Lord Kershaw shot Isabel a pointed look. “I was not aware you were accosted by the Ghost, my lady.”
Isabel lifted her chin and met his gaze directly. “I’m sorry I had not informed you, my lord.”
“Your consideration becomes you, Lord d’Arque,” Lady Penelope continued, oblivious. “I’m sure Lady Beckinhall must’ve been near mad with fear.” Her brows knit in puzzlement. “How did you find yourself alone with the Ghost of St. Giles, my lady?”
Trust Lady Penelope to point out the most awkward part of the whole evening.
The earl arched an eyebrow and smiled. “You said once that you’d rescued the Ghost. Are you better acquainted than we know?”
Isabel cleared her throat. “I saw the Ghost sneak into a backstage passage and followed him.”
“On your own?” Lady Penelope’s lovely dark eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline. “How very brave of you, my lady, to confront him all by yourself. Did you mean to arrest him on your own or did you have another reason to follow him into a dark passage?”
“I fear curiosity overpowered my good judgment, my lady.” Isabel smiled through gritted teeth.
“Alas, curiosity has killed many a softhearted pussycat,” Winter murmured.
Lord d’Arque’s eyes narrowed as he looked between Winter and herself. “Curiosity is certainly not worth your precious life, Lady Beckinhall. I trust you will rein in your more risky urges in the future.”
“You’re advocating prudence, my lord?” Isabel cocked her head skeptically.
“In the case of mad murderers, yes.” The viscount looked quite grim. “I don’t wish to cross verbal swords with you, my lady, but when I discovered you with the Ghost, you seemed… imperiled.”
Isabel drew in a sharp breath. Up until now, Lord d’Arque had been quite gentlemanly tonight. He’d not breathed word of the embrace he’d found her in with the Ghost, only hinting vaguely that the Ghost had threatened her. She’d been grateful for his circumspection—if knowledge got out about a kiss, her reputation would become notorious.
Now she caught a hint of an implicit threat from the viscount. Nevertheless, she couldn’t allow him to slander the Ghost. “I do not believe I was in any danger.”
“No?” the viscount murmured.
“No,” she replied flatly.
“How can you say that when the Ghost is a well-known murderer?” Lady Penelope cried.
“I believe the rumors of his murders are just that: rumors,” Isabel said. “The Ghost has never offered me harm.”
“How many times have you met him?” Mrs. Seymour asked.
Isabel felt heat climb her neck. “Once before. Now twice.”
“Many in St. Giles have run into the Ghost here or there,” Winter said vaguely. “From what I’ve seen of him, he seems almost gentlemanly.”
Isabel glanced at him skeptically.
His mouth twitched. “And whoever he is, the Ghost never threatened me. Quite the contrary, in fact. He helped to capture a dangerous murderer last year.”
“Then perhaps Lord d’Arque shouldn’t have fought him,” Miss Greaves said, sounding distressed. “Perhaps the Ghost is innocent of any crime at all and should not be pursued.”
“Ridiculous.” Lady Penelope snorted. “Your heart is too soft, my dear Artemis. Those who have done awful crimes do not deserve our sympathy. They belong either in bedlam or prison or hung from the gallows.”
Miss Greaves went suddenly white.
“In any case, I am not of the same opinion.” Lady Penelope shuddered dramatically. “Lord d’Arque’s courage and wonderful skill with the blade saved us from a tragedy, I think.”
The viscount bowed to Lady Penelope. “I thank you, my lady. ’Twas my pleasure indeed.”
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Lord Kershaw said.
Isabel raised her eyebrows. “My lord?”
“Why was the Ghost here tonight at all?” Lord Kershaw asked. “I was given to understand that he frequents St. Giles—hence his name.”
Isabel cleared her throat. “He did venture as far as Tyburn only a fortnight ago.”
“He’s a criminal. No doubt he planned to attack and rob all of us,” Lady Penelope stated assuredly.
“Or he could’ve come to save someone,” Miss Greaves said.
Lady Penelope rolled her eyes.
“Perhaps he was hunting,” Winter said.
“Exactly as I said,” Lady Penelope snapped.
“Your pardon, my lady,” Winter said, “but I meant that perhaps he sought someone who had done him wrong—or had done wrong to those he protects in St. Giles.”
“What a very odd idea,” Lord d’Arque said.
Winter looked at him, his face expressionless. “Is it?”
Did the wrenched man want to be discovered?
“I believe the opera is about to begin,” Isabel interrupted. The orchestra had ceased their vague tuning noises and started into Mr. Handel’s latest wonderful composition.
“Yes.” Miss Greaves leaned forward eagerly. “There is La Veneziana. She’s said to be the greatest soprano of our age.”
“Is she?” Lady Penelope employed a pair of jeweled opera glasses. “But she’s such a scrawny little thing.”
Isabel peered at the soprano on the stage. She wore a spangled red and white dress, and even with her lack of height, she commanded the stage.
And that was before she opened her mouth.
As the high, sweet voice soared through the opera house, Winter leaned close to Isabel. “Her voice is magnificent,” he whispered. “One might even forget her scrawniness.”
She turned and looked at him and saw that his grave dark eyes were sparkling with mischief. Her senses suddenly spun. Only half an hour before, those same eyes had stared at her through the holes of a mask with passion and yearning and a blunt hunger that had taken her breath away. She felt the exact moment, the sudden loss of footing, the sensation of falling, and knew sheer terror.
Dear God, this man could utterly destroy her.
IT WAS PAST midnight by the time Winter made his way wearily back to the home. The opera house was less than a mile away from St. Giles, and it seemed a terrible waste of money to hire a hack for such a short ride. Not to mention that he had a soft, long sack containing his Ghost costume and swords slung over his shoulder—something he’d rather not have to explain to anyone.
A carriage rumbled by and Winter hastily skipped back as the wheels hit a puddle in the road and sent up a wave of foul water and mud. Splatters hit his legs and he looked down ruefully at the dark splotches on his formerly white stockings. Wonderful. Now he reeked of the sewers and would have to wash out his stockings before he went to bed.
Winter sighed. What matter if his new stockings were stained? The only reason he’d not lost the bet with d’Arque before it had even begun was because d’Arque had declared the night a draw. Lady Beckinhall had been chilly the rest of the evening, shooting him suspicious glances and making snide asides to him—when she would speak to him at all. Did she know he was the Ghost? She must at least suspect after that kiss… or did she? Surely such an outspoken woman would’ve taken him to task already if she knew he was the Ghost. And if she didn’t suspect he was the Ghost, maybe she wasn’t interested in Winter Makepeace at all. Maybe she just liked kissing masked men. Winter kicked a broken cobblestone so savagely it ricocheted with a clang off the bricks of a building.
Winter stopped to calm his breath. He never should’ve kissed her. Had he not been in the Ghost’s disguise, he would’ve been able to resist her—or at least he hoped he would’ve been able to resist her. The truth was, the moment she’d touched her mouth to his, he’d been lost. Isabel tasted of heat and mint, honey and longing. When she’d stroked her tongue across his mouth, he’d come fully, achingly erect. With that one touch, she’d opened a Pandora’s box of passion within him.
Prudence demanded that he stay as far away from the lady as humanly possible. He should take tonight as a warning and retire. Yet he knew he would not. Isabel offered the only hope that he might continue at the home. More, she offered a means to investigate d’Arque, for without Isabel and her “tutelage,” he would not normally frequent the rarified circles that d’Arque swam in.
Winter snorted. He’d be lying to himself if he thought that was the real reason he would see her again. As important as the home and discovering d’Arque’s involvement with the lassie snatchers were, he knew in his heart that he simply couldn’t stay away from Isabel. She drew him. Whether it was animal instinct rising to the surface—the male part of him that he’d thought he’d long ago suppressed—or something more spiritual, it hardly mattered. He could no more leave the lady alone than he could stop breathing.
For a moment Winter leaned against the crumbling corner of a brick house. He was dangerously involved with Isabel. And he was chasing his tail with d’Arque. What had d’Arque’s coachman meant when he said that it wasn’t the viscount? Was some other “toff” behind the lassie snatchers? And if so, then why had Joseph Chance been clutching a scrap of paper with d’Arque’s seal on it?
Winter straightened, shaking his head. He was probably making the whole thing too complicated. No doubt the coachman had been lying simply to save his master’s—and his own—neck. D’Arque must be involved, otherwise why—
The sudden clatter of hooves on cobblestones made Winter draw back into the shadows, but there wasn’t much room to hide.
Captain Trevillion came around the corner, followed by a half dozen of his dragoons.
Trevillion must’ve seen Winter, for he drew his gelding to an immediate halt. “Mr. Makepeace, St. Giles isn’t a safe place to loiter late at night, as I’m sure you know.”
“I do know.” Since the dragoon captain had already spotted him, Winter emerged into the moonlight. “Out hunting old women gin hawkers, Captain?”
Trevillion’s lips tightened and Winter wondered how much ribbing the captain might’ve taken over his less-than-successful campaign to clean the gin makers and sellers out of St. Giles.
“I’ve bigger prey tonight,” Trevillion said in a clipped voice. “The Ghost has been spotted near St. Giles-in-the-Fields.”
“Indeed?” Winter arched a brow. “Then he is quite active tonight. I come from the opera, where he also made an appearance earlier in the evening.”
“The opera?” One of Trevillion’s eyebrows rose sardonically. “You move in rarified circles for a man who lives in St. Giles, Makepeace.”
“And if I do?” Winter replied coolly.
A corner of the captain’s stern mouth actually cocked up at that. “Then it is none of my business, I suppose.” Trevillion jerked his chin at the bag over Winter’s shoulder. “And do you always carry such a heavy load to the opera?”
“No, of course not,” Winter said, his manner easy. “I stopped by a friend’s house on my way home. He has donated some books to the home.”
Winter kept his gaze steady even as he held his breath. If the dragoon captain asked to look in his bag, he would have no explanation for the Ghost’s costume.
Trevillion grunted and glanced away. “See that you take care on your walk home, Makepeace. I’ve enough to deal with without you getting yourself murdered.”
“Your worry for my person is touching,” Winter said.
Trevillion nodded curtly and wheeled his horse about.
Winter watched until the soldiers were swallowed by the night. Only then did he sigh and let his shoulders slump.
The rest of the journey home was without incident. Twenty minutes later, Winter let himself into the home’s kitchen. Soot, the black tomcat, stretched by the fireplace, his sharp claws scratching softly against the red brick hearth, before straightening and padding over to bump his big head against Winter’s shins in greeting.