It was too early for even the chambermaids to be up and stirring the fireplaces, but Isabel realized she wasn’t alone when she got to her bedroom. A little form lay just outside the doorway.
Isabel paused and looked down at Christopher, perplexed. There was a carpet in the hallway, but even so, the floor could hardly be a comfortable bed. Yet the boy was curled on his side like a little mouse, his chest rising and falling gently in deep sleep. He looked so young in sleep, almost a baby. He had his mother’s fair hair but she realized as she stared at him that his chin and nose were his father’s. Someday he might look like dear Edmund.
Isabel sighed. No one was about, and no doubt poor Carruthers still slept peacefully in her bed in the nursery. There was no help for it. Carefully she bent and gathered the warm little body into her arms—a little awkwardly for she wasn’t used to this. He made not a sound as she carried him to her bed, but she was somewhat surprised at the solid weight of him. Gently she laid him on the bed and pulled the covers to his chin.
“Is he here?” Christopher’s sleepy brown eyes blinked up at her. His words were so slurred, she wasn’t sure he was entirely awake.
“Who?” she whispered.
“The Ghost,” he said, quite clearly now. “I dreamed he came and saved you, my lady.”
She felt the corner of her mouth quirk up. “Save me from what?”
He rolled into a little ball on his side, his eyes unblinking. “I dreamed you were crying in a tall tower all alone and the Ghost came and saved you.”
“Ah,” she said, her brows knit. What an odd dream for the boy to have. “It was only a dream, Christopher. I’m quite all right.”
He nodded, a huge yawn splitting his face. “Then he did save you.”
She blinked at this logic and Christopher began to softly snore.
For a moment she simply stared down at him, this child who would not go away, no matter how often she chased him. This child who demanded her maternal love, withered thing though it was. Her eyes suddenly swam with tears. She remembered Winter’s repeated words: If not I, then who? She’d never be as saintly as he, but perhaps this one, small thing she could do.
She bent and kissed Christopher’s forehead before climbing into bed herself.
WINTER GAZED DOWN at Peach as she lay sleeping and wondered what would be best to do with the little Jewess. He didn’t have much knowledge about the Jews in London—other than that they were technically illegal and thus a very secretive society. He could convert the girl, he supposed, and raise her as a Christian, but something inside of him balked at the notion of changing her so fundamentally. Of teaching her to lie all of her life.
At least she looked better than when she’d first come to the home. Her cheeks were filled out and were a healthy rose color, and she even seemed to have grown taller, if that were possible in such a short amount of time. Dodo lay against her, protectively cradled in one of Peach’s arms. The little terrier eyed him warily, but at least she wasn’t growling.
Winter switched his gaze to the other human occupant of the narrow bed. “Joseph.”
Joseph Tinbox, who had been lying with one arm flung over his head and one leg hanging off the bed, opened his eyes groggily. “Wha—”
“What are you doing in Peach’s bed?” Winter asked mildly.
The boy sat up, his hair plastered to his skull in back and sticking straight out in front. “Peach had a nightmare.”
Winter cocked an eyebrow skeptically. “A nightmare.”
“Aye.” The boy was wide awake and using his most earnest expression now. “I couldn’t let her sleep alone after that.”
“And you heard this nightmare from down the hall in the boys’ dormitory?”
Joseph opened his mouth and then realized the problem: It was simply impossible to hear anything but a full-out scream from the dormitory at the opposite end of the hallway. He lowered his chin, peering at Winter from under his thicket of hair. “She’s been havin’ nightmares, she told me.”
Winter sighed. The protective streak in the boy was a good one, but…“You’ve reached an age, Joseph, when it will no longer do to sleep in the same bed as a female, no matter how noble the reason.”
He could see by Joseph’s confused look that the boy had no idea of what he spoke. Still, it was the sad state of the world that people judged others not by the best that they could be but by the worst thought in their own hearts.
“Come, Joseph. Peach is old enough to sleep by herself,” Winter said, holding out his hand. “She has Dodo to protect her, after all.”
Joseph Tinbox gave him a look full of ancient childhood wisdom. “Dodo is a dog, sir. She can’t answer back when Peach wants to talk about the things that happened to her.”
“I’m sorry, you’re quite correct,” Winter said. He cocked his head. “Is Peach telling you all about what happened to her?”
Joseph nodded, his lips pressed tight together.
“I see.” Winter glanced about the room, his brows knit. “Then perhaps a compromise is in order. What if you were to sleep in the cot next to Peach’s bed? That way you could still hear her should she wish to talk, but you would both get a better night’s sleep, I think.”
Joseph thought the matter over as solemnly as a judge before nodding decisively. “That’ll work, I ’spect.”
He climbed into the cot and gave a great yawn.
Winter picked up his candle and turned to go. It would be daybreak soon enough. But Joseph forestalled him with a question.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Where do you go at night?”
Winter paused and glanced over his shoulder. Joseph was watching him with perceptive eyes for one so young.
In that instant, Winter grew tired of lies. “I right wrongs.”
He expected more questions—Joseph was usually full of them and his answer was too obscure—but the boy merely nodded. “Will you teach me how sometime?”
Winter’s eyes widened. Teach him to…? His mind instantly balked at the thought of putting Joseph in danger. But were he ever to ask for an apprentice to his Ghost, he knew instinctively that he could find no one with more courage than the lad.
He hesitated before speaking. “I’ll think on the matter.”
The boy blinked sleepily. “Thank you for letting me stay with Peach, sir.”
Some sudden emotion swelled Winter’s chest.
“Thank you for caring for her, Joseph,” he whispered, then shut the door.
“WHERE ARE WE going?” Christopher asked eagerly the next afternoon.
“To a place with lots of children,” Isabel replied. “You might find one or two to play with.”
Christopher looked uncertain. “Will they like me?”
Isabel felt a pang. On impulse, she’d brought Christopher with her to visit the home. He’d been so happy this morning when he’d woken in her room and she hadn’t scolded him. She thought he might enjoy the company of other children his age, but what did she know about children, after all? Perhaps this had been a terrible mistake. Christopher looked so apprehensive! He’d had very little experience with other children, she realized. Louise took him away to visit her once in a while, but she had no family and her friends had no children. Christopher had been rather isolated all of his short life.
She wasn’t his mother, but Isabel felt guilty anyway. She should’ve noticed before now how lonely the little boy must be. And she realized suddenly that it was because of Winter that she was more aware. He’d opened something up deep inside her. Made her look at her life and world with new eyes. The thought made her uneasy. What they had was by necessity destined to be a short-lived thing. Someday—probably someday soon—she would have to walk away from Winter. Yet the more time she spent with him, the more she was seduced by his grave, dark eyes. Those eyes saw her true self like no one had before.
Isabel shuddered. When she did leave Winter, it would be like pulling off a layer of skin.
“My lady?”
Christopher’s high voice brought her back to the present. She looked at him and smiled reassuringly.
“I don’t know if the other children will like you,” Isabel answered, “but I expect if you are kind to them, they won’t find fault.”
Christopher looked only marginally reassured and Isabel gazed out the window with a silent sigh. No doubt Winter would think her a fool for bringing Christopher.
But when she saw Winter half an hour later, he had other matters on his mind. He stood on the home’s steps, talking to Captain Trevillion, the dragoon officer.
Isabel picked up her skirts when she caught sight of the men and quickened her step toward the home.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she called as she neared.
Captain Trevillion swept off his tall cap and bowed from his horse, but Winter only glanced in her direction before his gaze landed on Christopher’s small form beside her; then he turned back to the captain. “As I’ve said, I didn’t catch sight of the Ghost last night, Captain.”
Isabel’s heart constricted. Dear Lord, was the dragoon captain suspicious?
“Yet you were out late, the children tell me,” Trevillion said smoothly, worsening Isabel’s fears. “Surely you must have at least heard something.”
“Gunshots,” Winter said mildly. “But I make it a habit to walk away from the sounds of violence, I assure you, Captain.”
Captain Trevillion grunted. “The Ghost killed a gentleman last night, as I’m sure you’ve heard. I trust you’ll alert me or my men if you hear anything about the matter?”
“You have my word,” Winter said gravely.
The captain nodded. “Good.” He turned to Isabel. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news as well, my lady. St. Giles is not a safe place to be walking around at the moment.”
“Your concern warms my heart as always, Captain.” Isabel smiled and gestured toward Harold, standing a respectful few paces behind her. “But I brought my footman with me.”
“Is he armed?” the dragoon officer demanded.
“Always,” Isabel assured him.
“Well, see to it that you’re out of here by nightfall,” Captain Trevillion ordered as if she were one of his soldiers. He turned the head of his big black horse. “And mind your promise, Mr. Makepeace.”
Without waiting for their replies, he trotted away.
“Why was the soldier mad?” Christopher asked as he watched the retreating dragoon. He’d spent the entire exchange staring in awe at the big horse and its rider’s impressive uniform.
“He’s been working all night,” Winter said gently, speaking directly to the boy. “I expect Captain Trevillion is tired. Have you come to visit, Christopher?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy shyly leaned into Isabel’s skirts. “My lady says there are children here to play with.”
“And so there are.” Winter gave Isabel a rare, wide smile that made her heart speed. “I’m glad that Lady Beckinhall thought to bring you. Have you come to teach me more manners, my lady?”
“Not today, though I fear our lessons are far from over.” She pursed her lips. “No, after last night and Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s”—she glanced at Christopher—“demise, I think the contest between you and Lord d’Arque must be temporarily suspended. Which is just as well, considering that you abandoned the ball without bothering to say your farewells to anyone.”
“Your mission is indeed a difficult one,” Winter murmured as he opened the front door, leading them inside.
“Humph.” Isabel rolled her eyes, but she was in far too good a mood to argue etiquette this afternoon.
“I believe Cook has made some fresh buns this morning if you would like to see,” Winter instructed Harold.
“Yes, sir.” The footman headed back to the kitchens.
Christopher gazed after him longingly.
“Perhaps we should see about the buns as well in a bit,” Winter murmured. “But first shall we see what the boys’ class is doing?”
Christopher looked both apprehensive and excited at the mention of children. He said nothing but took the hand that Winter held out. Winter glanced at Isabel over the boy’s head, his eyes warm.
They trooped up the stairs to the classroom level above the dormitories. As they neared, Isabel thought that the schoolrooms were unusually quiet, and when they entered, she could see why: The children were having their afternoon tea. Long tables had been set up, and each child had before him a steaming mug and a plate with a bun on it.
“Ah, I see we’re just in time,” Winter murmured.
Heads turned at his voice and the children chorused—after a prompt by Nell Jones—“Good afternoon, Mr. Makepeace.”
“And a good afternoon to you as well, boys.” Winter gestured to an empty seat on one of the long benches, his expression somehow amused even if he didn’t smile. “Would you care to join us, Lady Beckinhall?”
She gave him a look promising retribution and his mouth relaxed into a smile.
He sat beside her and poured her a cup of the strong tea, adding milk and sugar without prompting before passing it to her. Christopher sat stiffly across from them, without drinking his tea, although he eyed the bun on his plate hungrily.
“Is that your mother?” One of the boys who looked about Christopher’s age leaned over and whispered the question hoarsely.
Christopher darted a cautious look at Isabel. “No.”
“D’you got a mother?” the boy asked.
“Yes,” Christopher asked. “Don’t you?”
“Nope,” the boy said. “Don’t none of us do. That’s why we live here in the home.”
“Oh.” Christopher thought about that for a moment, then picked up the bun and took a bite. “I don’t have a father.”
The boy nodded sagely. “Neither do I. D’you want to see a mouse?”
Christopher looked interested. “Yes, please.”
“Henry Putman,” Winter said without looking up.
“Yes, sir?” The boy who’d been talking to Christopher looked over innocently.
“I do trust that the mouse is outside the home?”
Henry Putman wrinkled his brow.
Winter sighed. “Perhaps after tea you and Christopher can take it outside.”
“Yes, sir.” Henry Putman nodded vigorously and gulped his tea. “Joseph Chance can help us, too. He’s the one who saved it from Soot.”
A third little boy nodded vigorously over his bun.
Five minutes later, Isabel watched as Christopher trotted off with his newfound friends. The rest of the children trooped out as well. Apparently this was the designated hour for outside exercise. “You’re so good with them.”
“It’s not that hard,” he said. “One only has to treat them with respect and listen.”
“Easy for you, perhaps,” she said. “I always seem to be worrying about what I’ve said to him—or what I haven’t said.”
He nodded. “I suspect that all mothers worry about how they raise their children.”
She frowned. “I’m not his mother.”
“Of course not,” he murmured. “Yet you brought him here today. The last I saw you with Christopher, you were ordering him from the room. What changed?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps some of your saintliness rubbed off on me.”
He looked at her, one brow raised.
She sighed. “Or perhaps I got tired of hurting both of us by pushing him away.”
He smiled, sudden and warm, and she wondered for a moment if he would ever laugh in front of her. “In any case, I’m very glad you brought him.”
She shrugged uncomfortably, glancing about the classroom. Besides the long table and benches, there really wasn’t anything else in the room. The marble floor was bare, and a lone bookshelf held a stack of slates and one book—from its size probably the Bible.
She looked back at him. “This room is very spartan. Surely there are funds now to decorate the home.”
Winter raised his eyebrows as if sur
prised at the comment. “In what way would you change things?”
“It’s hardly up to me…” She trailed off and shook her head. “A carpet, for one. The floor will be very cold in winter. A few framed prints or even paintings for the children to look at. Curtains on the windows…” She trailed off again because he was smiling at her. “Why do you look at me like that?”
“I only admire the way you know how to make a building a home.”
She snorted. “It’s not that hard.”
They were alone in the classroom now and he pulled her suddenly toward him, kissing her hard and fast. He raised his head again while she was still gasping. “Will you make my home a home, Isabel?”
She nodded, uncharacteristically mute, for he looked so satisfied. With dread she wondered if his words meant something more.
ISABEL DIDN’T KNOW whether to expect him that night. Winter had made no sign—aside from that single searing kiss in the children’s classroom—that he wanted to see her again.
Wanted to bed her again.
But she found herself in her library late that night after everyone else in the household had gone to sleep. She wandered around the shelves, trailing her fingers over leather and fabric spines, picking up a book now and again, only to set it down a moment later. Bah! She was as pathetic as any debutante yearning for a glimpse of a potential beau’s carriage behind her mother’s sitting room curtains.
When at last she heard the whispered slide of her library door opening, she couldn’t even feign nonchalance. She whirled to see him and then her heart thrilled.
He was wearing the Ghost’s disguise.
“Do you want to hang?” she scolded as she crossed to him. “Is it some impulse to martyr yourself for the inhabitants of St. Giles? Is it not enough that you give yourself night and day for them—now you must give your very life?”