Twenty minutes later, he neared Calfshead Lane, moving cautiously. He glided past 10 Calfshead Lane without pause. The chandler’s shop sign was beyond it. He’d caught the sign out of the corner of his eye just as Trevillion’s dragoons had born down on him. He must have missed it in his previous searches of St. Giles. The sign was small and worn—easily overlooked in the myriad of signs that perched above the streets and lanes of St. Giles like a flock of dingy crows.
The door under the sign was narrow and battered, but the lock on it was newer and in better shape. Winter tried the handle and was surprised when the door swung easily inward. The room inside was pitch-black. Winter waited for his eyes to adjust, but there was no light at all. Closing the door again, he retraced his steps back down the lane to a shop where a small lantern hung. He snagged the lantern and returned to the tiny chandler’s shop.
This time when he opened the door, his borrowed lantern illuminated a wide but shallow room. Narrow shelves and hooks were placed haphazardly on the walls, presumably for the chandler’s wares. They were all empty, though, and from the dust, had been so for some time.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the door and something scurried in the shadows.
Winter raised the lantern and saw a rat trotting along the wall. The vermin didn’t even pause in its nightly round.
Behind the rat, though, was another door. Winter crossed to it and cautiously put his ear to the wood. He waited a beat, listening to his own breathing and the scrabbling of the rat, but heard nothing on the other side.
Backing a pace, he drew both swords, and set down the lantern on the floor where it would illuminate the room when the door was opened.
Then he kicked in the door.
He stood to the side, away from any attack from within, but none came. The room seemed empty.
Winter waited, listening. Nothing came to his ears but the wind. Cautiously, he sheathed his long sword, picked up the lantern, and advanced inside. There was a faint stink about the place that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck: urine, vomit, fear. The place was empty save for the skeletal remains of a rat and a few rags.
Something glittered in the cracks of the floor when he turned around, holding the lantern high. He bent and examined the dusty floorboard. A glittering thread was caught there. Carefully he prized it out with the point of his short sword and held it up to the lantern’s light.
A silk thread.
He set down the lantern and drew off his glove with his teeth. Then he picked the thread from the tip of his sword and tucked it into his tunic.
There was nothing here for him. They’d obviously deserted the place. Was the workshop permanently closed, or had they simply moved the children and their terrible work?
It didn’t matter at the moment: either way, he’d failed this night. He hadn’t saved the children.
Winter picked up the lantern and left. Outside, the wind had risen, blowing raindrops into his face. He listened, but there was no other sound save the creaking of the chandler shop sign overhead. The dragoons must be hunting in another part of St. Giles. He replaced the lantern and then bent into the wind, walking swiftly. Twice he darted into alleys or doorways to avoid another night pedestrian, and once he was forced to take to the rooftops to avoid the dragoons. He did all this almost mechanically, and it wasn’t until he stood in a neat garden on the west side of London that he realized which way he’d taken.
He stood outside Isabel’s town house, staring up at the windows in back, wondering which was her bedroom. Odd that his feet should instinctively take him here. She was not of his world. She wouldn’t offer him tea and bread toasted over a fire like a housewife in St. Giles. Wouldn’t understand the gaping hole of want that was St. Giles or the need that drove him to try to fill it. Or perhaps she would. Isabel had proven herself a more complex woman than he’d first thought.
But their differences were of no consequence anyway when what drew them together was as old as Adam and Eve. She’d brought out the beast, made him feel when he’d always lived in a cold, still world. No other woman had ever done that. No other woman ever would. She was the only woman for him now. Perhaps he ought to show her that.
As he stood there, the clouds opened up and the rain began in earnest. Winter lifted his face to the downpour, letting the rain wash away doubts and the failure of the night. Letting the rain wash him clean.
A light began to glow in a ground-floor window. It was well past midnight. Perhaps a maid was tidying up. Or a footman was taking an illicit drink of brandy. Or maybe Isabel couldn’t sleep.
In any case, he’d soon find out.
Chapter Twelve
The True Love thought long and hard about the wisewoman’s words. Then she unbound her long, golden hair and, plucking several strands, began to braid them into a fine cord. And as she did so, she thought of all the hours she had known the Harlequin, all the moments she’d longed for him, and all the thousands of seconds she’d loved him…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
This was stupid.
Isabel stared sightlessly at Edmund’s carefully compiled library. Her late husband had enjoyed owning an outrageously expensive collection of books, though he’d hardly read any of them. Still, they were a source of solace for her on nights like this when sleep stubbornly stayed just out of her grasp.
She sighed and took a small book of erotic poetry off the shelf. It was rather banal—the poet had been entirely too pleased with his own wit—but perhaps that would make her drowsy. She’d already taken a hot bath and called for both warm milk and a glass of wine. Little else was left to try if she were to get any sleep this night.
Isabel settled into a deep leather chair before the unlit fireplace, tucking her slippered feet beneath the skirts of her wrap. The room was a bit chilly without the fire, but she wouldn’t stay long enough to make it worthwhile to light it.
She opened the book, tilting it to catch the light of her candle, and began to read.
The poetry must’ve done its job, for she didn’t know how much longer it was when next she looked up, and at first she wondered if she might be dreaming.
He stood there, only a few paces in front of her, still in full Ghost of St. Giles regalia.
Her heart leaped with foolish joy. Until now she’d wondered if it had only been a physical relief for him. Like eating a nice meal when one was particularly peckish. One was grateful and happy for the meal, but one never really thought about it afterward.
He’d come to her again unbidden, though. At least she wasn’t a steak and kidney pie to him.