Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(89)

Pinkney looked at them with an odd sort of dignity, for she was quite right—it was her job and she did it well.

“Thank you, Pinkney, that will be all,” Isabel said quietly.

The lady’s maid curtsied. “Yes, my lady.” She turned to leave the room.

“Wait.” Isabel swiftly lifted her skirts again and rolled down both stockings, removing them. She held out the limp bits of silk lace to the lady’s maid. “Burn these along with the others, please.”

Pinkney’s mouth had dropped open when Isabel lifted her skirt in front of Winter. Now she snapped it shut. “Of course, my lady.”

She took the stockings and fled.

“Why did you dismiss her?” Winter asked abruptly. “She might have known more if we’d questioned her.”

“I doubt it.” Isabel shook her head. “She’s a superb lady’s maid, but I think all the minutia of her position—the things she just enumerated—take up every available bit of her mind.” Isabel shrugged apologetically. “She’s not that interested in anything outside of fashion.”

Winter shoved back from the table. “Then I shall go and visit this shop on Baker’s Street. Perhaps the shopkeeper can give me more information.”

“But what about Christopher?” Isabel asked. “Don’t you have lessons for him today?”

Winter turned and glanced at her from the door. “Indeed I do, but his mother, it seems, had other plans. I was told that she took him away on some errand very early this morning.”

“What—” Isabel began, but he was already gone.

That was odd. Louise visited Christopher only once a month—if that—and usually only for an afternoon. She rarely woke before noon, let alone rose from bed.

Sighing, Isabel ate her luncheon. Should she have vetted all the clothes that Pinkney brought to her? Made sure they were made in legitimate workshops? Or should she simply give up fancy lace stockings, heeled slippers made of gold cloth, gowns that took months to embroider?

She could dress like a female monk, ban all color from her life… and go quietly mad within the week. She liked extravagant gowns, pretty underthings, clocked stockings, and all the other fripperies that Winter no doubt frowned terribly upon. She could no more stop wearing them than a peacock could divest himself of his feathers.

Well, then this was yet another reason that they couldn’t marry. Even if Winter truly did love her, he couldn’t help but be disgusted by her delight in clothing and jewels. It was yet another nail in the coffin of their affair. They simply were not matched in any way.

Isabel wrinkled her nose and mashed what remained of the cheese under her fork tines. She should be glad to find one more reason to give him of why they should not, could not, would not marry, and yet all she felt was a dismal roiling in her tummy. Her brain was convinced, but her heart rebelled.

The door opened and Isabel turned, glad of a diversion from her gloomy musings.

Louise swept in, her cheeks pink, her eyes sparkling, her golden hair highlighted by a pink ribbon rosette, and—if Isabel weren’t mistaken—she wore a new dress. “Oh, Isabel, the most marvelous thing has happened! I’ve found a protector and he’s given me a house. I can take Christopher to live with me by the end of the week.”

Isabel’s mouth opened, but no words emerged. Louise continued to chatter about her new protector, and the house she would soon have, but it was as if her voice were muffled.

Isabel had accepted the responsibility of Christopher only reluctantly and because really there hadn’t been anyone else to look after him. He’d been a burden, an innocent reminder of Edmund’s infidelity and her own barrenness. She should be glad that Louise had finally found a way to take care of him herself. A child needed his mother, and Louise, no matter how flawed, was Christopher’s mother.

And if she felt some small disappointment in Christopher’s leaving, that was only to be expected. She’d grown… fond of the boy.

“I’ll come fetch him tomorrow, shall I?” Louise said.

Isabel blinked. “Yes. Yes, of course. That will be quite all right.”

And it would, wouldn’t it?

LATE THAT NIGHT, Winter pushed open the door to his room in Isabel’s house, weary both in mind and spirit. The sight within brought all his senses to the alert, however: Isabel lay in his bed, and from what he could see, she wasn’t wearing anything.

He closed the door behind him. The room she’d given him was much nicer than his former room at the home. On the same floor as her own bedroom, it was, he suspected, a guest room rather than one usually assigned to a servant. The bed was large and comfortable, and there was just enough furniture to make the room pleasant: a chair to sit by the fire, a chest of drawers and a dresser with a basin and pitcher for washing. She’d made sure, he was certain, to give him a room that he’d find homey without being ostentatious.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Her eyelashes drooped and a smile played about the corners of her lush mouth. “Why, Mr. Makepeace, I know our lessons were short, but I do think I covered enough for you to be able to understand why I might be here.”

Her tone was so brittle that he immediately was worried. “What has happened?”

She pouted. “Must there be something wrong for me to be here?”