The way to the address that Viscount d’Arque had given her was too narrow for her carriage. Besides, one moved faster on foot in St. Giles—the alleys and lanes twisted too much for a carriage and horses. So she’d run all the way. They’d left d’Arque behind, for the man had been far more the worse for drink than he’d at first appeared. Harold jogged along beside her, though she’d ordered him to go ahead. He’d stoutly refused, saying St. Giles was too dangerous for a lady alone.
Which was right, but that wouldn’t save Winter if Charles Seymour were even now plunging a dagger into his back.
A tall house loomed up ahead.
“That’s it,” Isabel gasped. “Hurry!”
Harold yanked open the door and they started climbing a nightmarish length of stairs. Around and around they went, never ending it seemed, and the entire time Isabel climbed, she listened for a shot. The cry of a wounded man. Voices raised in anger.
And heard nothing.
At last they made the final turn and came out on the attic level. Straight ahead was a mean little door, and Isabel rushed it even as Harold flung out an arm to catch her back.
The door burst open and Isabel’s momentum sent her crashing into the room—and into the back of a man.
Strong arms wrapped around her and for a split second everything was calm.
Then a voice spoke above her. “Ah, Makepeace, I believe your inamorata has joined us.”
WINTER FELT THE sweat slide down the small of his back. He’d suspected the moment that Seymour volunteered to accompany him to the workshop that Seymour was the “toff.” Seymour had been the only one of the three aristocrats who had been interested in Winter’s knowledge of the workshop location—knowledge he could only have if he was the Ghost of St. Giles. When Winter had seen the other man’s sword, triumphant victory had swept through him at the confirmation of his hunch, but in the next instant Isabel had come barging in.
Seymour now held Isabel tightly against his chest, his arm across her throat. Winter had felt the excitement in a fight, he’d felt the thrill of danger, and the pain of a hit.
But he’d never felt fear.
Seymour flicked a glance at Harold the footman, who was hesitating by the door uncertainly. “Throw down your pistol, please, or I’ll kill your mistress.”
Harold dropped the pistol he carried.
Seymour smiled at Winter. “Now. The Ghost of St. Giles is known for having two swords with him at all times. True, you’re not dressed as the Ghost at the moment, but, please, humor me. Open your cloak, Ghost.”
Winter opened his cloak and held the edges apart, looking into Isabel’s wide, blue eyes. She was terrified. That alone signed Seymour’s fate. “It’s very kind of you to come save me again, my lady, although I would’ve thought Harold would know better.”
Behind her, Harold shrugged by the door.
She licked her lips. “I love you. No matter what happens, I love you, Winter. If—”
“Enough.” Seymour yanked hard on her neck, cutting her off. “I seem to see a hilt peeking from your cloak lining. Place both your swords on the ground—slowly—and slide them across the room.”
Winter’s chest was full of the splendor of Isabel’s love, but he couldn’t linger over that now. He did as Seymour said.
“Now kneel.”
Winter shook his head gently. “No. If I kneel, you’ll kill me and then kill Lady Beckinhall. I really don’t see any incentive to do so.”
For a moment, Seymour looked nonplussed and Winter used his distraction to drift closer.
“I’ll… I’ll kill her,” Seymour sputtered.
Winter shook his head. “You kill her and I’ll kill you, swords or no swords. There’ll be nothing holding me back. Really, it’s a matter of logic.”
“If it’s a matter of logic,” Seymour said with dripping sarcasm, “then what do you suggest I do?”
Winter tilted his head. “Fight me man-to-man.”
“No!” Isabel strained against the arm around her throat. “You’re not armed, Winter! Don’t be a fool.”
Seymour grinned. “Very well.”
He shoved Isabel aside in a sudden movement that sent her to the floor and leaped at Winter, his sword aimed at his heart.
ISABEL LANDED PAINFULLY on her hands and knees. Winter! She sobbed as she rolled to see if he’d been killed with Mr. Seymour’s first sword thrust. To see if he was dying right now, his life’s blood spurting from him.
But Winter had his cloak wrapped about one arm, using it to defend himself as he maneuvered toward his swords. As she watched, Mr. Seymour thrust and thrust again, the point of his sword landing in the wadded cloak each time.
But the price of such defense was evident: A dark, wet stain was spreading over the cloak wrapped about Winter’s arm. Dear God, if he was crippled, this would be all over before he reached his own swords.
Isabel looked frantically about and saw Harold’s pistol. It lay against the wall behind Mr. Seymour. She began creeping toward it.
At that moment, Winter lunged for his swords, his right arm outstretched. Mr. Seymour followed, stabbing vindictively.
Winter rolled aside, his long sword in his right hand, just as Seymour’s sword point pierced the wooden floorboards where he’d just lain. Winter jumped gracefully to his feet and lunged at Mr. Seymour.
Isabel reached the pistol and grasped it in both hands, lifting the heavy thing and pointing it toward the fighters. But Mr. Seymour and Winter were now in a straight line comparative to her. If she shot and missed, she risked the danger of hitting Winter and killing him. She caught Harold’s eye and he started forward, but she waved him back. Anything he tried would bring him closer to the fighters—and into her own line of fire.
She held the pistol level and aimed at Mr. Seymour, waiting for her moment.
Seymour parried a lightning thrust from Winter. “You were supposed to be unarmed. This isn’t fair.”
“Oh, you aristocrats,” Winter hissed, stomping forward in attack, “you make your own rules that must be followed by all but are only in your own favor.”
Mr. Seymour sneered, batting aside Winter’s long sword. “It’s the natural order of things that the mighty will rule over the meek. If you don’t like it, then plead your case before God.”
And he struck, as quick and vicious as an adder, ripping a long tear in Winter’s waistcoat. Isabel moaned, low and terrified. Winter’s waistcoat immediately began to darken, and as he moved, blood spattered to the floor from both his left arm and his side. Dear God, he was losing so much blood! He would weaken if this didn’t end soon. But the men were still too close together for her to shoot.
“You’re good,” Winter panted, skipping back from another thrust. “But then you aristocrats often are—what more do you have to do than to endlessly practice your sword craft?”
“You may learn the art of the sword,” Seymour sneered, “but it’s like a parrot talking: he only mimics what he doesn’t truly understand.”
He lunged and Winter caught the attack with his own sword, the blades shrieking as they slid against each other, each man bearing against the other with his full weight and strength. Winter’s blood smeared the floor and his rear boot slid in it, forcing him to stumble to the side to avoid the tip of Mr. Seymour’s blade.
Mr. Seymour grinned. “Thin stuff, your commoner’s blood. I shall paint the walls with it when I’m done with you.”
Winter raised his eyebrows at the theatrical threat. “You make your money off the backs of little girls. Don’t think that I’ll let you win here.”
“Perhaps you won’t have that choice,” Mr. Seymour grunted. He darted to Winter’s opposite side.
Finally! Isabel pulled the trigger. The gun exploded with a deafening BOOM! The recoil laid her flat. She struggled to rise and for a moment simply stared in horror.
Both men were locked together, so close they might be embracing. Dear God, had she shot them both?
Then Mr. Seymour slid bonelessly from the embrace and Winter looked up.
“Oh, Winter!” Isabel didn’t know how she got there, but suddenly she was in Winter’s arms, kissing him awkwardly, tears slipping down her cheeks. She’d almost lost him. If she hadn’t fired when she had, he would’ve—
She glanced down at Mr. Seymour and frowned. “But where is the gunshot wound?”
Harold cleared his throat. “You missed, my lady.” He pointed to a large hole blown into the plaster of the wall.
“I missed?” She looked up in time to see Winter scowling at her footman.
Instantly he smiled down at her. “But it was very close. I’m sure that had you had time to aim, you would’ve got him through the heart.”
“Humph.” He was humoring her outrageously, but under the present circumstances, she could hardly protest. “Then how did he die?”
Winter lifted his sword. It was smeared with blood. His own face was white. “I let the beast out.”
“Oh.” She reached to touch him; he was too calm, too reserved. She could almost see him retreating back into himself.
“Jesus!” Lord d’Arque’s voice came from the door. “What happened here?”
He was staring about the room in horror. Isabel froze. If he chose to bring Winter up on murder charges, she would have a very hard time defending Winter. He was a commoner who had just killed an aristocrat.
“Your friend Seymour attacked Lady Beckinhall,” Winter said before she could speak, his voice hard.
Viscount d’Arque blanched. “Attacked? Dear God, my lady, I hope you are all right?”
“Yes.” Isabel touched her throat delicately, wincing at the bruised skin there, relieved that he was properly appalled at Mr. Seymour’s actions. “Thanks to Mr. Makepeace and my footman. They both risked their lives to save me.”
Lord d’Arque stared down at Mr. Seymour’s body. “When you said Makepeace was in peril from Seymour, I thought your imagination had run away from you.”
“Yet you kept following me anyway?” Isabel asked softly.
“Seymour was acting very strange after the girls were found here,” Lord d’Arque said slowly. “Whenever I mentioned questioning the girls, he made sure to deflect my attention. And then he had become obsessed with Makepeace. Kept saying he was the Ghost of St. Giles and had killed Roger.”
“I was under the impression you thought that yourself,” Winter murmured.
Lord d’Arque glanced at him. “Maybe for a bit, but it’s simply too outlandish—that a schoolmaster should be a masked madman. And why would you have killed Roger anyway?”
“I wouldn’t have,” Winter said soberly. “I don’t know who killed your friend, my lord. I wish I did.”
Lord d’Arque nodded, looking away for a moment. “I suppose Seymour was behind this dreadful business with the enslaved girls? That was his moneymaking scheme?”
“Yes,” Isabel said. “He meant to kill us so his secret wouldn’t come out.”
“Awful.” The viscount passed a hand over his forehead. “To make money that way—by the labor of little girls and in such a wretched place.” He looked around the cramped little room, then back at them. “I cannot find any pity in my heart for Seymour. He more than deserved his fate, but his wife is a rather nice woman, you know. The scandal when this is revealed will kill her.”
“Then don’t let it,” Winter said. He smiled grimly. “We can say that the Ghost has claimed another victim.”
Lord d’Arque nodded. “Leave it to me.”
Chapter Twenty
For a moment, the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles stood still, staring at his True Love, his palm upon her belly where their child grew. The True Love held her breath, for this was her only chance. If he did not recognize her, did not return to the day and to the living, she had no other means of waking him from the spell. So she waited, watching him, as the sun began to dawn on St. Giles…