Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(79)

Winter only narrowed his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Isabel asked sharply. She didn’t like Lord d’Arque’s oily platitudes. The viscount always worked for himself, which usually wasn’t a problem, but with his grief over Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s murder driving him, d’Arque seemed entirely out of control. “What are you proposing, my lord?”

Lord d’Arque raised his eyebrows. “I only wish to bestow a naval commission on the eldest boy at the home, whomever that may be. I do think that you and Mr. Makepeace would approve of such a move?”

Isabel inhaled. A naval commission for a boy had to be bought and therefore usually went to the sons of gentry or nobility. To give one to an orphaned boy of no provenance was simply unheard of. What was Lord d’Arque up to?

And then she realized: the eldest boy at the home was Joseph Tinbox.

A muscle in Winter’s jaw flexed. “You’re most generous, my lord.”

The viscount inclined his head. “Thank you, I know. But of course there is a stipulation to such generosity. I can give the commission only if I am appointed the manager of the home. You would have to agree to step down gracefully. Right now.”

Isabel was already stepping forward, shaking her head. “Now see here—”

But Winter spoke over her, his voice level. “Do you give your word of honor as a gentleman, my lord, that you will do this thing as soon as I leave?”

Lord d’Arque looked almost surprised. “I do.”

“Very well. I agree.”

“Winter,” Isabel whispered, but he was already striding to the door, his features set.

She turned to Lord d’Arque, walked right up to him, and stood on tiptoe to hiss into his smug face, “I think I hate you right now.”

Then she went after Winter.

WINTER ALREADY HAD a soft bag out and was packing by the time Isabel found him five minutes later in a wretched little room at the top of the home’s five flights of stairs.

She immediately yanked out the shirts he had placed into the bag. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He paused, looking weary and patient and long-suffering, blast him. “I’m packing.”

“Don’t you dare act the martyr with me,” she hissed angrily. “You’re playing right into Lord d’Arque’s hands.”

“I know,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!”

“I base my decision upon what I think best, not upon his reasons for making the offer.”

“But you can’t think it best for you to leave the home. For Joseph Tinbox to leave you and go to sea.”

He turned back to the bag. “And yet I do.”

She glanced desperately about the room, searching for something, anything, that would make him change his mind. The room was small and spartan, tucked under the eaves. It obviously had been meant for a servant, not for the manager of the home. The thought made her even more angry.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why must you always seek martyrdom? You dress as plainly as you can, you risk your life for those who would hunt you down and kill you if they could, and you even choose the most humble of the bedrooms in this home to sleep in.”

He arched his eyebrows, surprised. “What’s wrong with this bedroom?”

“It’s a servant’s bedroom and you know it,” she snapped irritably. “And don’t try to change the subject.”

He knelt to reach under the bed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She set her hands on her hips, aware that she was losing all traces of elegance in her agitation. “Lord d’Arque thinks you have something to do with the Ghost of St. Giles—”

“And he’s right.” Winter drew out his Ghost costume from under the bed.

“Are you mad?” she hissed as she hastily turned and locked the door.

“You keep asking me that,” he murmured.

“With good reason!” She clenched her fists, rallying her argument. “He’s only doing this out of revenge. He has no true interest in the home—it’s a whim for him. How do you think he’d manage it?”

“Not well,” Winter said as he folded his costume and tucked it into the bag. “But it’s a moot subject: d’Arque has said himself that he’ll hire a manager for the home.”

“And do you truly think anyone could do as well as you?” she asked desperately.

He shot her an ironic look. “It’s hard for me to answer that without sounding conceited, but no, I don’t think anyone will do as well as I.”

She threw out her hands. “There you are. You admit it yourself—you cannot leave the home.”

He shook his head. “I admit only that my replacement will most likely not do as well as I. But the home won’t suffer much overall, I think. Nell Jones has been with us nearly as long as I have. We have more servants now, a cook, and the Ladies’ Syndicate to guide us. I believe the home will find a way to muddle through without me.”

“The home might muddle through, but will you?” she asked softly.

He paused and slowly looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“It’s everything to you, isn’t it?” She gestured about the room. “You’ve said so yourself time after time. St. Giles, this home, the children in it. They’re your life’s work.”