At once the Harlequin was whole again, his limbs straight and strong. In every respect he was the same as ever, save for two things: his eyes remained white and now he carried two swords… and neither one was made of wood…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Winter felt Isabel’s slim fingers on his arm and knew a thrill of satisfaction. She might be attracted to this d’Arque—a witty man closer to her age and of her same social standing—but right now it was his arm she held.
He stepped from the carriage and remembered to turn and help her descend. She smiled her thanks as another carriage began pulling away. Winter glanced up in time to see the distinctive owl in a coat of arms on the carriage door. He squinted, staring at the coachman, who looked ominously familiar.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” Isabel whispered, evidently mistaking the reason for his pause.
He nodded down at her. “Naturally not with you on my arm, my lady.”
Only then did Winter face the Duchess of Arlington’s town house. It was one of the grandest houses in London, rumored to have been partially paid for by a former duchess’s royal liaison. Even so, the present duchess had entirely redecorated the house, putting her husband’s estates into deep debt.
Not that one could tell from the opulence of the ball.
Scores of liveried footmen showed the guests into a wide hall, brilliantly lit with huge chandeliers. A sweeping staircase led to the upper floor and a grand ballroom already crowded with sweating, perfumed bodies.
Winter leaned down to whisper in Isabel’s ear, aware that she smelled of lavender and lime. “You’re sure mingling with these aristocrats will do the home good?”
“Positive,” she breathed, laughter in her husky voice. “Come, let me introduce you to some people.”
They stepped into the ballroom, and Winter felt his senses quicken. D’Arque was here tonight. Soon he would meet the man who was his only connection to the lassie snatchers in St. Giles.
Isabel’s fingers were on his arm, but it was she who guided him discreetly through the mass of people. The walls of the ballroom were a soft shade of blue-green, highlighted in cream and gold. It should have been a soothing room with those colors, but it was anything but. Around them people laughed and talked loudly. A quartet of musicians attempted to play dancing music, and the stench of burning candle wax and humanity was nearly overpowering.
Strange that the perfumed ballroom of the aristocracy could be nearly as foul as the manure-smeared streets of St. Giles.
“Who do you intend for me to meet tonight?” Winter murmured as they slowly made their way.
Isabel shrugged. “Oh, the very cream of society, I think.” She leaned toward him and tapped his arm with her folded fan. “Those people who can do the most for the home, in fact.”
His eyebrows arched. “Such as?”
She nodded toward two upright gentlemen who seemed to be the very epitome of pillars of London society. Their heads were bent together as they obviously discussed something important. “The Duke of Wakefield, for instance.”
He glanced at the tall, dark man. “Lady Hero and Lady Phoebe’s elder brother, I recollect.”
“The very same.” Isabel nodded. “He’s quite powerful—and of course fabulously wealthy. Wakefield is a guiding force in parliament. It’s rumored that Sir Robert Walpole doesn’t make a move without consulting him. And his companion, the Marquess of Mandeville, is nearly as influential. He’s Lady Margaret’s elder brother, of course. I’d introduce you now, but it rather looks as if they are intent upon some serious discussion.”
“Then we look for other quarry.”
“Indeed.” Isabel made a slight moue as she scanned the crowd.
Winter had to tear his gaze away from the sight of her pursed lips.
“Oh, poor man!” Isabel exclaimed gently.
“Who?”
But she was already leading him to a man who stood by himself at the side of the room. He wore a gray wig and his eyes were aloof behind half-moon spectacles. He seemed entirely removed from the crowd. The gentleman was facing partly away from them and didn’t turn until they were nearly upon him.
“Mr. St. John,” Lady Beckinhall greeted him.
St. John’s brown eyes widened behind his spectacles, flicking between them and then shuttering so quickly that most would’ve missed the reaction. “Lady Beckinhall.” He took her fingers, bowing over them.
She waved her other hand gracefully at Winter. “May I present Mr. Winter Makepeace, the manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children? Mr. Makepeace, Mr. Godric St. John.”
Winter held out his hand to the other man. “Actually, we’ve already met.”
Lady Beckinhall raised her eyebrows. “You have?”
“I’m a friend of Lord Caire,” St. John said as he took Winter’s hand. He didn’t smile, but his manner was pleasant enough. “I was there when the old home burned last year. Good to see you again, Makepeace.”
“And you, sir,” Winter replied. “You were quite a help that night as I remember. I was surprised not to see you at my sister’s wedding.”
A muscle flexed in the other man’s jaw. “I regret not attending. It was soon after Clara—” St. John clamped his mouth shut and looked away.
“I was very sorry to hear of Mrs. St. John’s death,” Lady Beckinhall said quietly.
St. John nodded once, jerkily, and swallowed.
“But we must be moving on, as I have other gentlepersons to introduce Mr. Makepeace to,” Lady Beckinhall continued smoothly.
Godric St. John seemed not to notice as they moved away.
Lady Beckinhall leaned her head close to Winter’s jaw, making her delicate scent for a moment break through the stinking miasma of the room. “Mr. St. John lost his wife last year after a long illness. They were quite devoted to each other. I hadn’t known he had reentered society.”
“Ah,” Winter murmured. He glanced over his shoulder. St. John was standing alone again, staring into space. “He’s like the walking dead.”
“Poor, poor man.” Lady Beckinhall shivered. “Come. I see some gentlemen I’d like to introduce you to.”
“Lead the way.”
Lady Beckinhall smiled brilliantly as they came upon a small group. “Gentlemen, I wonder if you all have had the pleasure of meeting my companion, Mr. Winter Makepeace?”