“And if your home—and your livelihood—depend upon flattering those aristocrats?”
His straight brows drew together. “In what way do you mean?”
Isabel sipped her tea, bitter though it was without her usual sugar, and marshaled her thoughts. He was a stubborn man, and if she couldn’t make him understand the gravity of his situation, she very much feared that Mr. Makepeace would simply refuse her help. And then he’d lose his position at the home. Winter Makepeace might do a wonderful job of hiding all his emotions, but Isabel knew the home was very important to him. Besides, it didn’t seem right that he should suffer the loss of his family’s and his life’s work simply because he was surly, dour, and a rather humorless man.
So Isabel lowered her teacup and gave Mr. Makepeace her best smile—the one that had made more than one young buck trip over his own feet in a ballroom.
Judging by Mr. Makepeace’s expression, she might’ve presented him with a codfish of uncertain provenance
Mentally sighing, Isabel said, “You understand the importance of attending events in polite society now that the home has the patronage of ladies such as Lady Hero, the Ladies Caire, and Lady Penelope?”
His nod was so slight it might’ve been a twitch.
She’d take it anyway. “Then you must understand the need to make your appearances in society properly. Everything you do, every movement you make, and everything you say will reflect not only on yourself, but also on the home—and its patronesses.”
He stirred impatiently. “You fear I will embarrass you.”
“I fear,” she said as she deliberated over her choice of sugar biscuits, “that you will lose the home.”
For a moment he was silent, and had he been any other man, she would’ve said he was stunned.
“What do you mean?” he asked very carefully.
“I mean that you risk losing either your position as the home’s manager or your patronesses—or if worse came to worst, both.” She shrugged and took a bite of the sugar biscuit, which turned out to be terribly stale. “No society lady wishes to be associated with an uncouth gentleman. If you cannot learn some polite manners, you will either be replaced as the home’s manager or you will lose your patronesses.”
She took a sip of her bitter tea to wash down the dryness of the biscuit, watching his face over the rim of the teacup. He gazed straight ahead, his face immobile, as if he debated something within himself.
Then he looked at her squarely and she had to repress a gasp. It felt as if he touched her physically with the intensity of his stare and the effect was… heady. Oh, yes, there were certainly emotional depths to this man. Did he let those emotions free when he was intimate with a woman? And why was she thinking this of Mr. Makepeace? He was the least sensual man she knew.
She was so confused by her thoughts that it took her a moment to realize he had spoken.
“No.” Mr. Makepeace rose, his hand perhaps unconsciously rubbing his right leg. “I’m afraid I have neither the time nor the inclination to learn etiquette from you, my lady.”
And with those blunt words, he left her.
WHY DID LADY Beckinhall imperil his usual reserve?
Winter Makepeace strode down an alley as the last rays of the dying sun retreated over the mismatched roofs of St. Giles. Even after a half hour spent in the lady’s company earlier this afternoon, he could still make no sense of his dangerous attraction to her. She’d been very brave, true, to rescue him from the mob. She liked to act the frivolous flirt, but her actions had been more kind than he’d seen from most people, poor or aristocratic. She’d brought him into her home, tended to his wounds, and nursed him with her own hands. The lady had shown a wholly unexpected side to herself, and if she were the daughter of a cobbler or butcher, he might’ve been very tempted to find out more about that part of her she kept so well hidden.
Winter shook his head. But Lady Beckinhall was no butcher’s daughter. He knew—knew—she wasn’t for him. And yet, as he’d been mentally lecturing himself that he must stay as far away from Lady Beckinhall as possible, he’d found himself almost agreeing to her ridiculous plan to “tutor” him. It had been harder than it should’ve been to walk away from the lady. And that simply wasn’t logical.
Lady Beckinhall was as far above him as Hesperus, the evening star. She’d been born to wealth and privilege while he was the son of a beer brewer. He was by no means rich and at times in the past had teetered on the edge of penury. She lived in the best part of London—an area with wide, straight streets and gleaming white marble, while he lived…
Here.
Winter leaped a stinking puddle and ducked around a crumbling brick wall. The gate in the wall had been vandalized and swung open, creaking in the wind. He entered the dark cemetery beyond, careful to watch for the low, tablet-like headstones set into the ground. This was the Jews’ burial place, and he knew that during the day he would see the inscriptions on the headstones in a mixture of Hebrew, English, and Portuguese—for most of the Jews in London had fled that country and its terrible laws against those who were not Christians.
A small, black form darted away as he neared the other side of the cemetery—either a cat or a very large rat. The wall here was low, and Winter scrambled over it and into a narrow passageway, biting back an exclamation at a twinge from his leg. This let out into another alley next to a chandler’s shop. Overhead, the chandler’s wooden sign swung, squeaking, in the wind. It was in the crude shape of a candlestick, but whatever paint that once outlined the flame and stick had long since flaked away. A single lantern hung outside the little shop, the flame flickering uncertainly.
It was the last glimpse of civilization the alley could boast—farther on, no lantern lit the black shadows. Only the most courageous—or foolhardy—of St. Giles’s residents would brave the dark alley after nightfall.
But then he wasn’t an ordinary resident, was he?
His boots clattered on the remaining cobblestones in the alley as the grim shadows enveloped him. Most would bring a lantern out at night, but Winter had always been more comfortable making his way by moonlight.
A cat screeched with amorous intent nearby and was answered by an equally loud rival. Was he as mindless as the tomcats? Driven by the scent of a willing female and his own innate animal drive?
He shook his head as he entered a covered lane—more a tunnel, really. The walls dripped with slimy moisture and his footfalls echoed off the low arch. Up ahead, something—or someone—moved in the gloom.