Thief of Shadows Page 2

  “Well,” Mrs. Butterman said, “he certainly seems healthy enough there.”

  “Oh my, yes,” Pinkney breathed.

  Isabel looked around irritably. She’d not realized the maid had come close enough to see the Ghost. Isabel drew a corner of the counterpane over the Ghost’s loins, feeling protective of the unconscious man.

  “Help me take off his boots so we can bare his legs completely,” Isabel told Mrs. Butterman. “If we can’t find the wound there, we’ll have to turn him over.”

  But as they stripped his breeches farther down his legs, a long gash was revealed on the man’s muscled right thigh. Fresh blood oozed and trickled over his leg as the sodden material was pulled away.

  “There ’tis,” Mrs. Butterman said. “We can send for the doctor, my lady, but I’ve a fair hand with the needle and thread.”

  Isabel nodded. She glanced again at the wound, relieved it was not nearly as bad as she’d feared. “Fetch what you’ll need, please, Mrs. Butterman, and take Pinkney with you to help. I have a feeling he won’t be much pleased by a doctor.”

  Mrs. Butterman hurried out with Pinkney following behind.

  Isabel waited, alone in the room save for the Ghost of St. Giles. Why had she rescued him? It’d been an action taken almost without thought—to leave a defenseless man to be ravaged by a mob was an idea that instinctively repulsed her. But now that he was in her house, she found herself more curious about the man himself. What sort of man risked his life in the disguise of a harlequin? Was he a footpad or a sword for hire? Or was he merely a madman? Isabel looked at him. He was unconscious, but he was still a commanding presence, his big body sprawled upon the dainty bed. He was a man in the prime of his life, strong and athletic, nearly bare to her gaze.

  All except his face.

  Her hand moved almost without thought, stretching toward the black silk mask still covering the upper part of his face. Was he handsome? Ugly? Merely ordinary-looking?

  Her hand began to descend toward the mask.

  His flashed up and caught her wrist.

  His eyes opened, assessing and quite clearly brown. “Don’t.”

  THIS DAY WAS not going as planned.

  Winter Makepeace stared up into Lady Isabel Beckinhall’s clever blue eyes and wondered how, exactly, he was going to extricate himself from this situation without giving away his identity.

  “Don’t,” he whispered again. Her wrist was warm and delicate, but he could feel the feminine strength beneath his fingers, and his own muscles were damnably weak at the moment.

  “Very well,” she murmured. “How long have you been awake?”

  She made no move to pull her wrist from his grasp.

  “I woke when you took off my leggings.” That had certainly been an interesting way to regain consciousness.

  “Then you’re not as badly off as we thought,” she drawled in her husky voice.

  He grunted and turned his head to look about the room. A wave of nausea and dizziness nearly made him pass out again. “Where am I?”

  He kept his voice to a low, barely audible rasp. Perhaps if he whispered, she wouldn’t recognize him.

  “My home.” She cocked her head. “I won’t touch your mask if you don’t want me to.”

  He watched her, calculating. He was naked, in a strange house, and wounded. The odds were not in his favor.

  She raised one elegant eyebrow. “If you’d let go of my wrist?”

  He opened his hand. “Your pardon.”

  She rubbed her wrist, her eyes lowered demurely. “I saved your life earlier, and you’re quite at my mercy now”—her eyes flicked over his nude body—“yet I don’t think you truly ask my pardon.”

  She raised her gaze to his, intelligent, humorous, and utterly seductive.

  The danger was palpable.

  Winter’s lips twitched. “Perhaps I’m just a rude fellow.”

  “Rude, undoubtedly.” She flicked a finger over the small bit of material covering his pelvis, and his base flesh stirred in mindless response. “But ungrateful as well?” She shook her head sadly.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I trust you do not blame me, madam, for my present state of undress. I do vow, I woke thus and know not who to blame but you.”

  Her eyes widened just a fraction and she bit her lip as if to quell a tremor of laughter. “I assure you my, uh, curiosity was prompted merely by a desire to find out where you were wounded, sir.”

  “Then I am honored by your curiosity.” Winter felt as if he had tumbled down a hill and landed upside down. He never bantered thus with women, and Lady Beckinhall had made it quite clear on their previous meetings—when he was merely Mr. Makepeace, the manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children—that she did not hold him in high regard.

  Perhaps it was the mask and the intimacy of the quiet room.

  Or perhaps it was the knock on the head he’d received earlier. “Did you discover that which you sought?”

  Her lips, wide and delicate, curved into a secret smile. “Oh, yes, I found all that I could wish for.”

  He inhaled, his pulse too fast, his head too light, and his cock too unruly, but the door to the room opened at that moment. Instantly, Winter closed his eyes. He instinctively knew it was best that the others not know he was awake and aware. He couldn’t logically explain this impulse, but since this type of instinct had saved his life countless times in the past, he no longer bothered to question the urge.

  Carefully he peered from beneath his eyelashes.

  His field of vision was limited, but at least two females entered the room.

  “How is he?” one of the women—a servant, judging by her accent—asked.

  “He hasn’t moved,” Lady Beckinhall replied.

  She didn’t mention that she’d been talking to him only seconds before, he noticed. But then he’d always known Lady Beckinhall was quick-witted.

  “Shouldn’t we take off his mask?” a different, younger, female voice asked eagerly.

  “Do you think that wise?” Lady Beckinhall inquired. “He might decide he must kill us if we learn his identity.”

  Winter almost cocked an eyebrow at this outrageous suggestion. The younger servant girl gave a muted scream. Obviously she hadn’t noticed how very solemn Lady Beckinhall’s voice was—the lady was hiding her amusement.

  The first servant sighed. “I’ll sew his leg up quick and then we’ll get him comfortable.”

  Which was when Winter realized that the next several minutes of his life were to be quite unpleasant.

  His entire body ached, so he hadn’t really noticed until that moment that his right thigh throbbed in particular. Apparently that was the wound Lady Beckinhall had been searching for.

  He closed his eyes fully then and waited, breathing in and out slowly, letting his arms and legs lie as if weighted on the bed.

  It’s the shock that makes pain hard to bear, his mentor had said long ago. Expect it, welcome it, and pain becomes simply another sensation, easy enough to brush aside.

  He thought of the home and the logistics of moving eight and twenty children into a new building. Fingers touched his wound, pinching the edges together with a sharp bite of agony as fresh, warm blood trickled over his leg. Winter was aware of the pain, but he set it aside, letting it flow through him and out again as he considered each child at the home and how he or she would react to the move.

  The new dormitories were spacious rooms, lit by large windows carefully barred. The sharp dig of the needle as it pierced his flesh. Most of the children would be happy with their new home. Joseph Tinbox, for instance, though already eleven years of age, would delight in running up and down the long hallways. The draw and raw tug as the thread pulled through his skin. But for a child such as Henry Putman, who had been recently left at the home and remembered the abandonment, the move might be troubling. Another stab of the needle. He would have to be especially aware of Henry Putman and others like him. Fire burning over his leg as liqu
id was splashed on the wound. Only Winter’s many hours of training kept him from jerking from the searing pain. He breathed in. Breathed out. Let his mind drift as the stabbing began again…

  Some time later, Winter realized that the poking of the needle had stopped. He surfaced from his internal musings to the feel of a cool hand on his forehead. He knew without opening his eyes that it was Lady Beckinhall who touched him.

  “He doesn’t feel feverish,” Lady Beckinhall murmured.

  Her voice was low for a woman and somewhat throaty. Winter seemed to feel her breath washing over his still-nude body and ruffling his nerve endings, but that was fancy. Perhaps the knock on the head was worse than he’d thought.

  “I brought some water to bathe him,” the older maidservant said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Butterman, but you’ve done enough for tonight,” Lady Beckinhall said. “I’ll see to it myself.”

  “But, my lady,” the second, younger servant protested.

  “Truly, you both have been the greatest help,” Lady Beckinhall said. “Please. Leave the water here and remove the rest of the things.”

  There was a rustling, the sound of something metallic dropping into a tin basin, and then the door opened and shut again.

  “Are you still awake?” Lady Beckinhall asked.

  Winter opened his eyes to find her looking at him, a wet cloth in her hands.

  His body tensed at the thought of her hands on him. “There’s no need for that.”

  She pursed her lips and glanced at his leg. “The wound is still bloody. I think it best. That is”—her eyes flashed up at him in challenge—“unless you fear the pain?”

  “I have no fear of pain or anything else you might inflict on me, my lady.” His whisper came out as a rasp. “Do your worst.”

  ISABEL INHALED AT the flash of defiance she saw in the Ghost’s brown eyes.

  “You don’t fear me or what I may do to you,” she murmured as she approached the bed. He’d lain so still while Mrs. Butterman had sewn up his wound that she’d feared he’d fainted again, but now some color had returned to his cheeks, reassuring her. “You don’t fear the wrath of the soldiers or a murderous mob. Tell me, Sir Ghost, what do you fear?”

  He held her gaze as he whispered, “God, I suppose. Doesn’t every man fear his creator?”

  “Not all men.” How strange to discuss philosophy with a naked, masked man. She carefully wiped at the dried blood upon his thigh. The warm muscle beneath her hand tensed at her touch. “Some care not at all for God or religion.”

  “True.” His dark eyes watched her every movement. “But most men fear their own mortality—the death that will eventually take them from this earth—and the God that will judge them in the afterlife.”

  “And you?” she murmured as she squeezed out the cloth and wet it again. “Do you fear death?”

  “No.” His statement was cool.

  She raised her eyebrows, bending over the wound to examine it. It was jagged, but Mrs. Butterman had stitched it very well. If it healed, there would be a long scar, but it wouldn’t be too wide or unsightly. It would’ve been a great pity to mar such a beautiful male limb. “I don’t believe you.”

  A corner of his mouth curled suddenly as if his own amusement surprised him. “Why not? Why should I lie?”

  She shrugged. “Out of bravado? You do go about in a mask and harlequin’s motley.”

  “Exactly right,” he whispered. “I hunt the streets of St. Giles with my swords. Would I do such a thing if I feared death?”

  “Perhaps. Some who fear death make a game of mocking it.” She stroked up his thigh, coming perilously near the sheet laid over his genitals.

  He made no move, but she knew his entire attention was on her. “Only fools mock death.”

  “Truly?” She inched her cloth under the wadded sheet. A tent was forming there. She straightened and plopped her cloth into the basin of water, rinsing it. “But mockery can be such an amusing game.”

  She moved to lay the cloth low on his belly.

  He grabbed her wrist. “I think the game you play is not to mock, but to tease.” There was a ragged edge to his whisper.

  Isabel eyed the growing ridge beneath the bundled sheet. “Perhaps you’re right.” Her gaze flicked to his, her eyebrows raised. “Is it a game you like?”

  “Would it matter?” His mouth twisted cynically.

  Her eyebrows rose. “Of course. Why tease an unwilling man?”

  “For the pure sport?”

  She blinked at the twinge of hurt. “You wound me.”

  He tensed his forearm and, without any visible sign of strain, pulled her closer, until she was forced to bend over his form, her bodice nearly touching his bare chest. This close she could see a ring of amber about his dark irises—and his pupils large with pain.

  “If I wound you, madam, I am sorry,” he rasped. “But acquit me of stupidity. I am not a rag doll to be played with.”

  She cocked her head, wishing he’d remove his mask so that she could truly see him. This man who had captured her interest as no other had in a very, very long time. He parried her flirtation with disconcertingly plainspoken answers. She simply wasn’t used to such frankness. All the gentlemen of her acquaintance knew to speak in elegant riddles that in the end meant nothing at all. Was he a common man, then, beneath his mask? But he didn’t address her as an inferior.

  No, his speech was quite familiar. As if he were her equal or more.

  She inhaled and let her eyes drift down his form. “No, you certainly are no limp rag doll, sir. I beg your pardon.”

  His eyes widened as if in surprise and he abruptly let her go. “ ’Tis I should beg pardon of you. You saved my life—don’t think I don’t know it well. Thank you.”

  She felt heat moving up her neck. Dear God, she hadn’t blushed since she was a girl. She’d bantered with dukes, flirted with princes. Why, then, should this man’s simple words make her feel suddenly self-conscious?

  “ ’Tis of no matter,” she said, much less graciously than her usual manner. She tossed the soiled cloth into the basin. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You may rest here until we can move you in the morning.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  She shook her head. “We’ve already established that I’m not a kind woman.”

  He smiled slightly as his eyes closed. “I think we’ve established just the opposite, actually. You’re kindness itself, Lady Beckinhall.”

  For a moment she watched him, waiting to see if he’d add something more, but instead his breathing grew sonorous.

  The Ghost of St. Giles had fallen asleep.

  THE GRAY-PINK LIGHT of dawn was peeking through the window when Isabel next opened her eyes. For a moment she merely blinked, wondering fuzzily why her back ached and why she wasn’t in her own bed. Then her gaze flew to the bed beside her.

  Empty.

  She stood stiffly and looked down at the coverlet. It was neatly made, but blood smeared the center. He had been there last night at least. She placed her palm on the counterpane, but the cloth was cool. He’d left some time ago.

  Isabel crossed to the door and called for a maid. She’d make inquiries, but she already knew in the pit of her stomach that he was gone and, besides the bloodstains, he’d left no trace.

  She returned to stare moodily at the empty bed while she waited for the maid, and in that moment she remembered something that had nagged at her too-tired brain the night before: Lady Beckinhall. He’d called her by her name, though no one had uttered it in his presence.

  She caught her breath. The Ghost of St. Giles knew her.

  Chapter Two

  Now you may not credit it, but once the Ghost of St. Giles was merely a mortal harlequin actor. He played with a traveling troupe that wandered from town to town. The Harlequin wore tattered red and black motley and when he swung his wooden sword at the villain of the play, it clacked: Clip! Clap! and made the children shout with glee…

  —from The Leg
end of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles

  Winter Makepeace, mild-mannered schoolmaster and manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, crouched on the sloping roof shingles as the sun came up over London. His back was to the roof edge and the drop below. He gripped the eve with both hands before kicking out and letting his body fall over the edge. For a moment he hung, three stories up, his entire weight suspended only by his fingertips, and then he swung through the attic window below. He landed with a wince, not only because of the pain his injured thigh caused him, but also because of the soft thump he made as he hit the floor.

  Usually he entered his room through the window without any sound at all.

  He winced again when he sat on the bed and examined his motley hose. They were muddy and a large rip ran from his hip to nearly his knee on the right leg. His head pounded in a drumbeat rhythm as he peeled the filthy fabric from his bandaged wound. He bundled the torn hose with his jackboots, swords, mask, and the rest of his costume and shoved the whole mess under the bed. Providence only knew if he’d be able to repair the damage—his sewing skills were adequate but by no means accomplished. Winter sighed. He very much feared that he needed a new costume—one that he could ill afford.

  Turning, he limped, nude, to the pitcher of water on his washstand and poured a bit into the basin. He splashed the cold water on his face and for the first time in his life regretted that he didn’t own a looking glass. Were there bruises on his face? Telltale scratches? He could feel the scrape of his morning beard as he ran his palms over his jaw.

  He grunted and for a moment leaned straight-armed on the shabby little washstand, letting the water drip from his face. He ached. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, and his head was spinning in a slow, nauseating rhythm. He had to dress, had to appear normal for the coming day. Had to teach small, recalcitrant boys at the day school, had to prepare the home’s children for the move to the new building, and had to find out if his youngest sister, Silence, was safe.