Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(78)

Still, Viscount d’Arque’s carriage was already in front of the home when they stopped.

“Wait here,” Isabel instructed as she tumbled hastily from her carriage.

She ran up the front steps and tried the door. Locked. She lifted the knocker and let it fall, continuing with the racket until the door was abruptly pulled open. Mary Whitsun stared out, her face pale. From inside the home, Isabel could hear raised voices.

“Come quickly, my lady,” Mary gasped.

Without another word, she turned and fled back inside.

Isabel picked up her skirts and hurried after. Dear God, what was Lord d’Arque shouting about? For she could hear that it was his voice that was raised now.

She and Mary Whitsun entered the sitting room just as Viscount d’Arque swung around from the fireplace.

“—know this murderer, Makepeace! You’ve already admitted as much. Give over his name, then, if you please, or I’ll have you before a magistrate on charges of hiding a thief and murderer.”

The scene was dramatic. Lord d’Arque looked as if he’d not slept a wink since the news of his friend’s murder two nights before. His face was haggard, his eyes glittered maniacally, and there were actual stains on his coat and breeches. Beside him, the Earl of Kershaw and Mr. Seymour looked grim, while Lady Penelope seemed like she might burst from the excitement. Miss Greaves, standing behind her mistress, sent Isabel a guarded look.

In contrast to the tense little group, Winter stood by himself on one side of the room, still and watching. His face was closed so tightly that Isabel had no idea what he might be thinking. She wished in that moment that she might cross to him and stand beside him.

Impossible.

“I’ve already informed you,” Winter said in a quietly dangerous voice, “that although I’ve seen the Ghost of St. Giles, I have no idea who the man actually is.”

“Oh, don’t prevaricate, Mr. Makepeace,” Lady Penelope exclaimed.

He turned slowly to her. “Whyever would I do such a thing, my lady?”

“Whyever indeed,” Mr. Seymour said softly. “Perhaps the Ghost is a… friend of yours? Or perhaps something closer? You’ve been absent twice now when the Ghost has appeared—at the opera and the other night at d’Arque’s ball.”

Pure horror coursed through Isabel’s veins. If Winter was discovered, he could be hung for Roger Fraser-Burnsby’s murder, innocent or not.

She started forward instinctively. “La, Mr. Seymour! What a silly accusation. Mr. Makepeace may have been late to the opera, but he escorted me into Lord d’Arque’s ballroom as Lord d’Arque himself can attest. Are you accusing Mr. Makepeace of being able to fly from d’Arque’s town house to St. Giles in seconds? Besides, many people have seen the Ghost. Would you accuse all of them of some deceit?”

Lord Kershaw bowed in her direction. “Quite correct, my lady. You yourself have had several tête-à-têtes with the Ghost, haven’t you?”

“Are you accusing me, my lord?” Isabel smiled sweetly. “Perhaps you believe that I helped the Ghost kill poor Mr. Fraser-Burnsby on some lark?”

“Naturally not,” Lord Kershaw said. “But what a happy coincidence that you should show up just in time to defend Mr. Makepeace, Lady Beckinhall.”

She arched an eyebrow, carefully not looking at Miss Greaves. “Coincidence? Hardly. I had an appointment to tour the home today with Mr. Makepeace.”

“We stray from the matter at hand, gentlemen,” the viscount snapped. He’d never taken his eyes from Winter this entire time. “You can at least tell me where I might find the Ghost, Makepeace.”

Winter shook his head. “I am as much in the dark as you, my lord. I know you do not wish to hear this, but I am not entirely certain that Mr. Fraser-Burnsby was killed by the Ghost in the first place.”

Blood flooded Lord d’Arque’s face, turning it an angry red, but it was Mr. Seymour who spoke. “You forget, Makepeace. There was a witness. Roger Fraser-Burnsby’s footman described the murder in some detail.”

“So I’ve heard,” Winter murmured. “Strange that the Ghost didn’t kill the footman as well so as not to leave such a meticulous witness.”

“I haven’t the time for this,” Lord d’Arque said. “I’ll find the Ghost of St. Giles with or without your help, Makepeace. Captain Trevillion tells me that his men nearly had the Ghost the night of the murder. It’s only a matter of time before we catch him.”

He started to go, but Lady Penelope forestalled him. “But what about your gift, my lord?”

Lord d’Arque stopped and turned, a strange, fierce smile on his face. “How could I have forgotten? I think it obvious from the last several days that I have won our little contest of gentlemanly manners, Makepeace. We can wait until Lady Hero and the Ladies Caire return to town to settle the matter, but it occurs to me that it might be easiest to present the ladies with a decision already made.”

“I’ve already told you I won’t give up the home,” Winter said flatly.

The viscount nodded judiciously. “I remember. But I wonder if you might be… persuaded… if I were to offer you an incentive.”

Winter stiffened. “If you think money can sway me—”

Lord d’Arque waved a hand, cutting him off. “Nothing so crass. I have the best interests of the home—and its children—at the forefront of my mind always. I hope you do as well?”