“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.”