“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.”