chapter Fourteen
Grief leaned forward with an oily smile and touched Faith’s sleeve. “Do you see the souls drifting here and there in the wind? They are what remains of babes, dead before they were born. They’ll stay here, wailing for their mothers’ teats, until the earth falls into the sun.” Faith shivered. “How awful! ’Tis not their fault that they died thus.”
Grief grinned, his impish tail whipping back and forth. “Aye, but there is no justice in Hell. For them or for your beloved.”
Faith frowned and pushed Grief from the horse. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
“Over there,” Alf said later that night. He whispered so close to Godric’s ear that he could feel the boy’s panting breaths. Alf was scared, though he hid it well. “In that cellar across the way. Do y’see?”
“Aye.”
This was the second—and biggest—workshop of the night. He’d already freed six girls from a shed in the back of a foul courtyard—a relatively easy operation, as there had been only two guards, one of them drunk.
Now both Godric and Alf lay prone on a roof catty-corner from the cellar he’d indicated. “Is there another way in?”
Alf shook his head decisively. “Not that I ever saw.”
Godric grunted, analyzing. The lassie snatchers had chosen a good spot for the workshop. The cellar door lay within a narrow well—any attackers would be exposed from behind and perforce would have to enter single file.
Of course, he’d always planned to enter by himself, so the point was moot.
Winter had argued in favor of bringing in more men for this second workshop when Godric had delivered the first six shivering girls to him. Godric was loath to trust anyone else, though, both with possible exposure of his identity and with the attack itself. He was used to working alone. This way he didn’t have to rely on another’s skill and dependability.
No one could fail him if he only had himself.
“There’s two guards.” Alf’s whisper was barely audible even this close.
Godric glanced at him, and for a moment his eyes were caught by the delicacy of his profile. Something twinged at the back of his mind—something that bothered him about the boy.
Alf jerked his chin forward, distracting him. “See? One by the door, one at the entrance o’ the alley.”
“And another one on the roof,” Godric replied.
Alf started, his gaze swinging in that direction. “Sharp eyes,” he said grudgingly. “What’ll you do? There’s only one o’ you.”
“Let me worry about that,” Godric whispered, rising to his haunches. “You stay here and don’t get involved. I don’t want to have to worry about you as well as them.”
Mutiny flashed in Alf’s eyes and Godric respected the scamp more for it.
Then the boy looked at the three toughs guarding the workshop and nodded. “Luck, then.”
Godric smiled at him. “Thank you.”
He was off, running silently across the roof in a crouch. He leaped away from the building housing the cellar, moving in a wide circle as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. He was careful about it, taking a good fifteen minutes to work his way around until he was in back of the guard on the roof over the cellar. Then it was a simple matter of stealth and quiet. Killing the guard wasn’t hard: a firm, quick grasp on the guard’s hair, a vicious tug to bare his neck, and a lightning-strike cut across his throat. The difficulty came in making sure the guard made no sound before he died.
But he didn’t. Godric had more than enough experience to make sure it was so.
The man at the end of the alley was next; the fact that he stood in the open made it a bit more complicated. When the man turned at the last moment as Godric rushed him, Godric was forced to jab him hard in the throat before he could kill him. The man fell, wheezing quietly—the vulnerable hollow of his neck was crushed; he’d suffocate before too long.
Godric’s dagger thrust was quick and merciful.
He couldn’t waste a second after that. It was only a matter of time before the third guard noticed that his compatriot no longer stood at the end of the alley and gave the alarm. Godric scaled the building again, his chest heaving silently, his arms and shoulders burning as he hauled himself up. He ran over the rooftop, pausing only to see where the guard stood below, and leaped into space.
He landed square atop the guard and the man fell, smashing his head against the cobblestones. He didn’t move again.
But as Godric landed on the guard, he tumbled to the side, instinctively bracing himself on his left hand. Pain, white hot and blinding, flashed through his wrist. For a moment, nausea boiled in his throat and he feared he’d lose his stomach.
He stood, staggering a little.
Godric ran down the cellar stairs and kicked in the door.
The interior was black. A figure came rushing at him, but Godric was ready for the attack. He used his left shoulder to deflect the man’s body and then thrust his sword into his belly. The interior guard slumped, his eyes wide as he looked down at his bloody stomach. Godric withdrew his sword with a heave that made him swallow convulsively and looked around.
A second man dropped his pistol and backed, hands raised. “Mercy! Don’t kill me!”
“Bob,” the bleeding man moaned. “Bob.”
“Where are they?” Godric rasped. Sweat drenched his brow and he had to grit his teeth to stay upright. “The girls.”
“In back,” Bob said.
“I’m hurt bad,” the bleeding man said.
“You’re dead is what you are,” Bob replied flatly.
He couldn’t tie the man with only one working hand. Godric hit him in the temple with the hilt of his sword. Bob fell without a sound next to his dying fellow guard. Blackness threatened Godric’s vision and he shook his head hard, stepping over the guards. The room was small with a second door at the far wall. Godric took a breath, aware that saliva was flooding his mouth, and kicked it in as well, his sword raised in preparation for a fight.
But there wasn’t one. Only the eyes of children—girls—stared back at him from the cramped little room. And Godric finally realized what bothered him about Alf, about the delicacy of the boy’s features.
Alf was a girl.
Godric celebrated the realization by vomiting.
MEGS WAS AWOKEN from a deep sleep by someone shaking her shoulder.
“M’lady. M’lady, please wake up!”
“Moulder?” She blinked groggily at the butler’s form in the light from the candle he held. He stood by the bed, half turned away, his eyes averted from her, despite the fact that every line of his body screamed urgency.
Oh. She was nude. Megs tucked the covers around herself as she sat up. “What is it? Where is Godric?”
“He’s …” The butler looked honestly distressed, nearly panicked. “I don’t know. He’s hurt. Mr. Makepeace sent word from the home. They need you to go there an’ fetch him home.”
“Turn your back.” Megs was already scrambling from the bed, searching for her chemise, thinking about what she could put on by herself. “Have you called the carriage?”
“Yes, m’lady.” Moulder had turned his back as requested, but she could tell he was shifting from one foot to the other. “Shall I call a doctor? He doesn’t like doctors, says they talk too much, but if he’s truly hurt, it may be beyond my abilities.”
Megs didn’t even have to think. “Yes, please, send for a physician.”
She was searching on hands and knees now, looking for the slippers she’d worn earlier. Her eyes were blurring with stupid tears and something awful was beating at her chest, trying to get in. The slippers had fallen under Godric’s bed. She was still in his room and needed to go to her own to find a wrap. Which made her think of something else.
“Make sure to put his cloak and a change of clothing in the carriage. And I’ll need at least two footmen to accompany me.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“What is it?”
Megs looked up and met Mrs. St. John’s wide eyes. Moulder slipped from the room without the older woman even glancing at him.
Her mother-in-law stood in the doorway, her graying hair loose about her shoulders, a purple silk wrapper clutched at her throat. “Megs? Where’s Godric?”
“He’s …” Her mind went entirely blank. She couldn’t think of a lie, something to put the older woman at ease and make her go back to bed.
Suddenly it was too much. Her eyes overflowed, the tears coursing down her cheeks.
“Megs?” Mrs. St. John stepped forward, pulling Megs close and framing her face with her palms. “What has happened? You must tell me.”
“Godric is in St. Giles. I’ve been sent word to go to him. He’s hurt.”
For a moment her mother-in-law simply looked at her, and Megs saw each and every line that had folded itself into the older woman’s face. All the sorrows she’d borne. All the disappointments.
Then Mrs. St. John nodded decisively and turned quickly to the door. “I’ll just be three minutes. Nothing more. Wait for me.”
Megs blinked, bewildered. “What are you doing?”
Mrs. St. John glanced over her shoulder, her face firm and strong. “I’m his mother. I’m coming with you.”
And she was gone.
Megs blinked, but she was far too worried to contend with trying to talk Mrs. St. John out of going to St. Giles. If Godric found fault with his stepmother discovering the truth about his secret life, then Megs would deal with the problem later.
Pray she had a problem to deal with later. Pray he wasn’t dying at this very moment.
Megs dashed at the tears on her cheeks and scuffed on her slippers. She hadn’t time for this. Every particle of her body was urging her forward, spurring her to go to Godric’s side. She wasn’t sure she could wait for Mrs. St. John.
But when she made the hallway below, her mother-in-law stood by the door, already waiting. The older woman was pale, her face sagging as if she braced herself for some terrible news, but she straightened and nodded as Megs came down the stairs.
There didn’t seem to be anything to say. They stepped into the chill dark, walking briskly to the carriage. It was so early there was no light in the sky, not even the hint of dawn’s welcome succor from the blackness of night.
She was glad to see both Oliver and Johnny standing on the running board behind the carriage, and then Megs climbed in with Mrs. St. John and the fear crowded close. What would she do if he were unconscious? If he’d sustained permanent injury?
She recognized then the awful thing trying to burrow itself into her chest: the same hopeless regret she’d felt on the night of Roger’s death. Her breast tightened and blackness swam before her eyes. She couldn’t do this again. Couldn’t lose another so close to her. He wasn’t Roger, she tried to tell herself. He wasn’t her true love. But her heart didn’t seem able to tell the difference. The panic was real—maroon edged with mud-green—twisting, twisting inside of her, making her feel nauseous.
I can’t. I can’t.
“You will survive.” Mrs. St. John’s voice was sharper than Megs had ever heard it.
The black receded enough to let Megs see her mother-in-law’s face. Mrs. St. John was stern, the comfortable softness taking on a strength she’d never guessed was in the older woman. And she remembered: Mrs. St. John had lost a beloved husband. Had known sorrow and still lived.
“Listen to me,” her mother-in-law said in a no-nonsense voice. “Whatever we find, you must be like iron. He will need you and you must not let him down.”
“Yes.” Megs nodded shakily. “Yes, of course.”
Mrs. St. John gave her one more sharp look as if judging her mettle, and then nodded and sat back. They made the rest of the hellishly long drive in silence.
The lane in front of the home was narrow, and thus they were forced to halt the carriage at the far end. Megs clutched the soft bag holding Godric’s clothes and descended with Mrs. St. John. She was comforted when Oliver and Johnny came to stand beside them, each of the footmen holding a pistol.
She glanced up at Tom. “Will you be all right by yourself?”
“Aye,” the coachman said grimly. He brandished a pair of pistols. “Doubt anyone will bother me.”
Megs nodded and turned, hurrying down Maiden Lane to the home. Two lanterns hung to either side of the home’s front door and she was so focused on their beckoning light that she never even noticed the tall man who separated himself from the shadows until Oliver gave a warning cry.
Captain James Trevillion raised his hands with insulting indifference. “Surely you’ll not have your man shoot a soldier of the Crown, my lady?”
“Of course not,” Megs said, eyes narrowing. What was the dragoon doing lurking outside the home? She glanced at her mother-in-law and was relieved to see that the older woman was watching her warily but was smart enough not to say anything. “But you must admit it’s not wise to startle an armed guard in St. Giles.”
“Naturally one can’t be too cautious.” A corner of the dragoon captain’s rather cruel mouth twitched in something that definitely wasn’t a smile. “Especially when the Ghost of St. Giles was seen this very night.”
“That’s none of my business.”
“Isn’t it?” Captain Trevillion stepped closer, despite Oliver’s growl. “The Ghost went to ground near here.” The captain turned and looked speculatively at the home.
Megs sucked in a breath, tilting her chin. “Let us pass.”
Something darkened in the dragoon captain’s pale blue eyes. “You are well esteemed, my lady, by everyone who knows you. Had I not seen it myself, I would not credit that you would shield a murderer such as your husband.”
Megs heard the sharp gasp her mother-in-law made beside her. She couldn’t turn to give the older woman a warning look—she was too busy staring the dragoon captain down. He’d come right out and accused Godric of being the Ghost of St. Giles. She shouldn’t show fear, shouldn’t show any emotion at all.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, half surprised that her voice emerged evenly.
“Don’t you?” The captain’s thin lips twisted. “Your husband may be an aristocrat, but he isn’t a peer, my lady. Sooner or later I’ll catch him in disguise as the Ghost, and when I do, I’ll see him kicking up his heels at Tyburn.”
Her chin jerked at his blunt words.
The dragoon spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Please, my lady. Much better for you to disown Mr. St. John before his disgrace. You can retire quietly to the country and never be witness to the shame of having married a murderer.”
She couldn’t help but flinch at the last, awful word. He was right. Godric had murdered—had confessed he didn’t even know how many he’d killed—and she hated it. But that didn’t mean that she hated the man himself.
“You are mistaken,” she said with commendable levelness.
He arched a brow. “Am I?”
Megs started forward, sweeping past the awful man, but then suddenly rage, pure and blinding, overtook good sense. This man had no right to say such things about Godric!
She whirled, marching right up to the dragoon captain and stabbing her forefinger into his chest. “I would never desert my husband, Captain Trevillion, and if you think I’d ever feel shame for being married to Godric St. John, you understand neither him nor me. My husband is the most honorable man I know. He’s a good man—the best man I’ve ever known in my life—and if you don’t understand that, well, then you’re an addlepated ass.”
She thought she saw a fleeting look of surprise on the dragoon captain’s face as she whirled to stalk away, but she was too agitated to spare a second glance.
“My lady,” he called behind her.
She ignored the horrible man, climbing the home’s steps and lifting the knocker. A fine tremor was making her hands shake. She wanted only to get inside, to find Godric and make sure he was safe and well.
The best man she’d ever known. She’d said it in the heat of anger, but it was true. She might’ve loved Roger with all her heart, but Godric was the one who risked his life to save complete strangers. He might deal in violence, but he also dealt in deliverance.
Even if it meant risking his soul.
The door opened to reveal the concerned face of Isabel Makepeace. She took one look at Megs and then her eyes flickered over Megs’s shoulder. Immediately a serene social smile was pasted on her face. “Oh, do come inside, my lady,” Mrs. Makepeace said loudly as if Megs were making an unremarkable predawn visit to the home. “Captain Trevillion? Is that you? Oh, sir, your sense of duty is to be commended, but I do feel that you may rest well at your own home now that the day is upon us. Besides”—Isabel’s smile widened until her white teeth shone—“I don’t think a single man, even one so brave as yourself, is much good against the many ruffians of St. Giles.”
Megs turned inside the hall as Mrs. St. John and the footmen crowded beside her and Isabel shut the door. “Did he go?”
“No.” Isabel shook her head, her social smile slipping now they were all out of sight of the dragoon captain. “Captain Trevillion has the most inconvenient stubborn streak. But please don’t let it worry you. He’s been hunting the Ghost of St. Giles for over two years and has yet to lay hands on the man. It’s enough to make even the most serene of gentlemen become bullheaded.”
Isabel’s tone was light, but Megs wasn’t reassured. The dragoon captain knew who Godric was—and as Isabel had noted, he was bullheaded. She shivered. He didn’t seem the type to give up his hunt.
“Where is Godric?” Mrs. St. John interrupted her gloomy thoughts.
“Upstairs.” Isabel immediately turned to lead the way.
Megs followed, afraid to look at her mother-in-law. What must the other woman think? There was no way she could’ve missed the captain’s accusations.
But that worry fled when Isabel tapped at a door at the end of the upstairs corridor. She opened it and Megs saw Godric sitting on the side of the bed, in shirtsleeves and his Ghost leggings. His face was pale and he held his left arm cradled in his lap, but otherwise he seemed alert and unharmed.
Megs felt relief sweep through her.
An elderly woman rose from where she’d been sitting on a nearby chair.
“Thank you, Mistress Medina,” Isabel said as she followed the elderly woman from the room.
The door shut gently behind them.
Megs started toward Godric but was stopped by the harshness of his voice.
“Why,” Godric rasped, “did you bring her here?”
THE PAIN FROM his wrist was nearly overwhelming—sharp, jabbing, even now making the bile back up into his throat. Still, Godric knew his words had been overly harsh. Megs flinched, withdrawing the hand she’d stretched out to him, her beautiful mouth crimping with hurt.
But it was his stepmother who replied. “Please don’t chastise Megs. I insisted on coming here, Godric. You’re hurt and I care for you very much.”
He opened his mouth, pain and irritation driving hot words to his lips, but then he looked at her. She stood before him, this little plump woman, as bravely as a martyr before Roman lions, her chin raised, her warm brown eyes steady but sad at the same time. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t crush the flicker of hope he saw in her face.
Perhaps he simply was too weary.
She took advantage of his weakness, pressing forward. “Let us help you, Godric.”
He pressed his lips together, but the pain flared again in his forearm and he suddenly cared less for argument. He wasn’t sure he could recover from this injury. He’d known men made crippled by breaks in their bones that never healed properly. What, in that context, did any of this matter?
“Very well,” he said warily, rising. His eyes met Megs’s gaze and he thought he saw relief there.
“We’ll need a bonesetter,” she murmured. “I’ll consult Isabel to see if she knows anyone discreet. In the meantime I’ve brought you a change of clothes in case we run into Captain Trevillion again.”
Megs set a bag on the bed and then bustled from the room, leaving him with his stepmother.
“Do you need help to dress?” she asked.
“Makepeace will assist me if I need it,” he said and stood, ready to go find the home’s manager.
She moved next to him, putting her shoulder under his good arm. “Lean on me.”
“That’s unnecessary,” he said stiffly.
She glanced up at him, her eyes sharp. “Then do it for me. Let me care for you, Godric.”
So he did because it was easier than arguing further. She was stronger than she looked, his stepmother, and he stared down at her, puzzled. Why was she doing this?
Her gaze met his, and for a moment she seemed to read his thoughts, rolling her eyes. “Don’t worry yourself over it. You always were such a sensitive boy, reading too much into every little thing and making yourself sick over all possible ramifications. For now just accept that I’m helping you to make your way to the hallway.”
He laughed at that, a soft puff of air. “Very well.”
Outside the home’s sickroom, they found Winter Makepeace leaning against the wall. His dark eyes flicked to Godric’s stepmother. “There are … matters we should discuss before you leave.”
Godric glanced down at Mrs. St. John. “I’ll join you downstairs, ma’am.”
His stepmother pressed her lips together but merely nodded before turning away.
Godric looked at Winter. “My wife brought a change of clothes.”
The home’s manager followed him back inside the sickroom and watched as Godric began picking at the buttons on his leggings. “You rescued nearly thirty girls tonight. Six will need to stay abed for some days, but the rest are in fair condition, all things considered. They mostly appear to need decent food.”
Godric grimaced at the thought of little girls deprived of enough sustenance, then remembered the main part of his worry. “Did Alf tell you where the third workshop is located?”
“He did.” Winter frowned and helped him strip out of the leggings. “But I’m thinking they will have moved after your work this night. They’d be fools to stay and wait for your attack.”
“True.” Godric pulled on a pair of black breeches then looked down at his arm, already swollen. Perhaps if he braced it, there would still be time. “If I went out again tonight—”
“Don’t even contemplate it,” Winter said curtly. “You need to heal before you try again.”
“I need to find those girls,” Godric growled. The buttons of his fall were damnably difficult with only one hand.
“Yes, but becoming further injured—or killed—will do us no good.” Winter hesitated. “There’s one more thing.”
Godric cocked his head impatiently.
“Alf left just after he brought you and the girls here,” Winter said. “But he was agitated. Apparently Hannah, the ginger-haired lass he mentioned before, was not among the girls you rescued.”
“Damnation.” Godric glared at his arm. “Will she try to attack the third workshop on her own, do you think?”
“She?”
Godric nodded curtly. “Alf is a girl in disguise. I should never have brought her on tonight’s mission.”
“You—we—had no way of knowing.” Winter looked thoughtful. “Aye, and now she might be off trying to free her ginger-haired friend by herself.”
Godric had never felt so helpless. Well, that wasn’t correct. The last time he’d felt this way was beside Clara’s deathbed. He pushed the ugly memory away.
Winter looked disturbed. “I don’t think Alf will act on her own,” he said slowly. “She seemed quite respectful of the guards kept around the workshops. And remember: even if she did try something so foolish, the workshop has no doubt already moved.”
Godric nodded, though the reminder was but small consolation. Alf might be careful to project a tough and pragmatic exterior, but she’d put herself at risk to inform on the workshops’ whereabouts—and she’d been truly remorseful about delivering the ginger-haired little girl to one of them.
Pray she did nothing stupid.
He needed to heal. To get back to St. Giles and finish this business.
A soft scratch came at the door before it opened.
Megs peeked in. “The carriage is waiting and dawn is beginning to break.”
Godric looked at her, his wife, hovering so hesitantly, not even venturing closer as if she feared rejection. She’d come for him when Winter had sent word, without demure or question. She’d lain beneath him earlier tonight and given him everything he’d demanded. She was so much and he felt so little—too broken, too old, too weary—to give her everything she needed. He should let her go, let her fly free to find a younger lover like her Roger.
He should do all those things, and maybe later, when he was healed and not in pain, he would, but right now he murmured his thanks to Makepeace, threw the cloak about his shoulders, and let her take his good arm. Let her draw it across her slender womanly shoulders. Let her take a small portion of his weight and guide him down the stairs.
His stepmother waited for them in the home’s entry way along with Megs’s footmen. They bracketed him and the women as he made his slow, painful way to the carriage. Godric didn’t miss Captain Trevillion, lurking in the shadows by the home, and he didn’t miss the captain’s deliberate nod. That nod was a warning, a challenge delayed. It meant, I know who you are. Come again into St. Giles and I’ll take you.
Godric knew it as surely as if the dragoon captain had screamed the words. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. Makepeace was right: now he needed to heal. But when he was strong again, he’d return to St. Giles, Trevillion or not, because those girls needed rescuing.
It wasn’t until they were all settled in the carriage that his stepmother spoke again.
She waited until the door was closed, until the carriage jolted forward; then she looked at Godric and said, “How long have you been the Ghost of St. Giles?”