“All the more reason to pull yourself together,” Isabel said gently.
“I don’t care,” Lady Margaret whispered.
“I know, dear, but in the future you will.” Isabel’s words were blunt to the point of cruelty, she knew, but they must be spoken. “Pull yourself together, my lady. We need to walk through that ballroom to your carriage. Now, who did you come with tonight?”
“My… my great aunt is staying with me while Mama is away.”
Isabel had a vague recollection of an older, gray-haired woman sometimes accompanying Lady Margaret. “Good. I’ll get you settled in the carriage first and then send her to you.”
It wasn’t as simple as that, of course. It took another fifteen minutes and much cajoling on Isabel’s part, but at last Lady Margaret was ready to step from the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face puffy, and she’d obviously been crying, but at least she no longer was.
“You only need to get to your carriage,” Isabel murmured as she accompanied the girl back to the ballroom. “A few steps and then you can relax.”
Lady Margaret nodded mechanically.
“Good girl,” Isabel said. They’d reached the ballroom. People were still crowded around the entrance, and no one seemed to pay them any attention, thank goodness. “We’ll simply tell your aunt that you’ve a migraine. Can you trust your lady’s maid?”
“What?” Lady Margaret looked dazed.
The girl probably hadn’t thought how fast gossip spread among servants. “Never mind. Just get rid of your lady’s maid as soon as she helps you to undress. Lock your door and rest.”
“Lady Beckinhall, there you are!” The voice was masculine and to Isabel’s side.
She turned, half blocking the speaker’s view of Lady Margaret. Mr. Seymour stood with Lord d’Arque. Both men looked grave. The viscount was still a bit green about his mouth.
Mr. Seymour’s color in contrast was hectic. “Monstrous, this business. The cold-blooded murder of a gentleman right here in London.” He glanced curiously at Lady Margaret. “The news must’ve been overwhelming for those of delicate sensibilities.”
Isabel sent the man a quelling glance. “Quite. And even for those who have normal sensibilities. Mr. Fraser-Burnsby was a very nicely mannered gentleman, and a favorite to many. He will be missed.”
Lord d’Arque muttered something under his breath and abruptly strode away.
“They were close,” Mr. Seymour said, nodding in d’Arque’s direction. “Apparently were at school together. I had no idea. D’Arque keeps everything close to the vest, and Roger was friendly to everyone.” He shook his head. “We’ll find his murderer, never you fear, ladies. We’ve called in the dragoons and they’re searching St. Giles even now. We’ll have him in prison by dawn.”
Isabel stared, perplexed. “Who?”
Mr. Seymour raised his eyebrows at her words.
“Who killed Roger Fraser-Burnsby?” Isabel asked impatiently.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Beckinhall, but I thought you’d heard,” Mr. Seymour said gently. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby was murdered by the Ghost of St. Giles.”
Chapter Eleven
The Harlequin’s True Love wept bitter tears, but she did not give up. The next morning she went to consult a wisewoman.
“Ah!” said the wisewoman when she’d heard the True Love’s tale. “The Harlequin has relinquished his soul to the Master of the Night and can no longer walk in the sunlight. He will spend eternity thus, neither seeing nor truly hearing those about him, bent only on revenge. It is a thing not easily done, but if you want to bring him back into the light, you must first bind him with Love, then wash his eyes with Sorrow, and finally make him touch Hope…”
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
The moon hung low in the night sky, a goddess guiding his way as Winter Makepeace leaped from one rooftop to another half an hour later. He landed on all fours, but was up at once, running lightly over the shingles. So close. He was so close now he could feel it in his veins. The children who needed his help were near and he would find and rescue them. He must try to forget the emotions that Lady Beckinhall provoked. Try to recapture and contain everything she’d let loose. He would be strictly Winter Makepeace with her, make sure she never met the Ghost again. If he could do that, then perhaps he had a chance of going on with his life exactly as he had been before. Because as wonderful as it was to be with her, he’d pledged himself to another path. This. This was what he was made for: bringing justice to those who had no voice.
Righting the wrongs that threatened to overwhelm St. Giles.
He jumped from the rooftop down to a wall and thence into Calfshead Lane. Number 10 was a crooked doorway with no light outside. Above his head, two doors down, a sign swung in the wind, but if it had something painted on it, it was too dark to see. Winter tried the door handle, and when that refused to give, he backed a pace and simply kicked in the door.
It swung back on rusty hinges, banging against the wall inside and rebounding. Winter caught it with one hand and peered inside.
“Go ’way!” a shrill voice shouted from inside.
Winter peered into the gloom. A woman crouched just inside the door, a knife held in one wavering hand. “Dear God, ’tis the devil himself!”
“Where are the children?” Winter rasped.
The woman stared around dazedly. “Children? Ain’t no children ’ere.”
Winter advanced inside as she scurried back. “I know there are children here. Where are they?”
The woman’s rheumy eyes opened wide. “ ’Ave you come to take me to ’ell?”
Winter stared at her. A couple of shapes—dead or dead drunk—lay in the corner of the tiny room, but they were obviously adult. And the woman before him didn’t seem capable of running a child work mill. “Is there anyone else here?”
She blinked, her mouth hanging half open. “Not since th’ pawnshop owner left. That were months ago now.”
Swiftly Winter went to the only door in the room and opened it. Beyond was a bare little space, the ceiling not even tall enough for a man to stand upright in it.
And it was entirely empty.