Then Godric cleared his throat. “How long, exactly, were you planning on staying in London, Margaret?”
Megs smiled brilliantly, even though she’d never really liked her full name—especially when it was drawled in a gravelly voice that seemed somehow ominous—for she really didn’t want to answer the question. “Oh, I don’t like to make plans. It’s so much more fun to simply let matters take their own course, don’t you think?”
“Actually I don’t—”
Good Lord, the man was persistent! She turned hastily to Moulder. “Then you’ve been managing the house all by yourself?”
Moulder’s great shaggy brows knit, causing a myriad of wrinkles to form in his forehead and around his hangdog eyes. He was the very picture of martyrdom. “I have, m’lady. You have no idea the work—the terrible job ’tis!—to keep up a house such as this. Why, me health is much the worse for it.”
Godric muttered something, the only words of which Megs caught were “laying it on thick.”
She ignored her husband. “I really must thank you, Moulder, for taking care of Mr. St. John so loyally, despite the toil involved.”
Moulder blushed. “Aw, it weren’t nothin’, m’lady.”
Godric snorted loudly.
Megs hastily said, “Yes, well, I’m sure now that I’m in residence, we’ll have the house in order in no time.”
“And exactly how long will it take to—” Godric began.
“Oh, look at the time!” Megs said, squinting at a small clock on the fireplace mantel. It was hard to tell if it still ran, but no matter. “We must be going or we’ll be late to the meeting of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children.”
Sarah looked interested. “At the orphanage in St. Giles you told us about?”
Megs nodded.
Great-Aunt Elvina glanced up from trying to tempt Her Grace with a bit of toast. “What is it?”
“The Ladies’ Syndicate meeting at the orphanage,” Megs said in a sort of muted shout. “It’s time we go there.”
“Good,” Great-Aunt Elvina pronounced, stooping to pick up Her Grace. “With any luck, they’ll have some tea and refreshments at the meeting.”
“That’s settled, then.”
Megs finally turned to look at her husband. His face was rather stern and she was suddenly aware that he’d been watching her.
He glanced away now, though. “I suppose you’ll all return for supper, then.”
His tone was lifeless, nearly bored.
Something inside her rebelled. He’d taken her invasion into his home and their plans to hire new servants and clean up his ratty old house without turning a hair.
She wanted to see him turn a hair.
And, more importantly, she reminded herself: baby. “Oh, no,” she purred, “I expect you’ll see us again in ten minutes.”
He turned slowly back to her, his eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
She opened her eyes wide. “You are coming with us, aren’t you?”
“I believe it’s a ladies’ syndicate,” he said, but there was a whisper of uncertainty in his tone.
“I’d like your company.” She let the tip of her tongue nudge the corner of her mouth.
And there—finally!—she saw it. His gaze flickered oh so briefly to her mouth.
Megs had to bite back a grin as he said with surly suspicion, “If you wish.”
GODRIC SAT IN the carriage watching Lady Margaret with what he very much feared was a brooding air. He wasn’t entirely certain how he’d come to be here. Usually at this time of day he’d be at his favorite coffeehouse engrossed in newspapers or barricaded in his study perusing his latest classical tome. Except that wasn’t quite right. It’d been weeks since he’d lingered at Basham’s Coffeehouse and longer still since he’d found the energy to read his favorite books.
More often he’d found himself simply staring at the damp walls of his study.
And yet today his whirlwind of a wife had persuaded him to accompany her on a social call.
He narrowed his eyes. If he weren’t a man of reason and learning, he might suspect some type of sorcery. His wife sat across from him, talking animatedly with her great-aunt next to her and Sarah, who was beside Godric. Lady Margaret was very careful to avoid his eye as she kept up a running stream of chatter about London and the history of this ladies’ syndicate.
His wife’s cheeks were lightly flushed with her excitement, making her dark eyes sparkle. A curling strand of hair had already escaped her coiffure and now bobbed seductively against her temple, as if to tempt some unwary male to try to contain it.
Godric pressed his lips together and faced the window.
Perhaps his wife had a lover.
The thought was not a pleasant one, but why else would such a vivacious girl seek his company except that she had a secret lover in London? It hadn’t occurred to him before that his absent wife might take a lover, but after all, was it such a strange thought? She was no virgin and he’d never attempted to consummate their marriage. Just because he was resigned to a solitary, celibate life didn’t mean she was. Lady Margaret was a young, beautiful woman. A woman of high spirits, if this morning was anything to go by. Such a lady might even have more than one lover.
But no. Godric’s sense of logic broke through his melancholy thoughts. If she had a lover, surely he would reside near Godric’s country estate. After all, Lady Margaret had left Laurelwood Manor only a few times in the last two years—and then only to visit her family. She must have some other reason for suddenly descending on him.
“Here we are at last,” his wife exclaimed.
Godric glanced out the window and saw that the carriage was indeed drawing up outside the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children. The building was only a couple of years old, a clean, neat edifice several stories high and taking up most of Maiden Lane. The bright brick stood out, fresh and new, against the other, older and destitute buildings in St. Giles.
Godric waited until Lady Margaret’s footman had set the step and then jumped down to help the ladies. Great-Aunt Elvina rose precariously. The lady was at least seventy, and although she disdained the use of a cane, Godric had noticed that she was at times unsteady on her feet. She held her pregnant pug in her arms, and Godric swiftly realized he would have to do the gentlemanly thing.
“If I might take Her Grace,” he enunciated into her ear.
The elderly lady shot him a grateful glance. “Thank you, Mr. St. John.”
Godric gingerly took the warm, panting little body, pretending not to notice when the animal drooled on his sleeve. He held out his free hand to Great-Aunt Elvina.
The lady descended, then frowned, glancing around. “What a very disreputable area this is.” She brightened. “Won’t dear Lady Cambridge be scandalized when I write her about it!”
Still holding the pug, Godric helped Sarah out and then took Lady Margaret’s hand, warm, trembling, and alive, in his. She kept her gaze lowered as she stepped from the carriage, the curl of hair bobbing gently against her face. The scent of something sweet lingered in the air. She made a show of shaking out her skirts when she stood on the cobblestones.
Damn it, she wasn’t looking at him. On impulse, he reached out and took that wayward tendril between thumb and forefinger, firmly tucking it behind her ear.
She glanced up, her lips parted, so near he could see the swirls of gold in her pretty brown eyes, and he suddenly identified her scent: orange blossoms.
Her voice was breathless when she spoke. “Thank you.”
His jaw flexed. “Not at all.”
Godric turned and mounted the steps to the home, knocking briskly.
The door was opened almost at once by a butler who looked haughty enough to be attending a royal palace rather than an orphanage in St. Giles.
Godric nodded to the man as he entered. “My wife and her friends are here for the Ladies’ Syndicate meeting. I wonder if Makepeac
e is about?”
“Certainly, sir,” the butler intoned. He took hats and gloves from the ladies as they entered in a flurry of skirts and chatter behind Godric. “I’ll fetch Mr. Makepeace.”
“No need, Butterman.” Winter Makepeace appeared in a doorway farther down the hall. He wore his usual black, although the cut of his clothes had improved noticeably since his marriage to the former Lady Beckinhall. “Good morning, St. John. Ladies.”
“Oh, Mr. Makepeace.” Lady Margaret caught his hand, smiling brightly, and Godric frowned, feeling a flicker of jealousy—which was completely ridiculous. His wife seemed to smile at everyone brightly. “May I present my sister-in-law and my dear great-aunt?”
Introductions were made. Makepeace inclined his head gravely to each lady rather than making the more usual sweeping bow, but neither Sarah nor Great-Aunt Elvina seemed at all put out.
The manager of the home turned to Godric and the panting pug in his arms, his eyes lit with a gentle amusement. “Who is your companion?”
“Her Grace,” Godric said curtly.
Makepeace blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Godric began to shake his head when a small white terrier came barreling down the hallway. The animal was making a sound rather like a bumblebee, but on sight of Her Grace, the terrier erupted into hysterical barking.
Her Grace yipped back—very shrilly—while both Lady Margaret and Sarah made futile shushing noises, and if Godric wasn’t mistaken, Great-Aunt Elvina aimed a surreptitious kick at the terrier.
Makepeace stepped to the side, opened a door into the sitting room, and cocked an eyebrow. Godric nodded and in a few brisk movements deposited the pug back in Great-Aunt Elvina’s arms and ushered the three ladies into the sitting room where the meeting was being held.
Makepeace shut the door so swiftly the terrier nearly lost her nose. He glanced at Godric. “This way.”
The home’s manager turned toward the staircase at the back of the hall. “Really, that was most inhospitable of you, Dodo.”
The terrier, trotting adoringly by his side, tilted her head, perking up one ear as if listening attentively.
“You’re quite lucky I don’t lock you up in the root cellar.” Makepeace’s voice was calm and reasoned as he chided the dog.
Godric cleared his throat. “Does, er, Dodo always attack visitors?”
“No.” Makepeace shot Godric a sardonic look. “Only canine visitors receive that welcome.”
“Ah.”
“Two new girls came to our home last night,” Makepeace continued as he mounted the wide marble staircase, his tone bone-dry. “Deposited here by the notorious Ghost of St. Giles.”
“Indeed?”
Makepeace flashed him an intelligent glance. “I thought you might like to meet our newest inmates.”
“Naturally.” At least his trip to the home wasn’t without purpose.
“Here we are,” Makepeace said, holding open a door to one of the classrooms.
A glance inside showed rows of girls sitting on benches, dutifully copying something down on their slates. At the far end of one of the rows sat Moll and her elder sister, their heads together. Godric was glad to see them whispering to one another. Chatting seemed to be a uniquely feminine sign of happiness—Lady Margaret talking with the other ladies in the carriage flashed through his mind—and he hoped it meant the girls would settle happily at the home.
“Moll and Janet McNab,” Makepeace said in a low voice. “Moll is too young for this class, but we thought it best not to separate the sisters in their first few days here.” He closed the door and strolled farther along the deserted hall. All the children appeared to be at lessons behind the closed doors. “The girls are orphans. Janet has told me that their father was a night-soil man who met an unfortunate end when one of the mounds of … er … dirt on the outskirts of London fell and buried him.”
Godric winced. “How awful.”
“Quite.” Makepeace paused at the end of the corridor. There were two chairs here, arranged beneath a window, but he made no move to sit. “It seems the McNab sisters were on the streets for nearly a fortnight before they ran afoul of the lassie snatchers.”
“Lassie snatchers,” Godric repeated softly. “I seem to remember that name being bandied about St. Giles awhile back. You dealt with them, didn’t you?”
Makepeace glanced cautiously down the hall before lowering his voice. “Two years ago, the lassie snatchers kidnapped girls off the streets of St. Giles.”
Godric raised his brows. “Why?”
“To make lace stockings in an illegal workshop,” Makepeace said grimly. “The girls were made to work long hours with very little food and with frequent beatings. And they weren’t paid.”
“But the lassie snatchers were stopped.”
Makepeace nodded his head curtly. “I stopped them. Found the workshop and cut off the head of the snake—an aristocrat by the name of Seymour. I haven’t heard of them since.”
Godric narrowed his eyes. “But?”
“But I’ve heard disturbing rumors in the last few weeks.” Makepeace frowned. “Girls disappearing off the streets of St. Giles. Gossip about a hidden workshop manned by little girls. And worse: my wife has found evidence of the lace silk stockings they make being hawked to the upper crust of aristocratic society.”
Isabel Makepeace was still a formidable force in society, despite her marriage to the manager of an orphanage.
Godric said, “Did you kill the wrong man?”
“No.” Makepeace’s look was grim. “Seymour was quite proud of his crime, believe me. He boasted of it before I ended his life. Either someone else has started up an entirely different operation or—”
“Or Seymour wasn’t the only one in the original business,” Godric murmured.
“Either way, someone must find out who is behind the lassie snatchers and stop them. I’m out of the business since my marriage.” Makepeace paused delicately. “I assume that you’re still operating. Although, with your wife now in town—”
“She won’t be for long,” Godric said crisply.
Makepeace arched an eyebrow but was far too discreet to inquire further.
Godric’s lips thinned. “What about the other?”
Makepeace shook his head. “He hunts only one thing in St. Giles; you know that. He’s been monomaniacal for years now.”
Godric nodded. They were all loners, but the third of their bizarre trilogy was near obsessive. He would be no help in this matter.
“It’s up to you alone, I’m afraid,” Makepeace said.
“Very well.” Godric thought a moment. “If Seymour did have a partner, do you have any idea who it might be?”
“It could be anyone, but were I you, I’d begin with Seymour’s friends: Viscount d’Arque and the Earl of Kershaw. All three were as thick as thieves before Seymour’s death.” Makepeace paused and looked at him intently. “But, St. John?”
Godric raised his brows.
Makepeace’s face was grim. “You also need to find this workshop. Last time, some of the girls nearly didn’t make it out alive.”
Chapter Three
One moonless night, the Hellequin came upon the soul of a young man lying in the crossroads, dying in the arms of his beloved. The woman was lovely, her face both innocent and good, and for a moment the Hellequin paused, staring at her. There are those who whisper that the Hellequin was not always in the Devil’s service. Once, they say, the Hellequin was a man like any other. If this tale is true, perhaps the girl’s face sparked some human memory, wandering lost, deep in the Hellequin’s mind. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Megs perched on a settee in the home’s cozy sitting room and sipped from her dish of tea as she glanced around at the other ladies in the Syndicate. The membership hadn’t changed, it seemed, in her absence. Her sister-in-law, Lady Hero Reading, one of the two founding members, sat beside her on the settee, her hair nearly the same color as the fireplace fla
mes. Next to Hero was her younger sister, Lady Phoebe Batten, a pleasant girl with a plump figure who smiled rather vaguely at nothing in particular.
Megs knit her brows in worry. The girl’s eyesight had been very poor when last she’d seen her—had Phoebe gone entirely blind in the intervening years? Beside Phoebe was Lady Penelope Chadwicke, rumored to be one of the wealthiest heiresses in England—and with her pansy-purple eyes and black hair, certainly one of the most beautiful. Lady Penelope was nearly always accompanied by her lady’s companion, Miss Artemis Greaves, a retiring but pleasant lady. On the far side of Miss Greaves was the other founding patroness, the daunting, silver-haired Lady Caire. Next to Lady Caire sat her daughter-in-law, Temperance Huntington, Lady Caire, and next to Temperance was her brother’s wife, the former Lady Beckinhall—Isabel Makepeace.
The membership may not’ve changed, but there were other differences since last she’d attended a meeting. This room, for instance. When last Megs had seen it, the sitting room had been clean and neat but far from homey. Now, thanks to what she suspected was the new Mrs. Makepeace’s intervention, the room boasted a lovely landscape over the fireplace and a series of amusing knickknacks on the mantel: an odd little green and white Chinese bowl, a gilt clock held aloft by cupids, and a blue statuette of a stork and what appeared to be a salamander.
Megs squinted. Surely it couldn’t be a salamander?
“I’m so glad that you decided to come back to town, sister, dear,” Lady Hero interrupted her thoughts. Hero had acquired the rather sweet habit of calling Megs sister since marrying Megs’s brother Griffin.
“Did you miss me at the meetings?” Megs asked lightly.
“Yes, of course.” Hero gave her a faintly chiding look. “But you know Griffin has missed you, and I have as well. We don’t see you nearly as much as I’d like.”
Megs wrinkled her nose, feeling guilty, and reached for a biscuit from the plate sitting on the table beside her. “I’m sorry. I did mean to come up for Christmas, but the weather was so bad. …” She trailed off. Her excuse sounded weak even to her own ears. It was just that ever since Griffin had intervened on her behalf with Godric—had found a way to save her from her own folly—she hadn’t known how to face him. Wasn’t even sure what she could say.
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