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 flames. 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.
Hero folded her hands in her lap. “All that matters is that you’re here now. Have you seen Thomas and Lavinia yet?”
“Er …” Megs took a hasty sip of tea.
Hero’s eyes narrowed. “Thomas does know you’re in town?”
Actually, Megs hadn’t informed her eldest brother—otherwise known as the Marquess of Mandeville—of her arrival.
Hero, with her usual quiet perception, seemed to realize that Megs hadn’t told anyone of her trip. But instead of badgering Megs with questions, she merely sighed. “Well, your visit will be a fine excuse to have everyone over for dinner. And perhaps you can come early to see my sweet William. He’s bigger than Annalise now, you know.”
And Hero nodded to one of the other changes in the room.
Petite Annalise Huntington, the daughter of Temperance and Lord Caire, clung to the edge of a low table as she carefully, but very determinedly, tiptoed toward Her Grace. The pug was under Great-Aunt Elvina’s chair and keeping a wary eye out for the toddler. Annalise was a year and a half now and wore a lace-trimmed white gown and sash, her delicate dark hair ornamented by a single blue bow.
She was about the same age Megs’s baby would’ve been—had he lived.
Megs blinked and swallowed down the old, bitter grief. When she’d first miscarried—and lost her last link to Roger—she’d thought she’d not survive. How could a body endure so much pain, so many tears, and live on? But it seemed that grief really couldn’t kill a person. She had lived. Had healed from the physical trauma of the miscarriage. Had risen from her sickbed, had—slowly—taken an interest in the things and people around her. Had, in time, even smiled and laughed.
But she hadn’t forgotten the loss. The almost physical ache to feel a babe in her arms.
Megs inhaled, steadying herself. She hadn’t seen her brother’s son since he was a week old—a visit she’d cut short after only three days. It had simply been too torturous for her.
“Does William still have such bright red hair?” she asked wistfully.
Hero chuckled. William had been born with carrot-red hair. “No, it’s begun to darken. I think Griffin is disappointed. He claims he wanted an heir with hair as red as mine.” She touched a finger to her own fiery locks.
Megs felt her lips curve in a smile. “I’m looking forward to seeing my nephew again.”
And she meant it—she’d lost too much time with William already because of the pain it had caused her to see the happy, healthy baby.
“I’m glad,” Hero said simply, but there was a wealth of understanding in her eyes. She was one of the few people who knew the true reason for Megs’s hasty wedding.
There was a smatter of laughter as Annalise reached Her Grace only to have the pug get up and flee. Megs was glad of the distraction to look away from her sister-in-law’s too-perceptive eyes.
Her Grace circled the room, panting, before taking refuge under Megs’s chair.
Annalise stared at the dog, her face beginning to crumple. Temperance bent toward her daughter, but the elder Lady Caire was faster. “There, there, darling. Have another biscuit.”
Temperance said nothing, but Megs caught her rolling her eyes as the elegant, silver-haired older lady gave the baby the offering.
Temperance blushed slightly when she saw that Megs was watching and leaned over to whisper, “She spoils her terribly.”
“A grandmama’s prerogative,” Lady Caire said, apparently having heard. “Now, then. I wonder if we might discuss the apprenticeship of the girls of the home.” She glanced at Megs. “The number of children at the home has increased in the last year. Presently we have …”
“Four and fifty children,” Isabel Makepeace supplied the number. “Two new girls were brought in just last night.”
Lady Caire nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Makepeace. We are pleased that the home is able to help so many children now, but it seems that we have had some difficulties in placing the children—particularly the girls—properly.”
“But surely there is no lack of maidservant positions in London,” Lady Penelope said.
“Actually, there is,” Temperance replied. “At least maidservant positions in respectable houses where the girls are treated properly and given some type of training.”
Isabel leaned forward to pour some more tea in her dish. “Just last week we took back a girl whose position proved to be unfortunate.”
Megs raised her eyebrows. “Unfortunate?”
“The mistress of the house saw fit to beat the girl with a hairbrush,” Lady Caire said grimly.
“Oh.” Megs felt horror sweep through her, and then an idea. “But I’m in need of maidservants.”
The rest of the ladies looked at her.
“Indeed?” Lady Caire asked.
“Oh, yes,” Sarah said, joining the conversation for the first time. “It seems my brother has been reduced to one manservant at Saint House.”
“Good Lord.” Temperance frowned worriedly. “I’m sure Caire has no idea that Mr. St. John was in such straits.”
“Well, the straits weren’t financial.” Sarah sent her an ironic glance. “Godric can certainly afford any number of servants—he simply didn’t bother to hire new ones.”
“Eh?” Great-Aunt Elvina leaned toward Sarah.
Sarah turned toward her and said distinctly, “I doubt it occurred to my brother that he needed more servants.”
“Men are absentminded in such matters.” Great-Aunt Elvina shook her head disapprovingly.
“Quite,” Lady Caire said. “But having been appraised of his—and your—difficulties, Lady Margaret, we will naturally help. I’m sure we have several girls ready to be apprenticed out?” She glanced at Isabel.
“At least four,” Isabel said. “But they are all under the age of twelve and will need strict supervision and tutelage as to their duties.”
“As to that,” Lady Caire said, “I can recommend a housekeeper of very good repute, manners, and intelligence.”
“Thank you.” Megs had always thought Lady Caire a bit austere, but it seemed she could be kind as well. And Megs was very grateful. In one swoop she already had a housekeeper and maids for Saint House.
Lady Caire inclined her head. “I’ll send her around this evening if that suits you?”
“Oh, yes.” Megs felt a touch at her knee and looked down.
Annalise had one hand braced on her lap as she squatted to look under the chair Megs sat on. From beneath came a faint whine.
Her Grace had been discovered.
Annalise chortled and for a moment glanced up at Megs, tiny, perfect teeth showing in a delighted grin. And Megs’s breath froze in her throat. This. This was what she wanted with all her soul, all her heart. A baby of her own.
Last night her courage had failed her, but she wouldn’t let that happen tonight.
Tonight she would seduce her husband.
BUT HOW, EXACTLY, did one go about seducing a husband one hardly knew? That was the question Megs pondered all that afternoon and evening as she set about ordering Saint House. This morning’s efforts had been … less than successful. Perhaps she should alert him somehow? Send a note perhaps? Dear sir, I would be much obliged if you would consent to consummate our marriage. Yours very truly, your wife.
“If that would agree with you, my lady?”
Megs started, looking up into the serious dark eyes of her new housekeeper, Mrs. Crumb. They were in the dining room, which, apparently, was one of the few rooms in Saint House that Mrs. Crumb considered habitable at the moment. “Er, yes? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that last bit.”
Mrs. Crumb was too well trained—nearly terrifyingly so—to indicate in any way that she was repeating herself. “If it agrees with you, my lady, I shall take the responsibility of finding and hiring a new cook. I’ve found in the past that great care should be taken with the employment of cooks. Staff run so much better when well fed.”
Mrs. Crumb gazed at Megs with a deferential yet determined air. She was something of a surprise. Not that Megs doubted in any way that Mrs. Crumb was an exceptional housekeeper—within minutes of entering Saint House, she’d set the girls from the orphanage to cleaning, sweeping, and ordering, and she’d so cowed Mr. Moulder that he’d not even questioned the housekeeper when she’d instructed him to throw out any edibles still left in what, apparently, was a quite filthy kitchen. Tall for a woman and with a bearing that would have done a general proud, Mrs. Crumb had black hair neatly tucked beneath a white cap and dark eyes that seemed to compel obedience in both little girls and grown footmen. But—and here was the surprising part—the woman couldn’t be over the age of five and twenty. Megs would love to ask her how, exactly, she’d risen to such prominence in her profession as to bear golden references from the powerful Lady Caire at such a young age, but truthfully, her new housekeeper intimidated her.
Just a little.
“Yes.” Megs nodded. “That will be quite satisfactory.”
“Just so, my lady.” Mrs. Crumb inclined her head. “I’ve taken the liberty of sending ’round to the Bird in Hand inn for a roast goose, bread, a half-dozen pies, and assorted boiled vegetables for supper, as well as provisions for the servants.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Megs smiled at this efficiency. She hadn’t been looking forward to a supper of boiled eggs—assuming there were any eggs left—and roast goose was one of her favorites. But was it one of Godric’s favorites? She simply hadn’t any idea—he’d never mentioned food in his letters, and from the paucity of his kitchen, what he ate obviously wasn’t high on his list of important needs. Well, that was just silly. A pleasant meal made everything so much more enjoyable. She’d have to find out what he liked as soon as she could.
If Mrs. Crumb noticed her distraction, she gave no sign. “With your permission, my lady, supper will be served in here at eight of the clock.”
Megs glanced at the clock over the mantel and saw that it was already half past seven. “Then I suppose I ought to go freshen myself.”
Mrs. Crumb curtsied. “Yes, my lady. I’ll go see that everything is ready.”
And she marched from the room.
Megs blew out her breath and hurried to her bedroom. Normally she didn’t bother dressing for dinner at home, but tonight was special.
“The scarlet silk, please, Daniels,” she instructed her little lady’s maid and then stood impatiently as she was dressed.
The scarlet was over four years old—from before her retirement to the country. What social events she’d attended in Upper Hornsfield had been far less formal than London. It’d seemed a waste to have new dresses made when what she had already outshone the local gentry.
Megs winced now as her bodice was drawn perilously tight over her bosom. Abundant country meals seemed to have led to growth in that portion of her figure. She made a mental note to visit a London modiste as soon as possible.
Still, the scarlet set off her dark hair and creamy pale complexion quite well. Megs leaned toward the cloudy mirror over the ancient dresser in her room and shoved a lock of hair back in place. She ought to have Daniels take the whole thing down and start over, but she hadn’t the time—it was already five past eight.
Rushing from her room, Megs nearly cannoned into the back—the rather broad back, now that she looked at it—of her husband.
“Oh!”
He turned around at her involuntary exclamation, and she had to tilt her head back to see his eyes. He was close, his chest nearly brushing her bodice.
He glanced down swiftly, almost imperceptibly, at her bosom, and then up at her face. His expression didn’t change at all. He might’ve just glanced at a side of beef.
“Your pardon, my lady.”
“Not at all.” She wasn’t a side of beef, damn it! Inhaling, she smiled sweetly up at him and slipped her hand through his arm. “You’re just in time to escort me down to dinner.”
He inclined his head politely enough, but she felt him stiffen just a bit against her.
Well, she’d never been a quitter. She might’ve had to retire to the country for a bit to recover from the loss of Roger and their baby, but that didn’t mean she was going to lie down without a fight now.
She wanted a baby.
So Megs pressed close to Godric, ignoring his rigid posture, and linked her hands, effectively tethering him to her. “We quite missed you today.”
He’d left the ladies to organizing Saint House immediately after they’d all returned from St. Giles. Presumably he’d spent the day in some type of male pursuit.
His swift glance down at her was incredulous.
Megs cleared her throat. “Sarah and I did come to London to visit.”
“I was under the impression that it was shopping you and my sister were after.” His tone was as dry as the dust the maids had battled all day. “That and upending my house. You travel with a veritable village.”
She felt the heat rise up her neck. “Sarah is your sister and a good friend and we need all the servants.”
“Including the gardener?” Despite his remote countenance, he was careful to match his stride to hers.
“I’m sure your garden will need renovation,” she said earnestly, “if the state I found your country grounds in two years ago is any indication.”
“Hmm. And Great-Aunt Elvina? She rarely seems pleased with anything—including you.”
They were descending the stairs now to the dining room and Megs lowered her voice. Great-Aunt Elvina had proved on more than one occasion that her hearing could sometimes miraculously return. “She’s a bit starchy, but underneath she’s as soft as pudding, really.”
He only looked down at her and arched a disbelieving eyebrow.
Megs sighed. “She does get very lonely. I didn’t want to leave her by herself at Laurelwood.”
“She lives with you?”
“Yes.” Megs bit her lip. “Actually, Great-Aunt Elvina has made the rounds of all my relatives.”
His mouth quirked. “Ah. And you’re the last resort, I’m guessing.”
“Well, yes. It’s just that she has a tendency to speak her mind rather bluntly, I’m afraid.” She winced. “She told my second cousin Arabella that her baby daughter had the nose of a pig, which she does, unfortunately, but really it was too bad of Great-Aunt Elvina to mention it.”
Godric snorted. “And yet you take this harridan into your bosom.”
“Someone has to.” Megs took a deep breath and peeked up at his face. It had lightened … a bit. She decided to grasp what encouragement she could. “I had hoped to use this trip to get to know you better, G-Godric.”
Try as she might, the first use of his Christian name still stuttered on her lips.
His glance was sardonic. “An admirable goal, Margaret, but I think we’ve muddled along together well enough until now.”
“We haven’t done anything together,” Megs muttered as they made the main floor. She caught herself and remembered what she was trying to do. She began stroking his forearm with one finger. “We’ve lived entirely separate lives. And please. Call me Megs.”
He stared down at her finger, now drawing circles on the sleeve of his coat. “I was under the impression that you were happy.”
He hadn’t used her name.
“I was happy. Or at least content.” Megs wrinkled her nose. Why was he making this so hard? “But that doesn’t mean that we can’t change things, even make them better. I’m sure if we tried, we could find something … enjoyable to do together.”
His dark brows drew together over his eyes, and she had the distinct impression that he didn’t at all agree with her.
But they’d reached the small receiving room adjacent to the dining room now, and Sarah and Great-Aunt Elvina were already waiting for them.
“We’ve received word that we’ll have a real dinner tonight,” Sarah said at the sight of them.
Godric raised his brows, glancing at Megs as they joined the others. “Then you succeeded in hiring a new cook?”
“No, actually, we have someone much better.” Megs smiled up at him, despite his solemn expression. “Apparently, I’ve hired London’s most accomplished housekeeper, Mrs. Crumb.”
Behind them came a snort. Megs turned to see a transformed Moulder. His wig was freshly powdered, his shoes were shined, and his coat looked sponged and pressed. “That woman is a termagant, she is.”
“Moulder.” Was that a flash of amusement on Godric’s face? “You’re looking quite … butlerly.”
Moulder grunted and held open the door to the dining room. They entered and Megs was glad to note the transformation from last night. Gone were the spiderwebs overhead. The hearth had been swept and a fire crackled there now. The big table in the center of the room had been polished with beeswax until it gleamed.
Godric stopped short, his eyebrows raised. “Your housekeeper is indeed a gem to have changed this room in such little time.”
“Let’s hope her promise of dinner is equally as impressive,” Great-Aunt Elvina boomed.
As it turned out, Mrs. Crumb was simply a paragon of housekeeperly virtue. A beaming Oliver and Johnny soon laid the dinner before them, and Megs was eagerly cutting her portion of goose.
She sighed with contentment over the mouthful of juicy meat and glanced up just in time to meet her husband’s enigmatic gaze.
Hastily she swallowed and tried to appear more ladylike and less like a starving urchin. “It’s quite good, isn’t it?”
He peered down at his plate dispassionately. “Yes, if you like goose.”
“I do.” Her heart sank. “Don’t you?”
He shrugged. “I find goose greasy.”
“Grisly?” Great-Aunt Elvina asked, her brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Greasy,” Godric repeated, louder. “The goose is greasy.”
“Goose is supposed to be greasy,” Great-Aunt Elvina boomed. “Keeps it from being dry.” She picked up a piece from her plate and fed it to Her Grace without bothering to hide the motion.
Megs smiled. “If you don’t like goose, what do you like?”
Her husband shrugged. “Whatever you see fit to serve will do well enough.”
Megs tried very, very hard to keep her smile in place. “But I want to know what you like to eat.”
“And I have told you that it does not matter.”
Her cheeks were beginning to ache. “Gammon? Beef? Fish?”
“Margaret—”
“Eel?” Her eyes narrowed. “Tripe? Brains?”
“Not brains,” he snapped, his voice so low it sounded as if it were scraping gravel.
She beamed. “Not brains! I shall make a note of it.”
Sarah coughed into her napkin.
Great-Aunt Elvina fed Her Grace another scrap as she murmured, “I like brains fried in butter.”
Godric cleared his throat and took a sip of wine before setting the wineglass down precisely. “I have a fondness for pigeon pie.”
“Do you?” Megs leaned forward eagerly. She felt as excited as if she’d won a prize at a fair. “I’ll be sure and ask Mrs. Crumb to tell the new cook.”
He inclined his head, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “Thank you.”
She caught a fond smile on Sarah’s face as her sister-in-law looked between the two of them. Megs felt the heat rise in her face. “What did you do today while we worked on the house?”
Godric’s gaze slid away as he took a sip of wine—almost as if he were avoiding her question. “I usually frequent Basham’s Coffeehouse.”
Great-Aunt Elvina frowned and Megs had an awful premonition—her aunt held quite strong opinions. “Nasty things, coffeehouses. Full of scandal sheets, women of low repute, and tobacco.”
“As well as coffee, of course,” Godric said with an entirely straight face.
“Well, naturally coffee, but—” Great-Aunt Elvina began.
“How is Her Grace feeling this evening?” Megs cut in hastily. From across the table, her husband shot her an ironic look that she chose to ignore. “I notice she seems to be eating well.”
“Her Grace spent the entire day abed, panting quite dreadfully. That child overexerted her, chasing Her Grace about.” Great-Aunt Elvina stabbed her fork meditatively into a carrot. “Babies are adorable, naturally, but so messy. Perhaps if there was a way of containing them, especially around sensitive creatures such as Her Grace …”
“Like a small cage, you mean?” Sarah asked innocently.
“Or a tether, set into the ground,” Godric said.
Everyone looked at him.
Sarah’s lips were trembling. “But what about indoors?”
He raised his brows, his expression grave. “Ill-advised, I’m afraid. Best to keep them outside in the fresh air. But if one did bring a baby indoors, I think a hook set into the wall with ties made to fit under the child’s arms would suit.”
Great-Aunt Elvina’s brows had snapped together. She wasn’t known for her sense of humor. “Mr. St. John!”
He turned to her attentively. “Ma’am?”
“I cannot believe you would suggest tying a child to the wall.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Godric said as he poured himself more wine. “You have me entirely wrong.”
“Well, that’s a relief—”
“I meant the child should hang on the wall.” He looked kindly at the elderly woman. “Like a picture, as it were.”
Megs had to cover her mouth with one hand to still the giggles bubbling up from inside. Who would’ve guessed that her somberly dry husband could say such outrageous things?
She glanced up and caught her breath. Godric was watching her, his lips slightly curved as he sipped from his wineglass, and she had the oddest notion: that he’d teased Great-Aunt Elvina solely to amuse her.
“Godric,” Sarah chided.
He turned toward his sister, and Megs blinked. She was reading too much into what was merely play between Godric and his sister.
Still.
It would’ve been nice to have some kind of connection to him. She was drawing closer to the point—the time when she would lie with this man. Perform a very intimate act, which she’d only done before with one man—a man she’d loved. To somehow seduce a near stranger into, well, tupping her was a daunting task. If there were any other way of accomplishing her mission, she’d take it and gladly. But there wasn’t, of course. Bedding her husband was the only way to have her child.
Megs picked through the rest of the meal, her nervousness compounding as the hour grew later.
After supper, the four of them retired to the newly dusted library, where Sarah persuaded Godric to read aloud from a history of the monarchs of England while Great-Aunt Elvina nodded off in a wing chair. Sarah brought her needlework bag and was soon contentedly intent on her embroidery, but Megs had never been very adept at fine sewing. For several minutes she wandered the room, her husband’s deep, husky voice making her nerves jangle, until Sarah complained that her “pacing” was distracting.
Megs sat and could only watch Godric as he read. The candle beside him sent a flickering light across his face, catching on high cheekbones and the hint of a dark beard along his jaw and upper lip. His eyes were downturned as he read, his eyelashes casting long shadows across his face. He seemed younger somehow, despite his habitual gray wig and the half-moon spectacles he used to read. While the thought should’ve reassured her, it only added to Megs’s internal agitation.
He glanced up then, his eyes dark and hidden. She tried to smile, tried to look back at him alluringly, but her lips trembled imperceptibly. His gaze dropped to her mouth and stayed there, his face brooding. She caught her breath. She did not know this man. Not really.
At last the party adjourned for the night and Megs nearly fled up the stairs. Daniels was waiting in her room and helped her to undress and don her usual chemise for bed. Megs gazed at herself in the mirror as Daniels brushed out her hair and wished belatedly that she’d thought to buy a new chemise. Something in silk, perhaps. Something she could seduce a husband in. The one she wore wasn’t old, but it was rather ordinary white lawn with only a bit of embroidery about the yoke.
“Thank you, Daniels,” she said when Daniels had already brushed her hair for twice as long as she normally did.
The maid curtsied and retired.
Megs stood and faced the communal door to her husband’s room. No more nerves, she chided herself. No more prevarications, no excuses, no dawdling. She clutched the doorknob and opened the door wide.
Only to find the room empty.
“AFTER HIM, MEN!”
The deep growl of the dragoon captain echoed off the buildings as Godric swore and darted into a narrow alley, running flat out. This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the night in St. Giles. He’d hoped to question an old acquaintance about the lassie snatchers. Instead, almost the moment he’d stepped foot in St. Giles, he’d had the misfortune to run into the dragoons—and their near-maniacal commander.
The alley let out into a series of courtyards, but he didn’t doubt the dragoons were circling to cut him off. Godric ducked into a well in the side of a building made by steps giving access to a basement.
Footsteps trotted up the alley.
Godric flattened himself against the near wall and prayed.
“We’ll get the bastard tonight if God is on our side,” came the voice of Captain James Trevillion from just above.
Godric rolled his eyes. The captain and his dragoons had been sent into St. Giles three years ago to quell the sale of gin and capture the Ghost of St. Giles. They’d achieved neither aim. Oh, the soldiers had rounded up plenty of gin sellers, but there were always more to take their place. Trevillion might as well be trying to empty the Thames with a tin cup. As to his search for the Ghost of St. Giles, despite being almost rabidly dedicated to his task, the captain had yet to lay hands on him.
And if Godric had anything to do with it, Trevillion’s luck wouldn’t change tonight.
He waited until the heavy boots of the soldiers had run past, then waited a bit more. When at last he ventured forth, the alley was empty.
Or at least it looked so. Trevillion was a wily hunter and had been known to retrace his steps just when a quarry thought himself safe.
Tonight was not a good night for his Ghostly activities.
Godric made the mouth of the alley just in time. Trevillion had indeed sent some of his men to double back. There were three, only twenty yards away, when he emerged and Godric was forced to take to his heels, cursing under his breath.
Thirty long minutes later, he dropped into his own garden. Saint House had been built at a time when access to the river was of paramount importance to aristocrats, both as a sign of prestige and, more practically, as a means of transport. The garden ran from the back of the house to the old river gate—a grand crumbling arch that gave access to the private steps leading to the river. His ancestors might’ve enjoyed displaying their wealth with private pleasure barges on the Thames, but Godric liked Saint House’s situation for more nefarious reasons: it was perfectly placed for a Ghost to come and go with no one the wiser.
Tonight he paused for a moment as he always did in the shadows of the garden, waiting, watching to make sure the way was clear. Nothing moved save the shadow of a cat strolling past, entirely unconcerned with his presence. Godric inhaled and crept up the garden path to his house. He carefully pushed open the door and entered his own study. He glanced around, noting that he was alone, and only then felt a measure of relief. Not that long ago he’d received a nasty surprise here.
Tonight, though, the fire was dead and the room dark. He felt his way to a certain panel by the fireplace and pressed the old wood. The panel popped out, revealing a cubbyhole in the wall and his nightclothes. Swiftly Godric stripped off his Ghostly costume and donned a nightshirt, banyan, and slippers.
Turning, he left the study and started for his own bedroom, feeling weariness sink into his bones. It’d been a long day. He still had no clear idea of how long Margaret planned to stay in town. Both his sister and the old tarter of an aunt had made vague references to the length of their trip—obviously they looked upon it as only a visit. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Margaret intended something more—a longer stay or, God help him, to take up permanent residence.
He was distracted by the thought, his defenses already lowered by the perceived safety of his own home. And as he entered his bedroom, he was attacked. Strong arms circled his neck, a body bore him back against the wall, and hands clutched at the back of his head. He smelled orange blossoms.
Then Margaret kissed him.