“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and reached out to touch the cuff of his coat. She almost expected him to shake her off.
Instead he merely stared down at her fingers. “Sarah should’ve asked first.”
“Of course. We all should’ve asked before sending your house into such an upheaval. But, Godric …” She stepped closer, his cuff caught between her forefinger and thumb, her bodice nearly brushing the stiff wool of his coat. She angled her head to try to catch his eyes. “You wouldn’t have consented had we asked, would you?”
He was silent.
“You’re so self-sufficient.” She puffed a small laugh. “It’s daunting, because the rest of us aren’t. Your sisters and mother aren’t—”
“Stepmother.” His gaze slid toward hers, still unyielding, but at least he was listening.
“Stepmother, then,” she compromised. “But I know Mrs. St. John and she’s quite fond of you. All your family is. They hardly hear from you. Your letters are few and maddeningly uncommunicative. They worry for you.”
He grimaced in irritation. “There’s no need.”
“Isn’t there?”
He stared down at her, his face sagging into lines of weariness, and she abruptly understood that he’d learned to school his features into the mask of strict, unrelenting neutrality he usually wore.
“You know there is,” she whispered. “You know that those who love you have real cause for concern.”
“Margaret.”
She straightened. “So you should go back and apologize to your sister.”
He shot her a look of incredulous exasperation.
“She had no idea that was Clara’s room, and even if she did”—she threw up her hands helplessly—“what do you intend to do, keep it the way it is as a shrine to her death?”
He was suddenly too close, his head bent down, shoved in her face, and she felt herself go quite still.
“You,” he breathed very quietly, so close his lips almost brushed hers, “need to learn when not to overstep yourself.”
She swallowed. “Do I?”
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. He was too near, his body tensed as if to do … something, and the tension seemed to communicate itself to her own body until she felt strung as tight as a violin string.
He muttered something foul under his breath and stepped back. “I’ll apologize to my sister later.”
And he spun and clattered down the stairs.
Megs inhaled and thoughtfully retraced her steps to Clara’s room. One look at Sarah’s face and Megs crossed to hug her. “Gentlemen can be so hardheaded.”
“No.” Sarah sniffed and pressed a lace handkerchief to her reddened nose. “Godric was quite correct—I ought to have asked him before rearranging this room.”
Megs pulled back. “But you had no idea this was Clara’s room.”
“I had a notion.” Sarah folded her handkerchief and gestured shakily to the massive bed in the center of the room. “Why else would that be there? Who else could’ve lived here?”
“Then why—”
“Because he can’t just keep the room as some kind of macabre shrine to Clara.”
“That’s what I told him.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “What did he say?”
Megs grimaced. “Well, he wasn’t best pleased.”
“Oh, Megs,” Sarah cried, “I’m so sorry you got drawn into this, but … come here.”
She darted away to one of the now-bare windows.
Megs followed more slowly. “What is it?”
“Look.” Sarah pointed to iron bars running on the outside of the window. Iron bars meant to keep the occupants of the room safe. “This was the nursery once upon a time. And … and I know you don’t have that kind of marriage with my brother, but I hoped with this trip to London, perhaps …” Sarah swallowed and grasped her hands together, whispering, “We’ve all worried for him so much.”
Megs nodded. “I know. And to be truthful, I’d hoped to become closer to Godric too.” She blushed but soldiered on. “It’s just … I’m not sure how. I’ve tried, but he’s stubborn. He loved Clara very much.”
“Yes, he did,” Sarah said, her voice grim. “But Clara’s dead and you’re here now. Don’t give up on him, Megs, please?”
Megs nodded, but even as she tried to smile in reassurance at Sarah, she wondered, how was she to help a man who’d given up on himself?
Chapter Five
Now, it’s rare for a mortal to be able to see the Hellequin, for being a thing of the night and death, he is usually invisible to all. But the young man’s beloved was a different matter. Her name was Faith, and she’d been born with the second sight. She knew who the Hellequin was—and moreover, she knew where he was bound. “My beloved has never hurt man nor beast in all his life,” she cried. “You cannot take his soul down to Hell to burn for eternity.” …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
“She’s going where?” Godric stopped in the act of pulling off his neck cloth that night and glanced at Moulder.
“A ball,” Moulder repeated. “They’re all going. Should’ve seen the maids running up and down the servants’ stairs. Seems to take quite a bit to get a lady ready for a ball.”
Why hadn’t Megs mentioned that she intended to go out tonight? Of course, he realized with a wince, the last time they’d spoken they’d argued and he’d kept well away from the house since then. He’d returned only to ready himself to go out again to St. Giles. Which he was doing now. What his wife did in the evening wasn’t any concern of his.
“Whose ball?” Godric demanded.
“Lord Kershaw’s,” Moulder replied promptly. “’Tis said to be one o’ the biggest o’ the season, what with him marrying that foreign heiress couple o’ years back.”
Godric stared at his manservant for a moment. When had Moulder become such a font of gossip? He must’ve been listening at doors all day. Godric shook his head. Kershaw. That was one of the names Winter Makepeace had given him. Perhaps his investigation into the lassie snatchers would be better served at a ball. He deliberately ignored the small, dry part of his intelligence that whispered it would mean spending the evening with his beautiful wife.
“Get out my good suit and then make sure the carriage waits for me.”
“Wise o’ you, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Moulder said as he did as instructed.
Godric pulled on a fresh white shirt. “What do you mean?”
“Well, no telling who she might meet there, is there?”
“What,” he asked very slowly, “are you talking about?”
Moulder’s eyes widened as it apparently belatedly occurred to him that he might’ve crossed a line. “Ah … nothing, nothing. I’ll just go see to the carriage, shall I?”
“Do that,” Godric bit out.
Moulder hurried from the room.
Godric grunted and threw on the rest of his suit, all the while conscious that he was being unreasonable. He’d told Margaret that he couldn’t bed her. Rather dog in the manger, then, to care if she chose to go looking for a lover. He cursed and strode out the door. The thing was, he did care, and not just about the humiliation of Margaret possibly bearing another man’s child. It was one thing for her to be pregnant by another man when he hardly knew her. Now that he’d spent over a year reading her letters, had sat across from her at dinner, had felt the sweet, urgent touch of her lips …
He stopped dead on the landing. Damnation. He didn’t want Margaret taking another man to her bed; it was as simple as that.
The realization did not improve his mood.
He took a deep breath and descended the rest of the stairs more slowly. He had to keep his purpose in attending this ball at the forefront of his mind. He needed to find out if Kershaw knew anything about what his friend Seymour had been doing in St. Giles with the lassie snatchers. This was strictly a Ghostly matter.
Outside, the ladies had already settled in the carriage, but at least Moulder h
ad kept it from leaving without him. Godric opened the door and jumped in, aware that the occupants were shooting him curious looks.
It was Margaret, of course, who spoke first, her eyes sparkling in the dim light of the carriage. “I didn’t know you were interested in attending balls; otherwise I would’ve invited you along.”
Godric schooled his face into what he hoped was a pleasant expression. “Naturally I shall escort you to evening entertainments.”
“Naturally,” Sarah said, just a bit drily. Her tone softened as she added, “I’m so glad you decided to come with us.”
Was he really that inattentive? A trace of guilt shot through his chest. This was his sister, after all. With his father dead, he should be the head of the family, guiding and protecting his stepmother and sisters.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and by the looks on both his wife’s and sister’s faces, he’d surprised them. Great-Aunt Elvina merely snorted, but he ignored the old harridan. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you this afternoon.”
“No.” Sarah shook her head. “I’m the one who needs to apologize. I should never have moved things about in Clara’s room.”
“Do with it as you see fit,” he said. “It’s time, I suppose.”
“You’re sure?” Her eyes searched his.
He tried a smile and found it not that hard. “Yes.”
Godric was mostly quiet then for the rest of the drive, letting the ladies’ chatter flow about him. Twice he thought he saw Margaret examining him curiously in the dim carriage light, and he wished he could find some way of fulfilling her dreams without betraying Clara.
Kershaw lived in an old family town house that looked to be recently renovated. Godric remembered Moulder’s gossip as he escorted the ladies inside, and wondered if it had been Kershaw’s bride’s dowry that had paid for the house’s new façade.
The house opened to a grand receiving room, and Godric turned politely to help Great-Aunt Elvina out of her cloak. He gave the item to one of the waiting footmen and turned just in time to see Margaret’s dress revealed.
For a moment he stumbled to a halt, there in the crowded hallway.
His wife wore a salmon-pink dress that was a perfect foil for her dark curls. Her hair had been arranged in a more complicated style than usual, and the jewels set in the locks sparkled and flashed under the chandeliers hung high above. The low round neckline of the dress revealed and displayed the soft mounds of her beautiful bosom, and as Margaret turned to laugh at something his sister said, he thought she looked like some goddess of gaiety come to life.
How very ironic that she was married to him, then.
He held out his arm to her. “You look lovely.”
Her lashes fluttered in surprise as she took his arm. “Thank you.”
Godric remembered himself then and paid similar compliments to Sarah and Great-Aunt Elvina, who arched an eyebrow with the first sign of humor he’d seen from her before taking his other elbow.
The ball was a mass of slowly shifting bodies.
“Goodness,” Great-Aunt Elvina exclaimed. “I haven’t been to such a crush since I was a girl.”
“Look, there’s your friend Lady Penelope, Megs,” Sarah said.
“Oh, yes,” Megs said absently. “I wonder where Lord Kershaw might be?”
Godric’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at his wife.
But then Sarah was urging Megs and Great-Aunt Elvina toward Lady Penelope. Godric glanced in that direction. Lady Penelope was considered a beauty, but her looks had always been spoiled for Godric by the lady’s silly personality.
“I’ll go in search of refreshment,” he said to the retreating backs of the ladies.
Margaret glanced back with a flashing smile, and then she was absorbed into the crowd.
Stupid to feel a sudden chill.
Godric shook off the feeling of loss and started making his way to the refreshments room. It was slow progress with the crowd, but Godric didn’t mind. He kept an eye out for the earl. He’d met the man before and remembered him as genial and hearty. Hardly the description of a man running a slave workshop in St. Giles, but then Seymour hadn’t been especially sinister either. Fifteen minutes later, he was before an enormous bowl of punch and wondering how he was supposed to carry three glasses.
“St. John,” a deep voice rumbled at his elbow.
Godric turned to look into the pale eyes of his great friend Lazarus Huntington, Baron Caire.
He inclined his head. “Caire.”
“Hadn’t thought to see you here,” Caire said, indicating to the footman that he wanted a glass of punch.
“Nor I, you.”
Caire raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Strange how marriage can reform even the darkest reputation in the eyes of society.”
“No doubt,” Godric replied drily. “Here. Hold this for me.”
Caire looked bemusedly down at the proffered cup of punch but accepted it docilely enough. “I take it you’ve come with your wife?”
“And my sister and my wife’s aunt,” Godric muttered, juggling glasses.
“A full house, then,” Caire drawled.
Godric glanced at him, brows raised.
Caire’s habitually bored expression had softened just a trifle. “I’m glad.”
Godric looked away again. “Yes, well …”
“Come,” the other man said. “You can introduce me to your wife properly. Temperance was all agog with the news of her arrival at the Ladies’ Syndicate the other day.”
Godric nodded and turned into the crowd, making his way without another word to Caire, but he felt the other man at his back just the same.
They’d made it halfway across the ballroom when Caire grunted behind him. “There’s Temperance with a gaggle of ladies. Is that your wife there?”
And Godric looked up to see Margaret leaning close to laugh up at the dark face of Adam Rutledge, Viscount d’Arque—one of the most notorious rakes in London.
VISCOUNT D’ARQUE WAS really quite handsome, Megs thought, and he knew it too. His light gray eyes seemed to sparkle with sly, unspoken words: Am I not the most beautiful man you’ve ever set eyes upon? Come, admire me!
And Megs did—from his lean cheeks to the wickedly curving mouth with its pronounced Cupid’s bow—although that wasn’t the main reason she stood too close to him and laughed at his worldly witticisms. No, Lord d’Arque had been a close friend of Roger’s. While Roger had been alive, Megs had always been a bit daunted by the viscount and his extravagant beauty. Too, he was considered a dangerous rake by society, and as an unmarried lady, it was in her reputation’s best interest to stay well away from his path.
For a matron, though, it was an entirely different matter.
Marriage did have some advantages, Megs thought rather bitterly. She could flirt discreetly with rakes—when all she really wanted to do was continue her argument with Godric.
As if the thought had conjured her husband, Godric suddenly appeared in the crowd, making his way toward them, his face grim. Megs lifted her chin and deliberately turned to Lord d’Arque. “It’s been an age since I’ve seen you, my lord.”
“Any time away from such a lovely lady is an eternity,” Lord d’Arque said gallantly, lowering his eyelashes and then glancing back up into her eyes.
Had he been looking down her bodice? The man really was deliciously terrible. She smiled. “I believe we have a mutual friend—or had one.”
The cynical smile didn’t leave his face, but his eyes seemed to grow wary. “Indeed?”
“Yes.” Roger and she had kept their love affair secret. At the time it had seemed to make everything more magical. They’d just been on the point of announcing their engagement when Roger had … She inhaled, unable to keep her lips from drooping. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”
Lord d’Arque’s beautiful gray eyes sharpened.
“Punch,” murmured Godric at her elbow, making her start ungracefully.
“Oh.” Megs blinked, turning to see that her plac
id husband seemed to have acquired daggers for eyes—and they were aimed at Lord d’Arque. If looks could kill, Lord d’Arque would be a writhing, bloody mess on the earl’s pink marble floor.
Well, this is interesting. She really ought to be contrite. Poor, darling Lord d’Arque hadn’t done a thing besides act the rake he’d apparently been born. It wasn’t his fault that she’d flirted outrageously with him, triggering his rakish instincts. But there was something terribly satisfying at seeing her husband mentally slaughter another man on her behalf.
She beamed at Godric as she accepted the cup of punch.
Godric narrowed his eyes at her before focusing his gaze on the viscount. “D’Arque.”
The viscount’s lips twitched, though it could hardly be called a smile. “St. John. I’ve just been … chatting with your exquisite wife. I must tell you that you have far more fortitude than I.”
“Indeed? Why?”
Lord d’Arque widened his eyes innocently. “Oh, because I’d never be able to banish such a lovely lady so far away in the country. I’d want to keep her by my side—day and, especially, night.”
Does he practice his silly words in front of a mirror? It was really too bad—both what d’Arque was implying and how much Megs was enjoying Godric’s reaction. But she should stop this. She really should.
Megs opened her mouth.
Her husband was already speaking. “I’m surprised, sir. I would’ve thought that there’d be no room by your side at any time—but especially at night.”
A deep chuckle came from beside Megs. She turned and saw a striking gentleman with silver hair clubbed back by a black bow.
He caught her eye and bowed even as Lord d’Arque made some retort to her husband involving celibacy. “Lady Margaret. I hope you don’t think me bold to introduce myself. I am Caire.”
Of course, Lord Caire. He’d once been almost as notorious as Lord d’Arque.
Megs sank into a curtsy. “It’s an honor, Lord Caire. I count your wife as one of my very good friends.”
“Hmm.” A smile still played about Lord Caire’s wide mouth as Godric made a comment about the pox to Lord d’Arque. “Temperance and I regretted not attending your wedding, but we understood it to be a small, family affair. St. John and I have known each other for years.”
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