Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(93)

“No, you can’t,” Winter said pleasantly. “You gave your word as a gentleman. Renege and I’ll make sure the news that you broke your word is in every breakfast room by noon the next day.”

D’Arque looked startled by the sudden steel in Winter’s voice. Good. The man needed to learn that he couldn’t play with lives.

Mr. Seymour cleared his throat. “If you’re not here to visit the home, Mr. Makepeace, then why are you here?”

“I believe I could ask the same of you,” Winter said. “I do notice both you and Lord Kershaw hanging about the place quite a lot.”

Lord Kershaw stiffened, clearly offended by Winter’s familiar tone, but Mr. Seymour merely smiled sheepishly. “You’ll have to forgive us gentlemen of leisure, Mr. Makepeace. An orphanage is quite fascinating in its own way. ’Sides, we heard that the Ghost of St. Giles delivered a pack of feral children here the night before last. Kershaw and I thought we’d see what it was about.”

“Ah, then your mission is not so very different from my own,” Winter replied. “I’m interested in finding out who was holding these children. To that end, I thought I’d search again the place where the Ghost found them.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Seymour looked eager. “You know where they were found by the Ghost?”

Winter nodded, watching the man. Only Seymour seemed interested in the illegal workshop. Kershaw was yawning and d’Arque merely stared into space as if thinking of something else.

“Then with your permission I would like to accompany you and investigate the site as well,” Mr. Seymour said.

Winter frowned. “I had thought to go alone…”

“But two pairs of eyes are better than one, don’t you think?” Mr. Seymour asked.

“True.” Winter glanced at the other two gentlemen. “Would anyone else like to participate in our investigations?”

Looking bored and impatient, d’Arque, shook his head. Lord Kershaw raised his eyebrows haughtily. “I think not.”

Winter nodded and turned to Mr. Seymour. “Then shall we proceed?”

“NO,” ISABEL SAID with all the authority she could muster, which as it happened, was quite a lot. It was early—much too early for fashionable calls—but Louise had arrived just after Isabel had risen.

Louise’s pretty eyes opened wide. “But I’m Christopher’s mother. He should be with me.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought at first as well,” Isabel murmured as she poured tea. She’d invited Louise into her sitting room to discuss Christopher. “But then I considered the matter and realized that wasn’t quite true.”

Louise blinked. “You can’t mean I’m not his mother.”

“In a way I do, actually.” Isabel held out the teacup and the other woman took it absently. “You see, Christopher has lived with me ever since he was a baby. I provided for him, saw that he was clothed and fed and had a competent nanny, and lately I’ve enjoyed his company as well. You, on the other hand, see him once a month, if that, and have never thought to inquire about his welfare.”

“I… I’ve been busy.” Louise’s mouth looked mutinous.

“Of course you have,” Isabel soothed. This next bit was going to be tricky. “But that’s just it, don’t you see? You have a busy social life with so many things to do. Do you really want a little boy around, getting in your way?”

Louise’s brows drew together.

“And I”—Isabel waved her hand, indicating her town house—“have this great empty house. It just makes sense that I keep Christopher and raise him. And besides, I’ve come to love him.”

Louise’s brow cleared. “Well, since you put it like that…”

“Oh, I do,” Isabel murmured. “Have some more tea.”

“Thank you.” Louise stared down at her cup, looking very young. “I can visit him still, can’t I?”

Isabel smiled, relieved and so happy she felt like twirling about the room. Instead she said, “I’m sure Christopher would like that.”

Fifteen minutes later, Isabel watched as Butterman shut the door behind Louise.

She turned to the butler. “Has my carriage been called?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good. Please inform Pinkney that I wish to go out.”

She paced restlessly until the lady’s maid appeared and then hurriedly entered her carriage. The ride to St. Giles was uneventful, which made her even more impatient when at last they arrived.

Isabel stepped down from her carriage outside the home and found herself looking around eagerly for Winter. Silly! Just because he wasn’t at her house—had gone out without a word to her, in fact—didn’t mean he’d left her. Of course, his bag was gone, too, but one ought not to panic over that. He’d left behind his clothes—what there were of them—and surely such a frugal man wouldn’t just abandon wearable clothes.

Would he?

She took a deep breath, steadying herself before she mounted the steps to the home. Harold followed at a discreet distance behind her. She’d thought they’d reached a new accord last night, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps, despite his protestations, she’d driven him away with her theatrics. Wretched thought!