Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(95)

“Now, then.” Isabel sat and poured herself a cup of tea before glancing up at the cook and Miss Greaves. “How long has it been like this?”

Miss Greaves heaved a sigh.

The cook grimaced. “Almost as soon as Mr. Makepeace left. It’s been a right riot ’round ’ere. The little monsters don’t pay a whit of attention to anyone. Got Lord d’Arque quite smartly on the back of the ’ead with a walnut, one of ’em did.”

Mistress Medina sounded almost pleased.

“Lady Penelope did try,” Miss Greaves said earnestly. “She brought hothouse cherries for the children the second day, but—”

“Pits,” Mistress Medina said succinctly. “Not to mention cherry juice stains right proper. Any ’alf-wit knows that.”

“I think she would’ve handed the home back after that,” Miss Greaves murmured, “if it were not for Lord d’Arque’s insistence that they keep it. He hasn’t even bothered to hire a manager.”

“But why?” Isabel asked.

“Because,” Lord d’Arque said from the doorway, “it irritates Makepeace for me to be here. That’s why. Besides I’m right in the middle of the Ghost’s haunting grounds here. If he shows, I’ll be the first to hear about it.”

Miss Greaves squeaked at his entrance and hurriedly made her excuses. Mistress Medina rose from the kitchen table, her very slowness an insult.

Fortunately, Lord d’Arque was in no state to notice. He leaned against the doorway, almost a parody of insouciance, quite obviously the worse for drink. “Do you still hate me?”

“Oh, yes,” Isabel said sincerely. No matter what his reasons—if there were any—he’d hurt Winter very badly. Her loyalties were quite confirmed. “But I’ve come with a question for you anyway.”

Lord d’Arque pushed off from the doorjamb and walked overly carefully toward her. “Given him up? Come for a real lover?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never known you to be crude before.”

He sank rather abruptly into the chair opposite her. “Sorry.”

She studied him. Something was obviously tearing at his soul. Perhaps Winter was right. This d’Arque might very well do something shady and immoral. “I want to ask you about your coachman.”

“My coachman?” The viscount blinked as if that were the last thing he expected. “Don’t tell me he’s in trouble—I only hired him the other day.”

It was Isabel’s turn to look puzzled. “I thought you’d had him for months.”

Lord d’Arque rolled his eyes. “No, that was my old man. He disappeared while we were attending the opera. Damned inconvenient. I had to get one of the footmen to drive me home, and the man had never handled the reins as far as I could tell.”

Isabel frowned, thinking. Had someone killed the coachman to keep him from telling Winter anything? If so, that hardly exonerated Lord d’Arque. She pulled the scrap of paper with his seal from her pocket. “Is this yours?”

He leaned down to peer at the paper, his brows drawing together. “It’s my seal, certainly, and this is my handwriting.” He turned the letter over, staring at the misspelled words there. “Looks like someone reused the paper for a note.” He shrugged and straightened. “Where did you get it?”

“It was found in St. Giles,” she said. “And I would very much like to know what it was doing there.”

“How should I know?”

She pursed her lips impatiently. “It’s your letter.”

“Do you remember everyone you write to?”

“Actually, yes,” she said. “Because the people I write to are usually personal friends.”

He stared at her a moment. “Let me see that.”

She handed the scrap of paper over.

He peered at it, turning it over. “Well, it says October…” He looked up at her suddenly. “Why do you want to know whom I wrote to anyway?”

“Because,” she said with a hard smile. “Why do you wish to conceal whom you wrote it to?”

“I don’t.” He shrugged again and let the paper fall to the table. “I write my grandmother when she’s out of town—but she was in London during October. I might’ve written this to a paramour or…” He frowned, thinking.

“Who?” she whispered.

“I wrote a note on a matter of business to Seymour in October.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “What business?”

He shook his head. “It was a delicate matter. I gave my word not to reveal it.”

“Adam.”

He smiled suddenly with some of his normal attractiveness. “I do like the way you say my given name.”

“I haven’t the time for this,” she said sternly.

He sighed. “Oh, all right. Seymour had a moneymaking scheme he wanted me to invest in. I declined in a letter.”

“Why did you decline?”

“I’ve found that moneymaking schemes are a good way to lose all one’s blunt.” He smiled, dissipated and handsome. “And despite my devil-may-care exterior, I have the heart of a conservative miser.”

“Hmm.” Isabel thought for a bit. Was Mr. Seymour’s moneymaking scheme somehow connected to the lace stocking workshop? Or was the whole thing a false trail? “What was Seymour’s scheme?”