at all.

He winced again when he sat on the bed and examined his motley hose. They were muddy and a large rip ran from his hip to nearly his knee on the right leg. His head pounded in a drumbeat rhythm as he peeled the filthy fabric from his bandaged wound. He bundled the torn hose with his jackboots, swords, mask, and the rest of his costume and shoved the whole mess under the bed. Providence only knew if he’d be able to repair the damage—his sewing skills were adequate but by no means accomplished. Winter sighed. He very much feared that he needed a new costume—one that he could ill afford.

Turning, he limped, nude, to the pitcher of water on his washstand and poured a bit into the basin. He splashed the cold water on his face and for the first time in his life regretted that he didn’t own a looking glass. Were there bruises on his face? Telltale scratches? He could feel the scrape of his morning beard as he ran his palms over his jaw.

He grunted and for a moment leaned straight-armed on the shabby little washstand, letting the water drip from his face. He ached. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, and his head was spinning in a slow, nauseating rhythm. He had to dress, had to appear normal for the coming day. Had to teach small, recalcitrant boys at the day school, had to prepare the home’s children for the move to the new building, and had to find out if his youngest sister, Silence, was safe.

So much to do.

So many people who depended on him.

So very tired.

Winter collapsed onto his narrow bed. Just a moment’s rest first. As he closed his eyes, he seemed to feel the touch of a soft yet strong feminine hand.

Seductive, husky laughter whispered in his mind…

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Winter jolted upright, hissing as the sudden movement sent a stab of pain through his right thigh. Sunlight was streaming through his window now, illuminating every crack in the wall, every dusty beam in his attic bedroom. He squinted. It must be late morning, judging by the angle of the sun. He’d overslept.

The insistent knocking on his door began again, this time accompanied by a feminine voice. “Winter! Are you there, Brother?”

“A moment.” He snatched his nightshirt from under his pillow and hastily threw it over his head. His breeches were nowhere in sight and he couldn’t remember where he’d left them yesterday.

“Winter!”

Sighing, he draped the bedsheets around his shoulders like a banyan and stood to open his bedroom door.

Sherry-brown eyes narrowed in fear and concern met his. “Wherever have you been?”

Temperance Huntington, Baroness Caire, his elder sister, swept into Winter’s room. Behind her was a girl of thirteen with black hair and rosy cheeks. Mary Whitsun was the eldest girl at the home and as such held the most responsibilities.

Temperance nodded at the girl. “You’d best go tell the others that we’ve found him.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary hesitated only long enough to say to Winter, “I’m so glad you’re safe, sir.” Then she was gone.

Temperance glanced about the room as if expecting to find an entire brothel hiding in the corner, then frowned up at him. “Dear Lord, Winter, we’ve spent half the night and all this morning searching for you! When you didn’t come back yesterday and the riot spilled over into St. Giles, I quite feared the worst. And then we received word that you’d never made it to the new home.”

Temperance plopped onto the bed. Winter eased back as well, careful to keep the covers over his lower limbs. He opened his mouth—

But Temperance evidently wasn’t done. “And then Silence sent word that she has married Mickey O’Connor and has gone into some sort of hiding with him. We had to send the baby, Mary Darling, to her with two of O’Connor’s more frightening-looking men.” She added grudgingly, “Although, they did seem very fond of Mary Darling and she of they.”

She inhaled for breath and Winter leaped into the breech. “Then our sister is safe?”

Temperance threw up her hands. “Presumably so. The soldiers were all over London yesterday—and still are today, for that matter—looking for Mickey O’Connor. Can you imagine? They say he was actually dangling from the rope when the Ghost of St. Giles cut him down. Of course, that’s probably an exaggeration. You know how these rumors spread.”

Winter kept his features impassive. Actually, it was no exaggeration at all—he’d barely made it in time to save O’Connor’s neck from the hangman’s noose. But obviously he couldn’t tell Temperance that.

“And Mr. O’Connor’s wretched palace burned last night,” Temperance said in a lower voice. “They say a body was found in the smoldering ashes this morning, and everyone presumes it to be O’Connor’s, but Silence’s note arrived after the fire, so he must be still alive, mustn’t he? Oh, Winter! Will Silence be safe with him, do you think?”