chapter Seventeen
“Do you see these things trapped in the sand of the Plain of Madness?” Loss hissed at Faith. He’d seen the fate of his imp comrades, so he was cautious of Faith, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to wallow in her horror.
“What are they?” Faith whispered, filled with dread. “They are the souls of those who died insane,” Loss said with glee. “They meander aimlessly now, flowing with the shifting dust, and will remain so until men no longer walk the earth.” …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
If Hell existed on earth, Artemis Greaves was walking into it. Her shoes crunched on fine gravel in a huge, nearly empty courtyard. Behind her were the tall iron gates. Before her, the baroque façade of a magnificent, beautiful building. White Corinthian columns marched in paired rows along the front, crowned by a central dome with a clock, the Roman numerals picked out in gold. The gilding was repeated on the top of the dome, a spinet with the figure of a veiled woman.
Artemis shivered and glanced at the front doors.
Hell might have a gorgeous shell, but it still roasted the damned within.
She passed the porter and paid him her precious penny, though she wasn’t here to sightsee. Under the dome was an echoing hall with two long galleries leading off to her left and her right. It was early yet and the visitors were few, but that didn’t mean the inhabitants of Hell weren’t awake. They moaned or babbled, if they could make utterance, except for the few who simply howled.
Artemis ignored the galleries, walking straight on. Beyond the dome, two staircases curved away into space. She mounted the one to the left, holding her covered basket carefully. It wouldn’t do to spill her few, meager offerings.
At the top of the stairs, a man sat on a wooden stool, looking bored. He was tall and thin and Artemis had amused herself—rather morbidly—on previous visits by noting his resemblance to Charon.
She paid Charon his due—a tuppence—and watched as he took out his key and unlocked the depths of Hell.
The stink hit her first, a thing so solid it was like wading into filth. Artemis held the handkerchief on which she’d sprinkled lavender water up to her nose as she made her way. The inhabitants here were always chained, and many could not or did not make it to their chamber pots. To either side were small, open rooms, almost like stable stalls, though most stables smelled better and were cleaner than this place. Each room held a denizen of Hell, and she tried to avoid looking in as she passed.
She’d had nightmares in the past from what she’d seen.
It was actually quieter up here than the vast galleries below, whether because the inhabitants were fewer or because they’d long since given up hope. Still there was a low droning of something that once might’ve been song and a high giggling that stopped and started fitfully. She knew to skip swiftly past a cell on her right, dodging the foul missile that flew out, hitting the wall opposite.
The last chamber on the left was where she found him. He squatted on filthy straw like Samson restrained: manacles on both ankles and a new one—she saw to her horror—about his neck. The heavy iron ring encircling his neck chained him to the wall with not enough slack to let him lie down fully. He was forced to crouch, leaning against the wall if he wanted to rest, and she wondered what would happen if he slept and fell forward. Would he strangle himself in the night without anyone knowing?
He looked up as she hesitated in the entrance to the chamber, and a broad smile lit his face. “Artemis.”
She went immediately to him. “What have they done to you, my heart?”
She knelt before him and took his face in her hands. There was a lump over one hairy eyebrow, a scabbed graze high on his right cheekbone, and a cut on his too-broad nose. It looked broken.
But then it always had.
He shrugged massive shoulders covered only in a filthy shirt and coarse waistcoat. “It’s a new beauty regime. All the court ladies are following it, I hear.”
She swallowed a lump in her throat but tried to smile for him. “Silly. You mustn’t taunt them just for fun. You’re rather handicapped by these chains.”
He cocked his head, his thick lips curling. “Only makes the playing field even, doesn’t it?”
She shook her head and dug into her basket. “I … I haven’t much, I’m afraid, but Penelope’s cook kindly gave me some meat pies.” She offered one on a napkin.
He took it and bit into the pie, chewing slowly as if to make the repast last. She examined him covertly as she unpacked the rest of the basket. His face was leaner and if she wasn’t mistaken, he’d lost weight. Again. He was naturally something of a giant, with the shoulders and chest to fit, and he required large amounts of food. They weren’t feeding him and she hadn’t been able to sell the necklace for money to bribe the guards so they’d look after him.
Her brows knit worriedly as she came to the last thing in her basket.
“What’s that?” he asked, leaning as far as he could to look.
She grinned at him, her mood lightening. “This is my prize, and I hope you’re properly appreciative of the efforts I’ve made to procure it.”
She drew out a fabulously quilted gentleman’s banyan in dark red.
He blinked at it a moment and then threw back his head, roaring with laughter. “I’ll look like a veritable Indian prince in that thing.”
She pursed her lips, trying to look stern. “It’s a castoff from Uncle and it’ll keep you warm at night. Here, try it on.”
Artemis helped him into the banyan and was pleased to see that while it was a tight fit across the shoulders, he was able to nearly pull it closed in front. He leaned back against the grimy stone of the chamber walls, and he did indeed look like an Indian prince.
If Indian princes had bruised faces and sat on straw.
After that, he insisted on sharing some of the food she’d brought, so they had something of a picnic. And if the sounds of shouted swearing filled the air at one point, counterbalanced by loud weeping, well, they both made a show of ignoring it.
All too soon, she knew she must leave. Penelope wanted to go shopping today, and Artemis would be needed to carry parcels and keep track of where they went and what her cousin bought.
She was quiet as she fussed with her basket, hating to leave him alone in this place.
“Come,” he said softly as her lip began to tremble. “Don’t carry on so. You know how I hate to see you sad.”
So she smiled for him and gave him a hug that lasted just a bit too long and then she left that horrible chamber without another word. Both she and he knew that she’d come again when she could—most probably not until another sennight had passed.
When she made the outer hallway, she paused by Charon and gave him all the money she had within her purse—an embarrassingly paltry amount, but it would have to do. Hopefully it would be enough for the guards to remember to feed him, to empty his slops, and to not beat him to death when his wit became too much for them to bear.
She glanced over Charon’s head at the sign that hung above the locked door at his back: Incurable.
Every time she saw it, her heart beat with equal parts rage and fear. Incurable. It might as well be a death sentence for her beloved twin brother, Apollo: the incurably insane never left Bethlem Royal Hospital.
Otherwise known as Bedlam.
WHEN THE DOCTOR arrived two hours after their lovemaking, Megs insisted on staying in the room while he examined Godric. The men seemed to find this an odd behavior. Godric exchanged a wary look with Moulder, while the doctor tutted under his breath, muttering in French. Megs wanted to roll her eyes. None of the ladies of the house thought her strange to stay with her injured husband to see if he’d ever use his left arm again. She nearly choked on another wave of fear, grief, and anger, and had to turn away from the sight of the doctor probing at Godric’s arm. He’d already taken apart the original bandage on Godric’s right arm, prodded the long, shallow cut, pronounced it trifling, and rebandaged the arm.
Megs glared when Godric shot her a triumphant glance.
She went to the window now and stared blindly out at the late-morning sun. Stupid men. Stupid, brave, foolhardy men who thought nothing of risking their lives by going into the worst part of St. Giles and seeking out danger. She raised her fisted hand to her mouth and bit down hard on her knuckle.
Sometimes losing their lives.
She couldn’t bear another man lost to her. She’d go mad.
The doctor gave a loud grunt behind her. “Very ill-advised, sir, to take the splint from your arm so soon. I cannot tell you how lucky you are not to have broken the wrist again.”
Megs turned to find the doctor standing over a stoic-faced Godric, carefully rebinding his arm.
“It’s not rebroken?” she asked.
“No,” the doctor muttered. “But there will be swelling from where Mr. St. John … er … fell on it.” That had been the tale they’d told the man—despite the ridiculousness of that long cut coming from anything but a sword.
She blew a breath out in relief. “And will it heal properly?”
He gave a Gallic shrug. “Perhaps. Certainly not if Mr. St. John abuses it further.”
“I shall make certain he does not, then,” Megs said determinedly, ignoring the wry look Godric sent her.
The doctor fussed for another five minutes, by which time Godric was leaning back in his bed, obviously quite tired. Megs saw the doctor to the bedroom door and then returned to the bed where she was exasperated to find Godric struggling upright.
“What are you doing?”
He glanced up, his brows drawn together. “Rising.”
“No,” she said, placing a hand on his chest and pushing down, “you are not. The doctor specified rest if that wrist is to heal.”
He blinked up at her, a faint trace of amusement flashing in his eyes. She hadn’t exactly let him rest when he’d first returned home. Heat rose in her cheeks.
But he replied gently, “Yes, my lady.”
She eyed him suspiciously, but he had lain back down, his body relaxed. He really did look quite exhausted.
Her heart contracted painfully.
“Go to sleep,” she whispered, softly touching the bandages on his right arm. When had he come to mean so much to her?
He closed his eyes, turned his head, and kissed her finger.
She swallowed down the lump in her throat. The only chair in the room was the one by the desk, so she took it and moved it closer to the bed, ignoring Moulder’s look. Then she sat and watched Godric sleep.
It may’ve been minutes or hours later when a gentle tap came at the bedroom door. It had been left cracked so that Her Grace could come and go as she pleased. Megs looked up to see Mrs. Crumb beckoning her.
She glanced back at the bed, but Godric lay in deep slumber, so she rose and followed the housekeeper out of the room.
“Pardon me, my lady,” Mrs. Crumb said in a low voice, “but there is a caller and he insists on speaking to either you or Mr. St. John.”
Megs’s brows rose. “Who is it?”
“Lord d’Arque.”
For a moment she blinked, confused, before realization flooded her: He must’ve come about Roger and his murder. She followed the housekeeper down the stairs, feeling an odd sort of guilt at leaving Godric. But this was part of the reason why she’d come all the way to London, wasn’t it? If she could find out more about Roger’s murder, then she’d be that much closer to avenging him.
And leaving Godric.
The thought made her nearly stumble.
It wasn’t until they made the first-floor hallway and the housekeeper indicated that Lord d’Arque was waiting in the library that she remembered Godric’s dislike of the viscount. Even if her husband had been polite to the other man at the theater, it didn’t mean he would approve of a private tête-à-tête with the man.
She looked at the housekeeper. “Will you ask Miss Sarah St. John to come here, please?”
“Yes, my lady.”
She waited while Mrs. Crumb mounted the stairs, waited a moment more, took a deep breath, and entered the library.
Lord d’Arque was examining a bookcase on the far side of the room, but he turned at her entrance and crossed to her.
“My lady.” He bent over her hand but didn’t touch it with his lips. When he straightened, she saw that he was grave.
Strange. She didn’t know him at all well, but whenever she’d seen him previously, he’d almost always been smiling wickedly.
Almost as if his smile were his armor.
“My lord,” she replied. “What brings you to my home?”
He looked doubtfully at her. “I had hoped to speak to your husband.”
“I fear he is indisposed.”
He blinked, appearing to consider the matter before saying, “I came about Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”
She nodded, having braced herself for the name.
Behind her, the door to the library opened again and Sarah came in. “Megs?”
“Oh, there you are,” Megs said lightly. “I can’t remember. Have you met Lord d’Arque?”
“I don’t believe so,” Sarah said, coming nearer.
“A terrible oversight on my part,” Lord d’Arque drawled.
Megs turned. Ah, there it was. His crooked smirk was in place. Beside her, Megs felt Sarah stiffen. Her sister-in-law had decided opinions on rakes.
“My lord, may I introduce my dear sister-in-law, Miss Sarah St. John?” Megs said formally. “Sarah, this is Viscount d’Arque.”
“I am entirely enchanted to meet you, Miss St. John,” the viscount said with smooth charm. “I confess your exquisite beauty dazzles my eyes.”
“That sounds inconvenient,” Sarah murmured as Lord d’Arque straightened. “Let’s hope you can see well enough not to bump into the furniture.”
Lord d’Arque arched an amused brow, but before he could say something awful, Megs broke in.
“Shall we adjourn to the garden?” That would be quite proper. She should be able to talk to Lord d’Arque out of earshot of Sarah but still be within sight. “We’ve made several new plantings and I’m sure you’ll be pleased, my lord, to see them.”
She had no idea if the viscount was at all interested in gardening, but he murmured an assent.
Sarah arched a brow but merely said, “That sounds lovely. Shall I fetch our hats?”
Megs smiled at her. “Please.”
When she turned back around, Lord d’Arque was solemn again, but he didn’t mention Roger. They talked of inconsequential things until Sarah once again returned, a wide straw hat on her head and one in her hand. Megs thanked her and they all three proceeded to the garden. They strolled for a bit with Megs babbling about crocuses and forget-me-nots before Sarah cast her an odd look and declared that she wished to sit for a while. She sank onto one of the marble benches near the house—recently cleaned by the little maids—and gazed discreetly toward the river wall.
“Perhaps you can give me an opinion on my fruit tree,” Megs said as she and the viscount strolled in that direction.
Lord d’Arque glanced disinterestedly at the tree. “It looks dead.” He stopped. “My lady, you once asked about my friend Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”
“Yes.” She focused on the tree, searching out the tiny buds. It wasn’t dead—quite the contrary.
“I think,” the viscount said, “that you may have had a … close friendship with Roger.”
She looked at him. He was watching her frankly, and she could see a deep pain in his eyes. She made an impulsive decision. “I loved him and he loved me.”
He bowed his head. “I’m glad he found you before his death.”
Her eyes pricked and she blinked rapidly. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “I’ve been thinking the matter over since I talked to your husband at the theater. I wonder if perhaps we pooled our knowledge of his last movements, we might, between us, discover how he came to be killed—and who did it.”
She took a deep breath, once again looking at the tree. “The last time I saw him, Roger had proposed to me.”
His head jerked in surprise. “You were engaged?”
“Yes.”
“But why didn’t you tell anyone?”
She ran a finger over the gnarled branch of the old tree. “It was a secret—he hadn’t yet asked my elder brother for my hand. Roger wanted to prove himself, I think. He talked about a business proposition, one that would make enough money that he could ask for my hand properly.”
Lord d’Arque made a quiet exclamation.
She glanced at him curiously. “What is it?”
“About six months before Roger died, I was asked by a friend of ours if I wanted to take part in a business venture. One that he assured me would make lots of money.”
Megs frowned. “What was the business?”
“I don’t know.” Lord d’Arque shrugged. “I find that business propositions that promise cornucopias of money generally end up with the investor losing all but his smallclothes. I avoid them when possible. Since I turned down the proposition at once, I never found out what the business was.”
“Who was the friend who made the offer, then?”
Lord d’Arque hesitated only a moment. “The Earl of Kershaw.”
GODRIC OPENED HIS eyes to the sight of Megs sitting on a chair next to his bed. He glanced at the window and was surprised to see the light dimming. He must’ve slept all day. For a moment he watched her. She sat with her head bowed, staring at her hands as she idly twined her fingers together. She looked deep in thought, and the spark that lit in his chest just from her presence was … warming.
“Have you been there since morning?” he asked his wife softly.
She started and looked up. “No, I went down for luncheon, and we had a visitor this morning.”
“Oh?” He yawned, stretching lazily, a twinge from his left arm reminding him why he’d been abed to begin with. All things considered, he felt much better. Perhaps he could lure Megs into coming to bed with him for a repeat of this morning’s activities.
“Lord d’Arque came to call.”
He stilled. “Why?”
She bit her lip, looking a little lost. “He wanted to talk about Roger.”
She told him of the conversation she’d had with d’Arque, and by the time she was telling him that Kershaw had once asked the viscount to invest in a mysterious business, he’d closed his eyes in horror.
“What is it, Godric?”
How could he tell her? He opened his eyes, a fierce sense of protectiveness flooding him. He never wanted her hurt. The knowledge he now had would bring no relief from her sorrow. But she wasn’t a child. He hadn’t the right to decide what information to give her and what to keep from her.
He took a breath. “Two years ago, the Ghost of St. Giles—a different Ghost than me—killed Charles Seymour.” His eyes flicked up at her. “Seymour had been enslaving girls—small girls, most younger than twelve—to make fancy ladies’ stockings.”
“Like the workshops you told me about.” She nodded. “What does that have to do with Roger?”
“We thought the stocking workshops had been shut down with the death of Seymour. But they started again in St. Giles, not long ago. Last night I found the last one—and freed eleven little girls. I got this”—he raised his injured left arm—“when I was attacked by a gentleman.”
She simply looked at him, the question in her eyes.
He sighed. “It was Kershaw.”
Her lips parted slowly, her brows drawing together. “Lord d’Arque said that the Earl of Kershaw offered him an investment opportunity but didn’t say what it was. If Roger was made a similar offer by the earl …” She stood suddenly as if she could no longer sit still, pacing agitatedly in front of the bed. “He wanted to improve his funds before offering for my hand. If he accepted the business deal without inquiring what kind of business it was …” She stopped, staring at him, her eyes wide. “If he went to St. Giles and was presented with a workshop with enslaved little girls … dear God, Godric! Roger was a good man. He would’ve never condoned such horror.”
Godric inclined his head. “They would’ve had to murder him so he wouldn’t tell others.”
“This is the answer, then,” Megs whispered. “We must tell the authorities. We must—”
“No.”
She jerked, her eyes wounded. “What?”
He sat up, leaning forward. “He’s an earl, Megs, and we have no proof of anything, really, merely guesses. For all we know, Seymour killed Roger. Or someone else. Unlikely that an earl would do such stuff himself.”
Her hands became tight fists. “He’s still responsible, even if it was his partner or someone he hired. He helped kill Roger.”
“We don’t even know that,” Godric said tiredly. “This is all speculation.”
“If I told Lord d’Arque—”
“If you told the viscount—and he believed you—what do you think would happen?” he asked hard. “D’Arque would be forced to call Kershaw out.”
She blinked and opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it. Dueling was illegal. Even if d’Arque survived a duel—and Godric wouldn’t put it past Kershaw to cheat—he would be banished from the country.
“Give me some time,” he said gently. “I’ll investigate and learn more.”
She bit her lip and whispered, “I can’t stand the thought of him walking free when Roger is in his grave.”
“I’m sorry.” He held out his hands. “Come here.”
She came with slow steps like a reluctant child.
He took her hands, pulling her down to the bed with him, and he felt her slight resistance. “Shhh. I just want to lie with you, nothing more.”
He was afraid she would make an excuse and pull away. He wasn’t hurt and they weren’t about to have sex. There was no practical reason for her to lie with him.
But she did anyway, a soft weight against his side, smelling of orange blossoms and life. He couldn’t help but feel glad when she laid her hand on his chest and her breathing grew slow.
Still, he stared at the ceiling of his bedroom for long minutes, planning, calculating, trying to find a way to bring down an earl.