Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(81)

ISABEL SAT DOWN to a solitary dinner late that night in her private dining room. A fire crackled in the hearth behind her, there were fresh flowers in a small china vase on the round table, and Cook had made an excellent clear soup, but she seemed to have no appetite.

She’d been invited to a soiree, but with Winter leaving the home and Mr. Fraser-Burnsby having been murdered, she simply didn’t feel like an evening out. Poor Lady Littleton would no doubt have a very sad showing tonight—if anyone came at all.

“Shall I bring in the fish, my lady?” Will the footman asked.

“Please,” Isabel sighed absently.

She was still greatly disturbed both by Winter’s proposal and his defection from the home. For that was what it was, no matter his reasons or how righteous he might think them. He’d given up the home for one child’s future. That simply wasn’t morally correct, no matter his arguments or how much Joseph Tinbox meant to him.

And then there was an even greater worry: Where was he? Pinkney had been excited to tell her earlier that the Ghost had been seen fleeing over the rooftops of St. Giles as Trevillion’s dragoons gave chase. For all she knew, he might be lying gravely wounded somewhere—or worse, dead.

Isabel shoved her wineglass aside. She suddenly felt quite nauseous.

“My lady, you have a visitor,” Butterman intoned with deep disapproval from the doorway. “He insisted that he see you, otherwise I would have turned him away. As it was—”

“That’s fine,” came a masculine voice from behind the butler.

Oh, thank God!

Winter stepped around the man. “Thank you, Mr. Butterman.”

The butler stiffened. “Just Butterman, sir.”

Winter nodded gravely. “I’ll be sure to remember.”

“Mr. Makepeace,” Isabel said, “won’t you join me for dinner?”

He turned to her, brows raised as if surprised—what else had he expected her to do, throw him out?—and said, “That’s very kind of you, Lady Beckinhall.”

Well. Weren’t they terribly formal considering just last night he’d been thrusting into her wildly in her library?

“Please ask Mrs. Butterman to set another place,” Isabel instructed the butler.

He left, somehow making his retreating back look shocked—as only a very good butler can.

The minute the door shut behind him, Isabel leaned across the polished mahogany of her dinner table and hissed, “Where have you been? There have been reports of the Ghost running about St. Giles all evening. I didn’t know if you were risking your neck—again—or if the sightings were all false.”

“Oh, some of them were real enough.” He pulled out the chair opposite hers and sank into it. “I had a time of it, avoiding Trevillion and his men tonight.”

Maddening man! He simply wouldn’t give up—no matter how dangerous the streets of St. Giles were for him now. She didn’t know whether to throw her cutlery at him or leap across the table and kiss him.

Fortunately, Mrs. Butterman bustled into the dining room at that moment with a maid in attendance. The silence between her and Winter seemed pregnant, but the housekeeper didn’t appear to take any notice of the atmosphere.

Once Winter’s wine was poured, Mrs. Butterman nodded to herself with satisfaction, asked if there would be anything else, and left the room. They were now alone, as Will the footman was still gone—presumably retrieving the fish course.

Isabel took the opportunity to ask, “Did you find the workshop that employs children?”

Winter shook his head, looking bitterly disappointed as he lifted his wineglass. “Only rumors. There’re stories of children living in an attic somewhere, but my source—who I had to pay double to talk—was vague on the location. I tried one likely building but was driven away by the dragoons from another. I’ll have to try again another night.”

His going out night after night with the dragoons hot on his trail scared her to bits.

“I’m sorry,” she said cautiously, “but can you at least wait a couple of nights before you go out again?”

He cast an impatient glance at her from under his brows. “Every day I can’t find them, those children are abused.”

She shook her head and frowned down at her plate, wishing she could help in some way before another thought occurred. “And Joseph Tinbox? How did he take the news of his commission?”

“Not well.” Winter sipped the wine, for a moment closing his eyes at the taste. Then he opened them and looked at her. “I had to tell him he has no choice but to take the offer. When I left, he was no longer speaking to me.”

“Oh, Winter.” She started to reach across the table to touch his hand when Will opened the door.

Will served the fish in silence, darting a nervous glance between Winter and her.

“That will be all,” Isabel said firmly.

“Yes, my lady,” the footman murmured as he backed out the door. No doubt all her servants were waiting in the corridor to hear Will’s report.

Isabel sighed and looked at Winter.

He took another sip of the wine. “This is very good. Italian?”

“Yes, I just got it in.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re the son of a beer brewer. How do you come to know about wine?”