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 had 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 placid 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.”
“Have you?” Megs darted a worried glance at Godric and the viscount. At least they hadn’t come to blows yet. Although if they did, and over her, that would certainly make this ball very interesting.
Oh, she was wicked! “You must think me a terrible flirt.”
“Not at all,” Lord Caire murmured gently. “In fact, this is the most animated I’ve seen St. John in years.” His eyes were a little sad, but then he caught her gaze and his lips quirked. “High choler is good for a man once in a while. I do hope you plan to stay in London.”
Megs bit her lip at that, for she hadn’t planned to stay past getting herself pregnant. The fact was that she loved Laurelwood. Country life suited her, she’d found, and the estate would be a perfect place to raise her child.
Lord Caire apparently read her face, his own becoming expressionless. “I see. A pity, but I am grateful for what time you can spend with my friend.”
“I’d spend more time with him if there wasn’t a ghost between us,” Megs said, trying not to sound defensive. It was Godric who wanted her gone.
“Ah.” Lord Caire nodded. “Clara.”
Megs winced. “I don’t mean to sound jealous. I know they truly had a wonderful love and were happy together.”
“They loved each other deeply,” Lord Caire agreed, looking thoughtful, “but whoever told you they were happy has lied, I’m afraid.”
She blinked, sidling closer to him. “What do you mean?”
“She took ill very soon after they married. Within a year or so, at any rate, and after bringing in every doctor, both here and on the Continent, Godric realized that there was nothing he could do.” Without turning his head, Lord Caire glanced to where Temperance was chatting with Sarah. “I can’t begin to imagine what it would do to a man to watch the woman he loved die slowly and in pain.”
Megs drew in a breath because while Lord Caire might put on a mask of world-weariness, she suddenly knew: He loved his wife deeply and without any reservations. She’d had that once—or at least the beginnings of it. She’d known Roger for only a little over three months, and while the flames of their passion had burned bright and hot, she acknowledged now that they’d only just begun. Love grown rich and golden over the years was what she really wanted.
What she’d never had.
She bit her lip. She hadn’t had that with Roger, and she wasn’t going to have that with Godric. He might be still trading jabs with Lord d’Arque, but that was a matter of pride, not care for her.
The thought made her frown.
“I’m sorry,” Lord Caire said. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”
“No, it’s nothing.” Megs tried to smile and failed. She burst out, “I just wish …”
He waited and when she didn’t—couldn’t—finish the thought, he tilted his head down toward her. “Just because he felt love for Clara doesn’t mean he can’t feel it with you as well. Courage, my lady. Godric is a hard nut to crack, but I assure you, the man inside is worth it. And I feel that if any lady can do it, you are the one.”
Megs watched as Godric glanced up at that moment and met her gaze. His eyes were dark, angry, and sad, and she wished—desperately—that she could believe Lord Caire’s words.
ARTEMIS GREAVES WATCHED anxiously as Lord d’Arque smiled sweetly and said something truly atrocious to Mr. St. John. Lady Margaret’s husband had always struck her as a staid, if very sad, gentleman, but even the most staid man could be provoked into—
“A duel!” Lady Penelope hissed delightedly and much too loudly. “Oh, I do hope this ends in a duel.”
Artemis stared at her cousin in horror. She was very fond of Penelope most of the time—well, sometimes, at any rate—but really, she could be a ninny.
“I thought you liked Viscount d’Arque?” she asked with muted exasperation.
Penelope tossed her head in a gesture she must’ve been practicing in front of her vanity mirror, for it made the jeweled combs in her hair catch the light. There were three of them, and each had tiny ruby and pearl flowers on thin wires that shivered whenever Penelope moved. They probably cost more than Artemis’s entire wardrobe, but they did perfectly complement her cousin’s inky locks.
“I do like Lord d’Arque,” Penelope drawled, “but he isn’t a duke, is he?”
Artemis blinked, unable to follow her cousin’s thought process, which was rather a recurring problem. “What does—”
A tall form cut through the crowd like a saber through an apple. He bore a faintly irritated expression on his face, and though he wore a sedate dark blue suit and waistcoat overworked in black, no one could mistake the command in his carriage. He bore down on d’Arque, while at the same time Lord Caire glided forward and murmured something in Mr. St. John’s ear.
“A duke like that one,” Penelope drawled with so much throaty satisfaction in her voice that Artemis’s brows drew together in honest worry.
“Do you have a head cold?”
“No, silly,” Penelope said with some irritation. She caught herself and smoothed her expression. Penelope had a fear of wrinkles setting on her face. “I’ve decided it’s past time I marry, and naturally I shall wed a duke. That one, I think.”
For of course the gentleman now causing Lord d’Arque’s high cheekbones to darken was Maximus Batten, the Duke of Wakefield.
Artemis blinked. Penelope was the daughter of an earl—a fabulously wealthy earl. And while it was the way of the world that dukes often married fabulously wealthy, titled heiresses, would the Duke of Wakefield really want a wife so silly she insisted on putting ground pearls in her morning chocolate? Penelope claimed the pearl dust added a glow to her complexion. Artemis privately thought it made a good cup of chocolate gritty—besides being a waste of pearls.
Artemis knew her opinion mattered very little. If Penelope had made up her mind to marry a duke, she would no doubt be a duchess by this time next year.
But Wakefield?
Artemis glanced over now to where he’d straightened, his long face impatient. He was tall, but not overly so, his shoulders broad but lean, and the very sternness of his face kept one from calling him handsome. If she had to use only one word to describe the Duke of Wakefield, it would be cold.
Artemis shivered. From what she’d observed of the duke from countless balls spent in the shadows unseen, he didn’t seem to have a trace of humor—or compassion. And one had to have both to live with Penelope.
“There are other eligible dukes,” Artemis reminded her cousin. “The Duke of Scarborough, for instance. He’s been widowed a year and has only daughters. No doubt he’ll wish to marry again.”
Penelope scoffed without taking her eyes from Wakefield. “He must be sixty if a day.”
“True, but I’ve heard he’s a very kind man,” Artemis said gently. She sighed and tried another tack. “And what about the Duke of Montgomery?”
Penelope swung around to stare at her in horror at the name. “The man spends all of his time in the country or abroad. Have you ever seen him?”
Artemis wrinkled her nose. “Well, no …”
“And neither has anyone else.” Penelope turned back to watch Wakefield with a calculating gleam in her eye. “No one has seen Montgomery in ages. For all we know, he’s a hunchback or has a harelip, or worse”—Penelope shuddered—“is mad. I wouldn’t want to marry into a family that had madness in it.”
Artemis inhaled sharply and looked down. No, no one wanted to marry into a family with madness. She’d tried to immure herself against the pain in the last couple of years, but at times such as now, when something caught her off guard, it was simply impossible.
Fortunately, Penelope hadn’t seemed to notice. “And what if he has run through all his money traipsing about the Continent?”
“You’re an heiress.”
“Yes, and I want my money spent on me, not repairing some run-down castle.”
Artemis knit her brows. “I presume that leaves out the Duke of Dyemore.”
“It does indeed.” Dyemore had at least three castles in need of repair. Penelope nodded in satisfaction. “No, there’s only one duke for me.”
Artemis turned to watch Wakefield’s retreating back. Somehow he’d persuaded—or more likely threatened—Lord d’Arque into retiring with him. The duke might be a proud, cold man, but Artemis still felt a twinge of pity for him.
What Lady Penelope Chadwicke wanted, she got.
“I WOULD BE grateful if you stayed away from the Viscount d’Arque,” Godric said as he led his wife onto the dance floor. He mentally winced at his own stiff tone, but in this matter he could not seem to see reason.
She was his wife and he’d damn well not take her straying lying down.
She cocked her head, looking more curious than outraged. “Is that an order?”
He immediately felt a fool. “No, of course not.”
The music began, the movement of the dance drawing them apart before he could explain further. Godric inhaled deeply as he paced, trying to subdue the incredible wrath that had overtaken him at the sight of Margaret with d’Arque.
When the dance brought them together again, he murmured low so the other dancers could not overhear, “I know it’s hard for you, wanting a child, but this isn’t the way.”
“What way do you mean?” she asked carefully. Too carefully.
Nonetheless, he could do naught but answer truthfully. “With d’Arque as your lover.”
For a second her eyes flashed with wild hurt before she could shield the emotion, and he realized he’d just dug himself into a hole.
“You think I’m a whore,” she said.
A very deep hole.
“No, of—”
But she whirled away, caught in the steps of the dance. This time he watched her anxiously, this wife he knew so little about. Had Clara ever thought she’d been so grievously insulted, she would’ve wept. Or perhaps stomped off. He truly didn’t know because he never would’ve gotten into a discussion like this in the first place with Clara. The very idea was ludicrous.
Margaret in contrast held her head high, her cheeks flagged with a becoming rose color. She looked like a goddess enraged. A goddess who might, if they were alone, assault his person—the thought of which unaccountably aroused him.
When the dance brought them together again, they both opened their mouths at once.
“I never meant—” he began.
“You convict me without trial,” she hissed over him, “and on pathetically thin evidence.”
“You were flirting, madam.”
“And if I was?” she asked, her eyes widening dramatically. “If every woman who flirted in a ballroom were deemed a slut, then all but nuns and babes would be thus branded. Do you truly think I meant to start an affair with the viscount?”
He hesitated a fraction of a breath too long.
Her beautiful brows snapped together. “You are the most maddening man.”
They were drawing stares, but he couldn’t let this bit of outrageousness pass.
“I? I am maddening? I assure you, my lady, that you are the maddening one. I’ve never caused a scene in a public venue before in my—”
“And now you’re on your second,” she flung back.
A childish retort, but also deeply annoying, as she managed to get it off just before they were forced to separate.
Which, naturally, gave her the last word.
He didn’t even bother hiding his scowl as he followed her movements broodingly. A slightly plump matron took one look at his face and tripped over herself, bumping into the next couple.
His scowl deepened.
“Have I ever given you cause to doubt my fidelity?” she asked as soon as they came together once more.
“No, but—”
“And yet you accuse me of the worst thing a man can accuse a woman of.”
“Margaret,” he said helplessly, all his eloquence evaporated.
She inhaled and spoke quietly as he paced around her. “Why do you even care? You’ve made plain your disinterest. Why play the dog in the manger? Why did you marry me in the first place?”
His eyes slid away from her face, noting all those trying to hear their conversation without seeming to do so. “Your brother asked me—”
“Griffin hardly knew you.”
He glanced back at her and saw the determined expression on her face. “This is not the place—”
“Why?”
“I had no choice!” he finally growled, and immediately regretted his words.
Oh, God, she looked so stricken.
“Margaret,” he began, but she was already out of earshot, and he wasn’t sure if he was glad or not. He should be disinterested. Whether she slept with another man or not should be no concern of his. He’d been willing to accept her child by another man before … and yet he simply could not now.
The thought astonished him. Everything had changed, it seemed, in only a matter of days. Ever since, in fact, he’d discovered his wife in St. Giles.
Damnation. What was Margaret doing to him?
He couldn’t consider the matter now. They were on a dance floor with the better half of London’s elite surrounding them. He needed to bring his wife under his control and try to retain some normalcy.
When at last they drew together again, he was ready, speaking low and steadily. “Despite your behavior earlier tonight and right now, Margaret, I have never held you in low regard. Rather, I wish to make sure you don’t let your overpassionate nature lead you astray.”
To which reasoned words she leaned in close and said, “I may be overpassionate, but at least I do not act as if I’m already dead. And I loathe the name Margaret!”
Whirling, she glided off the dance floor in high dungeon, the scent of orange blossoms trailing in her wake.
Which Godric couldn’t help but admire, even though it left him alone in the middle of a dance like a prize ass.
A large form loomed on his right-hand side.
“Marriage certainly has effected a change in your personality,” Caire drawled. “I’ve never seen you come so close to a duel—and to top that with a sparring match with your lady wife on the dance floor. Words fail me.”
Godric closed his eyes. “I’m sorry—”
“You mistake me, man.”
Godric opened his eyes to see Caire grinning at him. Caire, grinning! “Good God, St. John. I’d nearly given you up for dead.”
“I’m not dead,” Godric muttered.
“The whole of London knows that now,” Caire said. “Come. I’ve an idea where our host keeps his brandy.”
And Godric followed his old friend gratefully, because if this was life, it was much more complicated than he remembered.