“MY LADY!”
Isabel opened her eyes to see Pinkney standing hesitantly by her bedside.
The maid proffered a folded scrap of paper. “My lady, this note came for you just now. The lad who brought it said he’d been paid a shilling extra to run it here. I think it must be important, don’t you?”
The events of the night before rushed back into her mind before she could brace herself against them. Winter’s proposal. Her own shocked decline. They’d enjoyed each other. Why did he want to change everything? Isabel just wanted to stick her head under the pillow.
She groaned. “What time is it?”
“Only one of the afternoon,” Pinkney said apologetically. Of course. The lady’s maid thought it the height of elegance to sleep in until midafternoon.
But Isabel was awake now.
She sat up in the bed. “Call for some coffee, will you? And let me see that note.”
The note was folded and sealed, and Isabel broke the wax as Pinkney went to the bedroom door to order the coffee. She opened the message and read:
L. Penelope accompanies L. d’Arque to the home this afternoon. I think they mean to send Mr. Makepeace away.
—A.G.
Artemis Greaves. The lady’s companion was risking her position. Isabel was already crumpling the note as she climbed from the bed.
He’d said he loved her. She couldn’t think about that now. Not if she were to help Winter.
“My lady?” Pinkney looked startled when she turned and found her mistress already up and rummaging through her chest of drawers.
“Never mind the coffee,” Isabel said distractedly as she threw the note into the fire. “Help me get dressed.”
Ten minutes later—an extraordinary record for her toilet, which nearly sent Pinkney into fits—Isabel was climbing into her carriage.
“If I’d only had five more minutes, you could’ve worn your new green military jacket,” Pinkney moaned.
Isabel settled against the squabs, watching impatiently out the window. “But that’s just it—I didn’t have five minutes more. I only hope the time we did take didn’t delay us too much.”
The London streets seemed even more crowded than usual today. Twice her carriage was brought to a complete stop by animals in the roadway, and even when moving they hardly progressed at better than a walk.
It seemed to take agonizing hours to reach the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, but it couldn’t have been more than half an hour.
Still, Viscount d’Arque’s carriage was already in front of the home when they stopped.
“Wait here,” Isabel instructed as she tumbled hastily from her carriage.
She ran up the front steps and tried the door. Locked. She lifted the knocker and let it fall, continuing with the racket until the door was abruptly pulled open. Mary Whitsun stared out, her face pale. From inside the home, Isabel could hear raised voices.
“Come quickly, my lady,” Mary gasped.
Without another word, she turned and fled back inside.
Isabel picked up her skirts and hurried after. Dear God, what was Lord d’Arque shouting about? For she could hear that it was his voice that was raised now.
She and Mary Whitsun entered the sitting room just as Viscount d’Arque swung around from the fireplace.
“—know this murderer, Makepeace! You’ve already admitted as much. Give over his name, then, if you please, or I’ll have you before a magistrate on charges of hiding a thief and murderer.”
The scene was dramatic. Lord d’Arque looked as if he’d not slept a wink since the news of his friend’s murder two nights before. His face was haggard, his eyes glittered maniacally, and there were actual stains on his coat and breeches. Beside him, the Earl of Kershaw and Mr. Seymour looked grim, while Lady Penelope seemed like she might burst from the excitement. Miss Greaves, standing behind her mistress, sent Isabel a guarded look.
In contrast to the tense little group, Winter stood by himself on one side of the room, still and watching. His face was closed so tightly that Isabel had no idea what he might be thinking. She wished in that moment that she might cross to him and stand beside him.
Impossible.
“I’ve already informed you,” Winter said in a quietly dangerous voice, “that although I’ve seen the Ghost of St. Giles, I have no idea who the man actually is.”
“Oh, don’t prevaricate, Mr. Makepeace,” Lady Penelope exclaimed.
He turned slowly to her. “Whyever would I do such a thing, my lady?”
“Whyever indeed,” Mr. Seymour said softly. “Perhaps the Ghost is a… friend of yours? Or perhaps something closer? You’ve been absent twice now when the Ghost has appeared—at the opera and the other night at d’Arque’s ball.”
Pure horror coursed through Isabel’s veins. If Winter was discovered, he could be hung for Roger Fraser-Burnsby’s murder, innocent or not.
She started forward instinctively. “La, Mr. Seymour! What a silly accusation. Mr. Makepeace may have been late to the opera, but he escorted me into Lord d’Arque’s ballroom as Lord d’Arque himself can attest. Are you accusing Mr. Makepeace of being able to fly from d’Arque’s town house to St. Giles in seconds? Besides, many people have seen the Ghost. Would you accuse all of them of some deceit?”
Lord Kershaw bowed in her direction. “Quite correct, my lady. You yourself have had several tête-à-têtes with the Ghost, haven’t you?”
“Are you accusing me, my lord?” Isabel smiled sweetly. “Perhaps you believe that I helped the Ghost kill poor Mr. Fraser-Burnsby on some lark?”
“Naturally not,” Lord Kershaw said. “But what a happy coincidence that you should show up just in time to defend Mr. Makepeace, Lady Beckinhall.”
She arched an eyebrow, carefully not looking at Miss Greaves. “Coincidence? Hardly. I had an appointment to tour the home today with Mr. Makepeace.”
“We stray from the matter at hand, gentlemen,” the viscount snapped. He’d never taken his eyes from Winter this entire time. “You can at least tell me where I might find the Ghost, Makepeace.”
Winter shook his head. “I am as much in the dark as you, my lord. I know you do not wish to hear this, but I am not entirely certain that Mr. Fraser-Burnsby was killed by the Ghost in the first place.”
Blood flooded Lord d’Arque’s face, turning it an angry red, but it was Mr. Seymour who spoke. “You forget, Makepeace. There was a witness. Roger Fraser-Burnsby’s footman described the murder in some detail.”
“So I’ve heard,” Winter murmured. “Strange that the Ghost didn’t kill the footman as well so as not to leave such a meticulous witness.”
“I haven’t the time for this,” Lord d’Arque said. “I’ll find the Ghost of St. Giles with or without your help, Makepeace. Captain Trevillion tells me that his men nearly had the Ghost the night of the murder. It’s only a matter of time before we catch him.”
He started to go, but Lady Penelope forestalled him. “But what about your gift, my lord?”
Lord d’Arque stopped and turned, a strange, fierce smile on his face. “How could I have forgotten? I think it obvious from the last several days that I have won our little contest of gentlemanly manners, Makepeace. We can wait until Lady Hero and the Ladies Caire return to town to settle the matter, but it occurs to me that it might be easiest to present the ladies with a decision already made.”
“I’ve already told you I won’t give up the home,” Winter said flatly.
The viscount nodded judiciously. “I remember. But I wonder if you might be… persuaded… if I were to offer you an incentive.”
Winter stiffened. “If you think money can sway me—”
Lord d’Arque waved a hand, cutting him off. “Nothing so crass. I have the best interests of the home—and its children—at the forefront of my mind always. I hope you do as well?”
Winter only narrowed his eyes.
“What do you mean?” Isabel asked sharply. She didn’t like Lord d’Arque’s oily platitudes. The viscount always worked for himself, which usually wasn’t a problem, but with his grief over Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s murder driving him, d’Arque seemed entirely out of control. “What are you proposing, my lord?”
Lord d’Arque raised his eyebrows. “I only wish to bestow a naval commission on the eldest boy at the home, whomever that may be. I do think that you and Mr. Makepeace would approve of such a move?”
Isabel inhaled. A naval commission for a boy had to be bought and therefore usually went to the sons of gentry or nobility. To give one to an orphaned boy of no provenance was simply unheard of. What was Lord d’Arque up to?
And then she realized: the eldest boy at the home was Joseph Tinbox.
A muscle in Winter’s jaw flexed. “You’re most generous, my lord.”
The viscount inclined his head. “Thank you, I know. But of course there is a stipulation to such generosity. I can give the commission only if I am appointed the manager of the home. You would have to agree to step down gracefully. Right now.”
Isabel was already stepping forward, shaking her head. “Now see here—”
But Winter spoke over her, his voice level. “Do you give your word of honor as a gentleman, my lord, that you will do this thing as soon as I leave?”
Lord d’Arque looked almost surprised. “I do.”
“Very well. I agree.”
“Winter,” Isabel whispered, but he was already striding to the door, his features set.
She turned to Lord d’Arque, walked right up to him, and stood on tiptoe to hiss into his smug face, “I think I hate you right now.”
Then she went after Winter.
WINTER ALREADY HAD a soft bag out and was packing by the time Isabel found him five minutes later in a wretched little room at the top of the home’s five flights of stairs.
She immediately yanked out the shirts he had placed into the bag. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He paused, looking weary and patient and long-suffering, blast him. “I’m packing.”
“Don’t you dare act the martyr with me,” she hissed angrily. “You’re playing right into Lord d’Arque’s hands.”
“I know,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters!”
“I base my decision upon what I think best, not upon his reasons for making the offer.”
“But you can’t think it best for you to leave the home. For Joseph Tinbox to leave you and go to sea.”
He turned back to the bag. “And yet I do.”
She glanced desperately about the room, searching for something, anything, that would make him change his mind. The room was small and spartan, tucked under the eaves. It obviously had been meant for a servant, not for the manager of the home. The thought made her even more angry.
“Why?” she demanded. “Why must you always seek martyrdom? You dress as plainly as you can, you risk your life for those who would hunt you down and kill you if they could, and you even choose the most humble of the bedrooms in this home to sleep in.”
He arched his eyebrows, surprised. “What’s wrong with this bedroom?”
“It’s a servant’s bedroom and you know it,” she snapped irritably. “And don’t try to change the subject.”
He knelt to reach under the bed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She set her hands on her hips, aware that she was losing all traces of elegance in her agitation. “Lord d’Arque thinks you have something to do with the Ghost of St. Giles—”
“And he’s right.” Winter drew out his Ghost costume from under the bed.
