“I’m interested in many things,” he said, his deep voice precise and unhurried, “but I cannot believe you offer me the position in earnest, my lady. After all, I have already confessed my lack of credentials.”
Any other man would’ve looked abashed to remind her of his inexperience. Mr. Makepeace, in contrast, seemed perfectly complacent, even self-assured. Somehow she knew he would take a love affair very seriously indeed. Once that pinpoint focus was engaged, he would throw himself body and soul into the liaison. Into the woman he decided to take as a lover.
A shiver ran through her at the thought. To be the object of such ferocious regard was an alluring prospect, but it also gave her pause.
Caution, her intellect whispered. Don’t engage this man without proper consideration. He won’t be as easily cast aside as the sophisticates of London society.
Isabel slowly sat back again, regarding her pupil. “Then we’ll need to work on your social skills, won’t we?” She smiled as she dumped her cooled tea and poured herself another dish. “Shall we practice dinner conversation?”
He nodded, and if she saw disappointment in his eyes, she ignored it. She might like to flirt and tease, but she wasn’t without common sense after all.
“I am at your command,” he drawled.
WINTER WATCHED AS Lady Beckinhall took his teacup, dumped the contents, and poured him a fresh cup. Somehow he’d scared her away from their risqué conversation, and now she was set on talking about the weather or some other boring topic.
The strange thing was that he felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d liked sparring with her. Liked even more the small glimpse under the social mask she wore. She’d been truly hurt by her husband, and while he didn’t want to remind her of sad memories, he did want to see again the naked face she’d shown. The true Lady Beckinhall.
She looked at him now, the role of hostess firmly in place. “Have you seen the new opera at the Royal Playhouse?”
“No.” He took a sip of tea, watching her. “I’ve never attended an opera.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly in, if he weren’t mistaken, irritation. “A play, then?”
He silently shook his head.
“A musicale? The fair?”
He merely looked at her and waited.
She hadn’t much patience, his Lady Beckinhall. “I declare you’re the most boring man I’ve ever met, Mr. Makepeace. You must do something besides constantly toil at the home.”
He felt the corner of his mouth curve.
“Sometimes I read.”
“Don’t tell me.” She held out a commanding small palm. “You secretly devour the frivolous novels of Daniel Defoe.”
“I admit to liking Robinson Crusoe,” he said. “And I found his pamphlets on gin and gin distilling interesting if utterly wrongheaded.”
She blinked as if interested in spite of herself. “Why?”
“Defoe argued that gin distilling is integral to the well-being of our English farmers because they sell their grain to the distillers. That argument may be correct, but it doesn’t take into account what gin does to the poor of London.”
She was already shaking her head. “But Defoe wrote later that gin was spoiling the offspring of those same London mothers who drank the—Why are you smiling at me?”
“Reading political pamphlets, my lady?” He tutted as if shocked. “Do the rest of the Ladies’ Syndicate know about this?”
She blushed as if she’d been caught doing something naughty, yet she lifted her chin stubbornly. “You’d be surprised how many ladies read political pamphlets.”
“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think I would. I’ve never doubted that the fairer sex was as interested as men in politics and the social wrongs of London. I am, however, a bit surprised that you are.”
She shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
He leaned forward. “Because you make every effort to pretend disinterest in anything serious. Why?”
For a moment he thought she would actually give him a straight answer. Then she looked away, her hand waving indifferently. “I’m supposed to be teaching you dinner conversation. Politics is never a good topic for mixed company—”
“My lady,” he began in warning.
“No.” She shook her head, determinedly not meeting his eyes. “You shan’t draw me in again. Novels are a much more proper topic of conversation.”
She wasn’t going to change her mind, he could see, so he humored her. “Even Moll Flanders?”
“Especially Moll Flanders,” she said. “A novel about a woman of ill repute is sure to be a lively topic of conversation.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “despite Moll’s dramatically tragic downfall, I cannot like her as much as Mr. Crusoe.”
She visibly wavered, and he thought she’d stick to her usual society mask. But then she leaned forward, as eager as any girl. “Oh! When he found the footprint in the sand!”
He grinned. “Exciting, wasn’t it?”
“I stayed up all night to read it to the end,” she said, slumping back with a satisfied sigh. “I’ve read it again twice since.” She suddenly fixed him with a gimlet eye. “And if you ever tell one of the ladies that I much prefer Robinson Crusoe over Moll Flanders, I’ll cut out your liver.”
He bowed solemnly. “Your secret is safe with me, my lady.”
The corners of her lush mouth quirked. “Who would’ve thought,” she murmured, “that the so-serious Mr. Makepeace would like adventure novels?”
He cocked his head. “Or that the frivolous Lady Beckinhall would prefer adventure novels to scandalous biographies?”
For a moment—only a moment—she dropped the facade and smiled at him almost shyly.
He smiled back, his heart beating in triple time.
Then she looked away, biting her lip. “Oh, where has the time gone? I think that’s enough for today, don’t you? I’ll come to the home tomorrow and we can continue your studies there.”
He didn’t bother arguing. He’d obviously pushed her as far as she could go today. Instead, feeling protective, he stood and bowed, and with a few murmured words left her.
But as the butler showed him the door, Winter wondered: Who was uncovering who in their little game?
ISABEL SAT AT her vanity that night brushing her hair, having already dismissed Pinkney for the evening. She was playing a dangerous game, she knew, with Mr. Makepeace. He wasn’t of her station, wasn’t even the same age as she. Yet she was strangely addicted to his intent regard. It was heady, being the focus of such a serious man. No man had ever looked at her the way Winter Makepeace did—not her lovers, and certainly not her husband.
She lowered her brush. Was that why she found herself wanting to provoke him into… what? Dropping his mask, perhaps?
Odd thought. For now that she considered it, his bluntness of speech rather reminded her of another man—the masked Ghost of St. Giles. He, too, had declined light flirtation for more direct conversation with her. How bizarre that Mr. Makepeace, a staid schoolmaster, should remind her of the roguish Ghost of St. Giles.
A movement in the mirror caught her eye. The drapes on the bed behind her twitched.
Isabel set her brush down on the vanity, turned, and looked at the bed. “Christopher?”
There was a pause and she began to wonder if she’d been mistaken, and then a small voice said, “Ma’am?”
She sighed. “Christopher, I think I’ve told you before that you mustn’t hide in my rooms.”
Silence.
Isabel stared at the bed, perplexed. What if he refused to come out? Should she have the boy pulled from the bed? Spanked by his nanny? Damn it, where was Carruthers?
The curtains rustled again as if small fingers had trailed across them. “I like it here.”
She looked away, biting her lip, tears smarting in her eyes. He was only a small boy. Surely she could deal with a small boy?
She inhaled. “It’s past your bedtime.”
“Can’t sleep.”
She looked about the room as if searching for help. “I’ll send for some warm milk.”
“Don’t like milk.”
She stared at the curtain, exasperated. “What do you like?”
“Can…” She could hear the hesitation in his little voice and it made her heart squeeze. “Can you tell me a story, my lady?”
A story. Her mind was a blank. All she could think of was Cinderella, and she had the feeling that a little boy wouldn’t be interested in the exploits of a girl and a handsome prince. She looked down, thinking, and saw the brush.
Isabel cleared her throat. “Have you heard of the Ghost of St. Giles?”
The curtain paused in its twitching. “A ghost? A real ghost?”
“Well…” She knit her brows in thought. “No, he’s a living man, but he moves like a ghost and he hunts at night like a ghost.”
“Who does he hunt?”
“Wicked men,” she replied, sure of her ground now. She’d heard the stories of the Ghost ravaging maidens and kidnapping ladies, but having actually met the man, she was sure that the stories were false. “He punishes thieves and footpads and those who prey on the innocent.”
“Pray like in church?”
“No. Prey like a cat catching a mouse.”
“Oh.”
She glanced at the bed and saw that Christopher had parted the curtain. One brown eye peeped out at her.
Isabel tried a smile. “Now, I really think you must go to bed, Christopher.”
“But that wasn’t a story,” he pointed out.
Her chest tightened in near panic. “It’s the best I can do for now.”
“Are you my mother?” That single brown eye was wide and unblinking.
She had to look away first. “You know I’m not. I’ve told you so before.” She got up and briskly opened the curtains to her bed, careful not to touch the boy. “Shall I ring for Carruthers or can you find the nursery yourself?”
“M’self.” He jumped down from the bed and walked slowly to her door. “G’night, my lady.”
Her voice was husky when she replied. “Good night, Christopher.”
Luckily, she held back the tears until he’d shut the door behind him.
“LADY BECKINHALL’S CARRIAGE is outside,” Mary Whitsun said as she entered the home’s sitting room the next afternoon.
Winter looked up from the letter he was reading just in time to see a little white and black terrier trot into the room as if he owned the place.
“Oh, come here, Dodo,” Mary exclaimed. She bent and picked up the dog, who submitted without even a halfhearted growl.
Winter raised an eyebrow, impressed. Dodo had continued his warning growl whenever he came near. “Has Peach come down?”
“No, sir,” Mary said regretfully. “She’s still abed and not speaking, poor thing. But Dodo here has decided to explore the home. Just this morning Mistress Medina had to chase the dog away from some tarts she had cooling on a table in the kitchen.”
“Ah.” Winter eyed the terrier, who’d shut his eyes as if ready for a nap in Mary Whitsun’s arms. “We’d best assign some of the little boys to look after him and see he goes into the alley to do his business. Can you see to it, Mary?”
“Yes, sir.”
The girl turned to the door, but Winter had remembered something. “Just a moment, Mary.”
She looked at him. “Sir?”
He rummaged in the papers on his lap before finding a small, folded letter. This he held out to Mary. “My sister enclosed a note to you in her letter to me.”
The girl’s face lit up, and Winter realized with a start that Mary Whitsun was growing into a lovely young lady. They were going to have to watch the lads around her in another couple of years. “Oh, thank you, sir!”
