Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(8)

That was one question he could answer without hesitation.

“Yes.” Winter looked into Temperance’s eyes so that she could see the assurance in his. Mickey O’Connor might be a very dangerous river pirate and the most notorious man in London at the moment—and Winter might dislike the man quite intensely—but he did know one thing: “He loves Silence and Silence loves him. I watched the man’s face as he gave Silence up to us when he knew he could no longer protect her. O’Connor cares for her deeply. Whatever else happens, he’ll keep her safe with his life.”

“Dear Lord, I hope so.”

For a moment Temperance closed her eyes, losing her rigid posture as she slumped against his pillow. She was but nine and twenty—a mere three years older than he—but Winter was startled to realize that a few fine lines had imprinted themselves about her eyes. Had they always been there and he’d never noticed? Or were they new, brought on by the excitement of the last few weeks?

As he watched her, Temperance opened her eyes, as alert as ever. “You still haven’t answered my question. Where have you been since yesterday afternoon?”

“I got caught in the riot.” Winter winced and settled himself companionably on the narrow bed, shoulder to shoulder with his sister. “I’m afraid I was already late to my meeting with Lady Beckinhall. I was hurrying to get there when the crowd overwhelmed me. It was rather like getting caught in a herd of cows driven to market, I suppose, except they were noisier, fouler, and much more mean than any bovine mass.”

“Oh, Winter,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “I was too slow. I fell and was kicked about some and my leg was hurt.” He gestured to his right leg. “It’s not broken,” he added hastily at her exclamation, “but it did slow me down. I ended up ducking into a tavern to wait out the worst of the riot. I suppose I got home quite late last night.”

Temperance frowned. “No one saw you come in.”

“As I said, it was quite late.”

Strange how facile he had become at lying—even to those closest to him. It was a flaw within himself that he would have to examine later, for it did not speak well of his character.

He looked at the window. “And now it is already late in the morning, I think, and I need to be up and about my duties.”

“Nonsense!” Temperance’s brows drew together. “You’re injured, Brother. One day abed will not bring the house down about your ears.”

“Perhaps you’re right…,” he began, and then was startled when his sister leaned over to peer into his face. “What is wrong?”

“You’re not arguing with me,” she murmured. “You must really be hurt.”

He opened his mouth to deny her statement, but unfortunately she jostled his leg at that moment, turning his protest into a gasp of pain.

“Winter!” Temperance stared at the bedsheet-covered leg as if she could see through the material. “How bad is your leg, exactly?”

“It’s just a bump.” He swallowed. “Nothing to be concerned over.”

She narrowed her eyes, looking patently dubious of his claim.

“But I may take your advice and stay abed today,” he added hastily to appease her. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he could stand for any length of time.

“Good,” she replied, gingerly rising from the bed. “I’m sending one of the maids up with some soup. And I should get a doctor to see you as well.”

“No need,” he said a bit too sharply. A doctor would immediately realize that his wound came from a knife. Besides, Lady Beckinhall’s maidservant had already sewed it up. “No, really,” he said in a quieter voice. “I just want to sleep for a bit.”

“Humph.” Temperance didn’t look at all convinced by his protest. “If I weren’t leaving this afternoon, I’d stay and make sure a doctor saw to you.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, hoping to change the topic of conversation.

“A house party in the country that Caire insists we attend.” Temperance’s face clouded. “There’ll be all sorts of aristocrats there, I suppose, and all of them looking down their horsey noses at me.”

He smiled—he couldn’t help it at her description—but his words were tender when he replied. “I doubt anyone will be sneering. Caire would cut off their noses, horsey or not, if they dared.”

A corner of her mouth tipped up at that. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

And Winter was glad, not for the first time, that his elder sister had found a man who adored her completely—even if he was an aristocrat.

For a moment he felt a pang. Both Temperance and Silence—the two people he was closest to in the world—were married now. They had husbands and, presumably, would soon have families of their own. They’d always be his sisters, but now they would always be apart from him as well.

It was a lonely thought.

But he didn’t let it show on his face. “You’ll do fine,” he told Temperance gently. “You have intelligence and moral dignity. Qualities I suspect very few of those aristocrats possess.”

She sighed as she opened his door. “You may be right, but I’m not entirely certain that intelligence and moral dignity are at all esteemed in aristocratic circles.”