Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(88)

He stared down at the food as if it were something he’d never seen before. “There were adults in the outer room when I first got there, but most ran away. I did restrain one man, but he seems odd in the head. He couldn’t tell me who was behind the workshop. Who the aristocrat was who made money off the backs of little children. Perhaps he never saw d’Arque.”

She was pouring him a fresh cup of tea, but she paused in the act. “Lord d’Arque?”

“Yes.” He ran his hand impatiently over his hair. “I told you: I found that scrap of paper with his seal in the hand of a child I rescued from these people.”

She arched an eyebrow and said gently, “You told me that you’d found the scrap of paper in a little boy’s hand in St. Giles. You never said the little boy was connected with the workshop people you were looking for.”

“Didn’t I?” He frowned, looking terribly weary. “Well, he was. People in St. Giles call them the ‘lassie snatchers,’ for apparently they like girls for their work. Little girls have smaller fingers and are more nimble for fine work.”

She knit her brows. “But I can’t see Viscount d’Arque being involved in this.”

Winter gave her a jaundiced look. “And I recognized d’Arque’s coachman as one of the lassie snatchers.”

That made her pause for a second. “Did you talk to the coachman?”

“Yes.” Winter grimaced. “He said it wasn’t d’Arque.”

“Well, then—”

“And then the coachman ran away before I could get anything else from him. For all I know, he was simply covering for his master.”

“Or perhaps he was speaking the truth,” Isabel said. “I know you don’t like the viscount, and I admit he can be quite annoying, but that doesn’t make him criminal. That doesn’t make him the sort of person who would let a little girl be hurt for money.”

He shook his head. “I think you’re biased.”

She remembered the look on his face when Lord d’Arque had flirted with her at the Duchess of Arlington’s ball. “I think you may be biased as well.”

He shrugged moodily, not speaking.

She took the opportunity to serve herself some cheese and fruit. “Why don’t you show Lord d’Arque the scrap of paper? Ask him who he wrote it to?”

He gave her an ironic look but remained silent.

She poured herself a cup of tea, adding a dollop of milk and a spoonful of sugar before sipping. “What were they making in this workshop anyway? You never said.”

“Stockings.” He sounded bitter. “Can you imagine? They work these children to death to make lace stockings with fancy embroidered clocks on the ankles in the French style for silly ladies.”

Isabel’s chest felt tight with sudden dread. She set down her teacup. “Have you seen the stockings?”

“Not until last night,” he replied. “They left a box of finished clocks behind to be sewn on the lace stockings later.”

They were alone in the breakfast room. Isabel got up and rounded the table to Winter’s side. He looked at her quizzically until she placed her foot on the chair next to his and lifted her skirts.

“Did the clocks look like this?” she asked quietly.

He’d frozen, staring at the dainty pink, gold, and blue embroidery on her ankle. It was oversewn onto a stocking that was white lace from the sole of her foot to over her knee. Delicate, enormously expensive lace, sold for a fraction of what it would cost elsewhere. She’d been a fool.

Then his eyes rose to hers. “Where did you get those?”

She let her skirts fall and lowered her foot to the floor. “My lady’s maid, Pinkney, got them. I’m not sure where, but I know she was thrilled by the price.”

His mouth tightened grimly. “Could you call her here, please?”

“Of course,” she said, keeping her tone calm as she crossed to the door and gave the order to the footman outside.

Winter was terribly angry, she could see. Silly ladies. Did he think she was one of those silly ladies he’d spoken of? The ones who never cared who made their stockings as long as the style was the latest? Well, she was one of those ladies, wasn’t she?

She sank into her chair, waiting for Pinkney.

He didn’t say anything else, instead staring at the table between his hands, a line incised between his brows.

The door opened to the breakfast room and Pinkney came in. “You wanted to see me, my lady?”

“Yes.” Isabel folded her hands in her lap. “I want to know about the lace stockings you have been buying for me.”

Pinkney’s pretty forehead wrinkled. “Stockings, my lady?”

“Where did you get them?” Winter asked, his voice dark.

Pinkney’s blue eyes opened wide, a mixture of confusion and fear in them. Winter looked quite daunting at the moment. “I… I… that is, there’s a little shop on Baker’s Street, my lady. The shopkeeper has the lace stockings in back. One has to know to ask for them.”

“And how did you know?” Isabel asked.

Pinkney shrugged helplessly. “One hears rumors of such things, my lady. Where to find the latest kid gloves, what cobbler makes the finest heeled slippers, and who has lace stockings made in the best French fashion at half the price. It’s my job, my lady.”