“Here you are, then.” Alice handed Winter the milky tea, then hovered as he held the cup steady for the child’s trembling hands so it could drink. “Poor, wee mite.”
“Indeed,” Winter murmured. He smoothed the child’s lank hair away from its dirty little face. The child looked to be four or five, or maybe older, for many children in St. Giles were too small for their age.
The dog sighed heavily and slumped into a corner of the hearth.
The child’s eyelids were heavy with fatigue. Winter tried not to disturb the creature as he gently drew aside the rags. A little chest was revealed, almost blue with cold, the ribs in pitiful relief.
“Bring a blanket to warm by the fire, Alice,” Winter murmured.
“He needs a bath,” the maid whispered when she returned with the blanket.
“Aye,” Winter said. “But he’s been through enough for tonight, I think. We can give him a thorough washing tomorrow morning.”
Assuming the child lived through the night, that is.
Winter drew off the last piece of clothing and then paused, brows raised. “I think you’d best finish this, Alice.”
“Sir?”
He wrapped the sleeping child in the warm blanket and turned to the maid. “She’s a girl.”
LADY MARGARET READING—better known simply as Megs to her intimates—stepped into Lady Langton’s ballroom that night and deliberately did not look eagerly around. For one thing, she knew most of those who would be attending the ball: the very cream of London society, including her brother Thomas and his wife. Distinguished members of parliament would mingle with society hostesses and, no doubt, one or two slightly risqué ladies or gentlemen. They were people she’d associated with ever since she’d come out nearly five years ago—the usual roster of invitees to an event such as this.
But that wasn’t the only reason she didn’t bother looking around. No, it was much more discreet to not gawk after him like a besotted milkmaid. She wasn’t ready yet to let everyone—her brother included—know about their connection. Right now it was a delicious secret she held close to her breast. When they announced their attachment, it would immediately become public property. She wanted him all to herself for just a little longer.
And the third reason she didn’t scan the crowd? Well that was the simplest of all: The first sight of him was just so wonderful. She felt a thrill every time. A quiver in her tummy, a rush of light-headedness, a wobbliness in the knees. Megs giggled. She was making Mr. Roger Fraser-Burnsby sound like a head cold.
“I see that you’re in fine fettle tonight, Margaret,” a rich masculine voice murmured behind her.
She turned to find her eldest brother, Thomas, smiling down at her.
Funny, that. Until recently—until his marriage to the rather notorious Lavinia Tate last December, in fact—Thomas had never bothered smiling at her. Not really anyway. He always had a social smile, of course. As a leading member of parliament and the Marquess of Mandeville, Thomas was always acutely aware of his public aspect. But since the advent of Lavinia into the Reading family, Thomas had been different. He’d been happy, Meg realized now. If love could excite a man as stuffy as her eldest brother, think what it could do to the average person!
“Oh! Is Lavinia here already as well?” Megs asked, grinning.
Thomas blinked as if surprised by her enthusiasm and replied cautiously, “I did escort Lady Mandeville here tonight.”
Hmm. Obviously love could only help so far in such a stodgy case.
“Good. I’d hoped to have a chat with her.” Megs made her expression more sedate.
“You’ll have to seek her out, then. Lavinia is up in the boughs over this escaped pirate business, and the moment we were past the door, she sought out her bosom bows to gossip with. She was telling me all the details about his burned body on the ride here. Quite gruesome, really, and not at all what a lady should be interested in.” Thomas frowned ponderously.
Megs, not for the first time, felt a twinge of sympathy for her new sister-in-law. It might not be correct, strictly speaking, for a lady to be interested in burned-to-a-crisp pirates, but it was very hard not to be. “Most everyone in London is talking about it, I think, both the pirate and the Ghost of…” Megs trailed off as she suddenly lost interest in the conversation.
She’d caught sight of Roger at last and her knees were wobbling right on schedule. He stood with a group of other gentlemen and his head was thrown back in laughter, his strong, tanned throat working. Roger wasn’t exactly handsome in the traditional sense. His face was too broad, his nose too flat. But his eyes were a warm brown and his grin was quite infectious. And when he turned that smile on her… well, the rest of the world seemed to fall away.
“… a soiree or ball or some such. I expect you’ll attend,” Thomas murmured next to her.
Megs started slightly. She had no idea what “some such” he was talking about, but she could find out later readily enough. “Of course. I’ll be quite pleased.”
“Good. Good,” Thomas said vaguely. “And Mother will be in town by then as well. Too bad Griffin and Hero have run off to the country. Odd time to do it, in the middle of the season.”
“Mmm.” Roger was talking to three other gentlemen who Megs knew were close friends of his: Lord d’Arque, Mr. Charles Seymour, and the Earl of Kershaw. Unfortunately, she didn’t know the other gentlemen at all well and was thus rather shy around them. In fact, Lord d’Arque was a notorious rake. If she could only catch Roger’s eye, perhaps she could signal a meeting in the garden.
Plum-colored silk overembroidered in gold and silver thread blocked her line of sight.
“Oh, Lady Margaret, I’m so relieved to see you here!” Lady Penelope spoke to Megs, but it was at Thomas that she batted her eyelashes. Beside her, Miss Greaves smiled shyly at Megs. “I must speak to you about Mr. Makepeace.”
“Makepeace?” Thomas frowned. “Who is this chap, Megs?”
Megs opened her mouth, but Lady Penelope was already talking. “He is the manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, my lord. Or I should say the current manager, for I must speak frankly and say that I am deeply doubtful of Mr. Makepeace’s qualifications. I think if we could only find a more polite manager, the home would be vastly improved.”
Thomas looked both confused and bored by this explanation, but Megs couldn’t let it go by unchallenged. Mr. Makepeace might be nearly as stodgy as Thomas, but he’d devoted his entire life to the home. It seemed a shame to let a bully like Lady Penelope take it away from him.
Megs smiled sweetly. “We’ve appointed Lady Beckinhall as Mr. Makepeace’s tutor in matters social. Shouldn’t we give her a chance to educate Mr. Makepeace?”
Lady Penelope sniffed. “Lady Beckinhall has all my admiration, of course, but I have little hope that even she can effect such a drastic change in Mr. Makepeace. Rather, I believe that an entirely new manager must be found. To that end, I have just today started interviewing men I think might be suitable for the position.”
Megs stiffened at this information. “But we already have a manager—”
“Not, as we’ve already agreed, an appropriate one.” Lady Penelope smiled prettily, though quite a few of her teeth were showing. “The gentlemen I’ve agreed to interview all have lovely, polished manners and are recommended by some of my most intimate friends.”
“But do they have experience running an orphanage?” Thomas arched an eyebrow in amusement.
“Pish!” Lady Penelope waved an airy hand. “The man I hire can learn, I am sure. And if need be, I can always hire two gentlemen.”
Miss Greaves cast her eyes heavenward for a second and Megs wished she could do the same without being seen by Lady Penelope. At least Lady Penelope seemed aware of the huge amount of work Mr. Makepeace did all by himself.
“I don’t think we can make any drastic changes while both Ladies Caire and Lady Hero are away from the city,” Megs said firmly. “After all, they are the original founders of the Ladies’ Syndicate.”
Lady Penelope’s bottom lip stuck out in a pretty pout, and Megs felt a welcome wash of relief. Lady Penelope must know she could not act in Lady Hero’s and the Ladies Caire’s absences without damaging her cause irrevocably. Megs made a note to write all three ladies so they might be aware of the danger to Mr. Makepeace.
At that moment, Roger looked over, catching Megs’s eye, and all thought of the home fled her mind. He winked and tilted his head imperceptibly in the direction of the garden terrace.
“Oh, I see a dear friend,” Megs murmured. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Megs only vaguely heard Thomas’s and Lady Penelope’s polite words. Roger was already moving obliquely toward the French doors. She must be careful, but soon—so soon!—she would be in her lover’s arms.
Chapter Four
Now wise men have tried to explain love—and they have failed. All I can say is that the Harlequin and the fine lady fell in love that day. True and lasting love that cares not for man’s rank or place in the world: a thing both grand and awful…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
“They say the king himself has put a price upon his head,” Pinkney said chattily the next morning.
Isabel glanced up at her vanity mirror and watched as the lady’s maid placed a pin precisely in her hair. Her mouth was dry as she asked, “The Ghost?”
“Yes, my lady.”
A price on his head. With Charming Mickey dead, the authorities had obviously concentrated their ire on the Ghost of St. Giles. Perhaps he’d lie low, avoid the streets now that they had suddenly become much more dangerous. Isabel bit her lip. Except in the short time that she’d talked to him, the Ghost hadn’t seemed the type to avoid danger. Oh, why was she worrying over the man anyway? It’d only been chance that had set him in her path and her own perhaps overlarge sense of right and wrong that had picked him up and saved him from the mob in the first place. She’d probably never see the man again in her life.
Isabel scowled at herself in the mirror.
“I do hope they don’t catch him,” Pinkney said, not even noticing her mistress’s expression. A slight frown knit itself between the maid’s brows as she worked a curl into position. “He’s so handsome and dashing. And with the death of Charming Mickey… well, we shan’t have any handsome rogues left in London soon.”
Pinkney’s expression had turned tragic.
“That certainly would be a pity,” Isabel said drily.
“Oh, I forgot!” Pinkney exclaimed. She stuck her hand into the slit in her dress and rummaged in the pocket underneath, drawing out a letter. “This came for you this morning.”
“Thank you,” Isabel said, taking the letter.
“It was delivered by a boy, not the post,” Pinkney said. “Perhaps it’s a love letter.”
Isabel raised her brows in amusement as she broke the seal. Unfolding the letter, she read:
Lady Penelope is interviewing gentlemen to replace Mr. Makepeace.
Isabel frowned, turning over the letter. It wasn’t signed, and besides her name, there wasn’t anything else written on it. Still, she had a good idea who the note was from.
“Not a love letter?” Pinkney asked curiously.
“Um… no,” Isabel murmured.
The dratted man had walked out on her the last time she’d talked to him. He probably wouldn’t even see her if she tried to warn him—or talk some sense into him. Yet, if she didn’t make an effort to once again change his mind, he was sure to lose the home. Isabel rose and threw the note into the fire, watching as the flames devoured the paper. She had an invitation to go riding this afternoon and had thought about shopping before that and perhaps calling on some acquaintances.
