chapter Nine
Despair grinned, showing needle-sharp yellow teeth against his deep red skin. “The souls of those caught between Heaven and Hell drown endlessly in the waters below, waiting for time to run out and their release. Rejoice that your beloved’s soul is not condemned to these waters, for those who are trapped here are suicides.” Faith shivered at the imp’s words and watched as a soul in the black water opened its mouth wide as if to scream. No sound issued forth from the void. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Megs stood late the next morning in the garden of Saint House, staring hard at the gnarled old fruit tree. It looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen it a couple of days ago.
Dead.
Higgins wanted permission to cut it down, but Megs couldn’t find it in her heart to do so. Ugly and gnarled as the tree was, it seemed a lonely thing out here in the garden by itself. Silly, of course, to give human feelings to a tree, but there it was. Megs pitied the old, twisted tree.
“That tree is dead,” came a dark voice from behind her.
She turned, trying to still the fluttering in her breast. Godric stood on the garden path, clad in his habitual somber suit—gray this morning. He regarded her with clear, crystal eyes, searching it seemed for something in her face.
Megs smiled. “That’s what my gardener, Higgins, said as well.”
“I can have it cut down for you.”
“He also offered.”
He looked at her oddly. “You won’t have it cut down, though, will you?”
She wrinkled her nose and placed a hand protectively on the rough bark. “No.”
“Naturally not,” he murmured to himself.
She clasped her hands before her. “I’m glad to see you’ve risen. When I heard you were still abed this morning, I feared you’d suffered a setback.”
His eyes flickered away from hers for a moment, and she had the oddest notion that he was about to tell her a falsehood, but all he said was, “I was tired and thought it best to sleep a little more before I rose.”
She nodded absently, trying to think of something to say. How could this be the same man who had torn the clothes from her breasts and kissed her as if he would die if he couldn’t taste her skin?
“We’ve been invited to attend a pleasure garden tonight,” she said. “My sister-in-law, Lady Hero, is quite fond of Harte’s Folly and wishes to go to the theater there tonight. Will you come?”
His lips thinned. “Your brother Griffin will be there as well?”
“Yes.”
Megs half expected dissent, but Godric’s mouth relaxed into a rueful smile. “I suppose I’ll have to see him sometime—after all, I am married to his sister.”
She shouldn’t feel this excited at the possibility of his attending a play with her, but she did. Just to make sure, she asked, “Then you’ll come?”
He inclined his head gravely. “Yes.”
She nodded absently, turning to run a finger down a crease in one of the old apple tree’s branches. “Godric?”
“Yes?” He’d stepped closer. She had the feeling that if she turned, she might be in his arms.
Megs shivered and concentrated on tracing patterns in the bark. “How did my brother know you were the Ghost of St. Giles?”
He was silent and she could almost hear him thinking. “I was careless. He followed me back from St. Giles one night.”
She knit her brows. “St. Giles? Whyever would Griffin have been in St. Giles at night?”
“You don’t know?”
Well, no one could withstand that kind of line. She turned and found she was nearly in his arms. He was looking down at her with his now-familiar puzzled half-frown.
“Know what?” she asked, breathless. Silly, of course. He wouldn’t tell her, would fob her off with some transparent excuse as gentlemen always did to the ladies in their care.
But he surprised her. “Your brother Griffin used to have a business in St. Giles.”
She blinked, stunned by both his honesty and the information. “But … Griffin has never been in business. He’s never had to …” She trailed off at the expression on Godric’s face. “Has he?”
Her husband shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. “I don’t know the state of your brother’s finances. I only know that before he married Lady Hero, he ran a business in St. Giles.”
Her brows knit. “What type of business?”
He watched her for what seemed almost a minute, and she waited to see if he’d answer.
Finally, he sighed. “A gin still.”
“What?”
Her mouth fell open. Of all the things for her brother—the son of a marquess—to be doing, running an illegal—and immoral—gin still was the last thing she’d guess. Why would he? Griffin had skirted the edge of impropriety before his marriage, had had rather a terrible reputation as a rake, but she knew him. Deep down he was a good man, a man who wouldn’t be doing such a horrible thing unless he were truly hard up for money, and why would he be? Their family was landed, had plenty of funds—
Her thoughts abruptly ran aground because she realized that she didn’t actually know the state of her family’s finances. She was a lady. Ladies didn’t inquire about such things—it was considered vulgar. When she’d wanted a dress, when she’d come out and needed an entirely new wardrobe, she’d never asked if they could afford it, because they could.
Couldn’t they?
Except now she remembered small things. The time Mama had suggested the less expensive striped silk rather than the embroidered. Megs had liked the color of the stripe better anyway—a lovely rose—so she hadn’t thought much about it at the time. And then there had been the time the modiste had become quite snippy, insisting she hadn’t been paid yet. Mama had said it was a mistake, but what if it hadn’t been?
What if her family had been in financial straits—secret financial straits—and she’d never even known enough to ask?
“Does he still have that business in St. Giles?” she asked Godric in a very small voice.
“No.” He shook his head at once. “He closed it—actually it burned just before he married Lady Hero.”
She nodded, feeling deflated. “I’m glad. But if he needed money, how does he make it now?”
“I don’t know,” Godric said gently. “We haven’t been exactly on speaking terms the last couple of years. However, I’m sure Lady Hero’s dowry was more than adequate to see to their needs.”
A sudden, horrible thought crossed Megs’s mind. “And my dowry? Was it adequate?”
“Your brother didn’t offer one.”
Her eyes widened. “But—”
“It’s all right.” He held out his hands, forestalling her protest. “I have more than enough money. I never needed your dowry, Megs.”
Well, she supposed she should be glad of that at least. Megs poked at the apple tree rather irritably before heaving a sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t know of this before. You must’ve been terribly angry when my brother made his demand.”
She peeked at him from under her eyelashes.
He shrugged, his face gentle. “I’ve already told you: I was angry at him, yes, but never at you. It wasn’t such a hardship to marry you, after all.”
Faint praise was better than none, she supposed. Or at least she told herself that as she pressed a fingernail into the bark of the tree. “I still don’t understand. Why did he never tell me what straits we were in?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I expect he was protecting you.”
Megs had rather dark thoughts about gentlemen who believed it best to protect ladies by leaving them in ignorance. At least Godric had told her the truth about her brother and his still.
She sighed and pushed away from the tree. “I suppose I ought to go now and inquire of Daniels if my new gowns will be ready in time for the theater.”
But as she made to walk past him, he forestalled her by the simple expedient of grasping her hand.
His fingers were cool as they wrapped around hers, and she froze, looking at him before he dropped her hand again as if her warmth had burned him.
He licked his lips, and if she didn’t know better, she’d say that Godric was nervous. “I actually came out here to tell you something.”
She tilted her head in inquiry. “Yes?”
“I’ve decided”—he focused those clear gray eyes on her face—“I’d like to consummate our marriage tonight.”
SHE’D GOTTEN WHAT she’d wanted: Godric’s agreement to come to her bed. Why, then, was she so nervous at the prospect?
A wave of laughter rose from the theater audience, and Megs focused on the stage where a pretty actress dressed as a young man was strutting about. The actress turned and threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder as she made some quip, and the audience roared again. Next to Megs, Hero was giggling and even Griffin wore a grin, but Godric wasn’t even smiling.
Perhaps he was as nervous as she about tonight.
The four of them sat in an elegant box over the stage at Harte’s Folly. Swaths of red velvet lined the interior of the box and gilt trimmed the rail. A small table of wine, tiny cakes, fruit, nuts, and cheeses sat to the side, and Megs couldn’t help reflecting how expensive the theater box must be to rent. If Griffin had been in financial straits three years ago, he didn’t appear to be so now.
But then he hadn’t seemed to lack for funds before marrying Hero either.
Megs blew out a restless breath, wishing she could have fifteen minutes alone with her brother. Wishing she could forget that when she and Godric returned home tonight, he intended to bed her.
She glanced down and then sideways at him. He wore a coffee-colored suit tonight, the cuffs and pockets worked in dull gold thread. Underneath, a silvery blue waistcoat hugged his torso, emphasizing the flatness of his belly. She’d seen him—briefly—without a shirt and had been stunned by the image. What would he look like entirely nude?
He seemed to sense her regard. His chin moved infinitesimally and his eyes flicked to her face. She caught her breath. His eyelids were half lowered, nearly but not quite hiding the gleam of those intense clear gray eyes. He looked at her as if he were deciding how, exactly, to eat her. Without thought, her lips parted and his gaze dropped, his eyes brooding as his nostrils flared slightly. Then he raised them slowly again, staring into her eyes, and Megs forgot entirely how to breathe.
The audience broke into applause and Megs jerked at the sudden, thundering sound.
Griffin grunted. “Shall I fetch some ices before the second half begins?”
Hero smiled up at her husband. “Yes, please.”
Griffin nodded before glancing at Godric, his expression wary. “Join me?”
Godric raised his brows but rose willingly.
Beside her, Hero stirred and held out her hand. “I see my brother across the way. Will you accompany me to greet him?”
“Yes, of course.” Megs rose, staring worriedly at the retreating backs of her husband and brother.
“Don’t fret.” Hero drew her hand through her arm as they began strolling companionably toward the opposite side of the theater. The corridor behind the boxes was crowded as everyone took the opportunity during the interval to find acquaintances or to simply parade to show to best advantage their costumes. “Griffin and Godric will come to terms.”
“I wish I were as certain as you.”
Hero squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Griffin loves both you and me, and Godric is very fond of you, I know. They both have incentive to make up this little quarrel.”
Megs slanted a glance at her sister-in-law, strolling serenely in a mist-green frock trimmed in blond lace. “Godric is fond of me? However can you tell?”
Hero looked at her, amused. “By the way he cares for you, silly. He made very sure you had the best seat when you arrived—next to me so we might gossip. He filled a plate for you with cakes and grapes—no walnuts, as he knows you aren’t particularly fond of them—and the very fact he’s come to the opera tonight … well. I half expected him to decline, I must tell you. He’s been a veritable hermit these last couple of years. Hardly anyone has seen him about in society. No, everything he’s done tonight, small matters as they are, has been for you, sister.”
Megs blinked. Was it true? Did Godric have feelings, however small, for her? He had, after all, conceded to her wish to try to make a child. The mere reminder made her body flush with heat, but she felt a pang of disquiet as well. When she’d been back at Laurelwood, dreaming up this plan to come to London and seduce her husband, he had been a mere cardboard figure. She’d known him only from his infrequent, curt letters. Bedding a cardboard man had seemed straightforward enough.
Bedding Godric was an entirely different matter.
He was real, flesh and blood, a man with powerful feelings—though he did his best to hide them from the world. Only now, at this terribly late date, did it occur to her that her emotions might be endangered if she lay with Godric.
Megs bit her lip. Emotional entanglement was not something that she’d accounted for. Roger was the love of her life, his loss a pain she felt every day. She had no other way to make a child for herself but to lie with Godric, but to feel for him as well—that seemed like a betrayal of her love for Roger.
A betrayal of Roger himself.
Hero suddenly squeezed her hand. “There she is.”
Megs blinked. “Who?”
“Hippolyta Royle,” Hero murmured. “The lady there in that delicious shade of dark coffee brown and pink.” Megs followed the discreet incline of Hero’s head. A tall lady stood by herself, watching the crowd with hooded eyes. She couldn’t be called beautiful, but with her tawny complexion, dark hair, and regal bearing, she was certainly striking.
“Who is she?” Megs wondered aloud.
Hero huffed softly beside her. “You’d know if you hadn’t been hiding yourself away in the wilds of the countryside for two years. Miss Royle is a rather mysterious heiress. She appeared in London out of the blue a couple of months ago. Some say she was raised in Italy or even the East Indies. I’ve thought that she must be a very interesting person, but we’ve not been introduced yet.”
They watched as Miss Royle turned and began strolling away.
“And it looks like I won’t have the opportunity tonight either,” Hero said ruefully. “I see no one to make the proper introductions. But here’s Maximus’s box. Shall we?”
Megs nodded as Hero led the way into the splendid box. It was directly opposite Griffin’s rented box and so was over the other side of the stage from where they sat.
Inside, the box was as luxurious as Griffin’s—perhaps more so. Two ladies sat by themselves, and the elder of the two held out her hand at their entrance.
“Hero, how lovely to see you, my dear.” Miss Bathilda Picklewood had raised both Hero and her younger sister, Phoebe, after their parents’ death. A plump lady who wore her soft gray hair in ringlets across her forehead, she held a small, elderly King Charles spaniel on her lap.
Hero stepped gracefully forward and kissed Miss Picklewood on the cheek. “How are you, Cousin Bathilda?”
“Quite well,” Miss Picklewood said, “but I do declare it has been an age since you brought William ’round.”
As if to emphasize her words, the spaniel gave one sharp bark.
Hero smiled. “I shall correct my error as soon as possible. Tomorrow afternoon, in fact.”
“Splendid!”
“Who is that with you, Hero?” the second lady asked, and Megs felt a pang, for it was Lady Phoebe Batten.
Megs stepped closer, hoping the dim candlelight in the box would help. “It’s me, Phoebe. Megs.”
“Of course,” Phoebe said in a confused flurry. Her eyes were focused on Megs’s face now, but Megs had the sinking feeling that the other woman still couldn’t see her properly. “Are you enjoying the play?”
“Oh, yes,” Megs said, though she’d hardly paid attention. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to one, so this is quite a treat.”
“Robin Goodfellow is so clever,” Miss Picklewood said, and Megs scrambled a bit before she remembered that was the name of the actress in man’s clothing. “I believe I’ve enjoyed every play she’s been in.”
“Harte was very smart to lure Miss Goodfellow away from the Royal,” a deep voice said behind them.
Both Megs and Hero turned to see Maximus Batten, the Duke of Wakefield, standing in the entrance to the box, two ices in his hands.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Had I known you’d join us, Hero, I would’ve gotten more ices.”
“Griffin and Mr. St. John have gone to get them for us,” Hero said. “You remember Lady Margaret?”
“Naturally.” The duke executed a very elegant bow, considering he was holding an ice in each hand.
“Your Grace.” Megs curtsied. She’d been acquainted with the Duke of Wakefield for years—he was a political ally of her brother Thomas—but she didn’t know him well. He’d always struck her as a rather daunting gentleman.
“You know Harte of Harte’s Folly?” Hero asked her brother curiously. She took one of the ices and placed it in Phoebe’s hands.
“Not personally, no,” His Grace replied as he offered the remaining ice to Miss Picklewood. “Actually, I’m not even sure that ‘Harte’ is but one man—the backers of the pleasure garden could be a syndicate of businessmen—but in any case it’s well known that Miss Goodfellow was lured away from her previous theater, probably for an outrageous sum of money. It was a smart business move by whoever runs Harte’s Folly, though. The pleasure garden needed a renowned actress.”
“And Miss Goodfellow is the most renowned breeches-role actress in London,” Viscount d’Arque drawled as he strolled into the box. “Your Grace.” He swept a graceful bow. “Ladies.”
“D’Arque.” The duke eyed him noncommittally.
The viscount’s gaze swept over the ladies appreciatively before landing on Megs. He stepped forward and in a swift move had her fingers in his. “Lady Margaret, you’re looking enchanting this evening.”
Megs’s eyes widened as he bent over her fingers.
Directly behind the viscount was Griffin … and Godric.
“THE INTERVAL MUST be nearly over,” Artemis Greaves murmured. “Perhaps we should return to the box?”
“Oh, pish.” Lady Penelope tossed her head, making the jeweled pins in her dark locks sparkle. “Don’t fret so. I haven’t yet greeted the Duke of Wakefield.”
Artemis sighed silently, shifting Bon Bon in her arms as they strolled the corridor behind the theater boxes. The fluffy white dog gave a groan before falling back to sleep. Artemis wished—not for the first time—that Penelope had even a pinch of sense. The little dog, while quite sweet and docile, was getting too old to be dragged everywhere. She’d yipped when Artemis had lifted her from the carriage, and Artemis suspected rheumatism in the dog’s back legs.
“I don’t see why everyone thinks her so fascinating,” Penelope muttered now, drawing Artemis’s attention.
“Who?”
“Her.” Penelope waved an irritated hand to a tall lady disappearing into a box. “That Hippolyta Royle. Silliest name I’ve ever heard. She’s as dark as a savage from Africa, nearly as tall as a man, and not even titled.”
“She’s also rumored to be fabulously wealthy,” Artemis murmured before she could think.
Penelope turned to look at her, eyes narrowed.
Oh, dear.
“I am the wealthiest heiress in England,” Penelope hissed. “Everyone knows this.”
“Of course,” Artemis murmured placatingly, stroking the sleeping Bon Bon.
Penelope huffed one more exasperated breath and then her tone smoothed as she said, “Oh, here we are.”
And Artemis looked up to see they were at the door to the duke’s box.
Penelope swept in—or at least attempted to. The box, as it turned out, was rather crowded. Artemis squeezed in behind her cousin and glanced around. Lady Hero was here with Lady Margaret as well as Lady Phoebe, Miss Picklewood, the duke himself, Lord Griffin, and Mr. St. John, who appeared to be in a staring contest with Viscount d’Arque.
Well, at least the evening wouldn’t be boring.
Penelope was saying something—probably outrageous—to draw the gentlemen’s attention. Artemis sidled over to Lady Phoebe and sat down next to her.
Phoebe turned her face, leaning close to discreetly inhale. “Artemis?”
“Yes.” Artemis felt quite proud. She’d taken to wearing the same scent—lemons and bay leaf—when she realized that Lady Phoebe sometimes used smell to identify people. She suspected that the other woman could see very little at all when the light was dim—such as tonight at the theater. “I’ve brought Bon Bon, though she’s feeling rather low. I think she has rheumatism.”
“Oh, poor thing.” Phoebe stroked gentle fingers through the little dog’s white fur. “What is going on with the gentlemen? They seemed quite tense when Lord d’Arque entered.”
Artemis tipped her head toward the younger woman until they nearly touched. “Lord d’Arque has been flirting with Lady Margaret, and her husband, Mr. St. John, has taken exception. They made rather a scene at the Kershaw ball.”
“Really?” Phoebe raised her eyebrows, her hazel eyes dancing in her soft, round face. She might be Hero’s sister, but the women were entirely different. Where Hero was tall and willowy, Phoebe was short and plump. “I’m sorry to hear that for Lady Margaret’s sake, but … I do wish I had seen it.” Her mouth curved rather sadly. Except for events where her family carefully guarded her, Lady Phoebe did not go out in society. “I hope you don’t think the worse of me for it.”
“Oh, no, darling.” Artemis patted her knee. “If it weren’t for gentlemen behaving terribly at balls, I would’ve died of boredom long before this.”
Phoebe laughed softly. “What are they doing now?”
“Not much. Lady Penelope is dominating the conversation.” Artemis sighed. “I’m afraid she’s set her cap at your brother.”
Phoebe cocked her head. “Has she?”
“Yes, though I don’t suppose she has much chance.”
Phoebe shrugged. “As much as any lady, I suppose. My brother must marry eventually, and Lady Penelope is a fabulous heiress. He might think it a great advantage.”
“Really?” Artemis frowned, watching as the duke listened to Penelope’s chatter with his head propped on his left hand. He shifted restlessly, the red stone in his gold signet ring catching the light. His expression verged on boredom. “He doesn’t seem particularly enthralled by her.”
“Maximus is enthralled only by politics and his war against the gin trade,” Phoebe said, sounding much too wise for her years. “I don’t think he has any heart left over to give to a lady.”
Artemis shivered. “I wonder if Lady Penelope quite knows what she’s trying to ensnare?”
Phoebe turned her head slightly toward Artemis, her hazel eyes a bit sad. “Would she care? She seeks my brother’s title, not the man beneath.”
“No, I suppose you’re quite right,” Artemis said slowly. The realization was rather sad.
Lady Penelope leaned forward with a seductive smile, touched the duke’s sleeve lightly, and turned toward the box’s door.
Artemis recognized Penelope’s usual farewell to a handsome gentleman and began gathering Bon Bon. “I’m afraid we’re leaving now, but it was so nice to chat with you, Phoebe.”
The other woman smiled vaguely. “Enjoy the rest of the play.”
Then Artemis was making her way to the door, trotting to try to catch up with Penelope.
“Did you see the way the duke hung upon my words?” Lady Penelope hissed when Artemis was abreast of her.
“Oh, yes,” Artemis said, not entirely truthfully.
“I think that went very well,” Penelope said with evident satisfaction.
“I am so glad.” Penelope in a good mood might just be amenable to granting a favor. She cleared her throat delicately. “I wonder if I might have the morning off this Friday?”
Penelope’s brows drew together in irritation. “Whatever for?”
Artemis swallowed. “It’s visiting day.”
“I’ve already told you that you need to simply forget him,” Penelope scolded.
Artemis kept silent, for there wasn’t anything she could say that would help her cause—she knew because she’d already tried in the past.
Her cousin heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Very well.”
“Thank you—”
But Penelope’s thoughts were already back with her own affairs. “I saw His Grace’s gaze observe my décolletage at least once. That, in any case, is something that Miss Royle cannot compete with. She’s as flat as a boy.”
Artemis’s brows drew together. “I wasn’t aware Miss Royle was competing.”
“Don’t be naïve, Cousin,” Penelope said as they made their box again. “Any lady with the possibility of success vies for the Duke of Wakefield’s attention. Fortunately, that group is very small indeed.”
Penelope sank into a red velvet chair just as the curtain rose again, and Artemis took the chair next to her. The first part of the play had been quite diverting—not to mention very risqué—and she was looking forward to watching Miss Goodfellow match wits with the male actors.
Penelope shifted next to her, glancing down at the floor and then to the table between the chairs. “Drat.”
“What is it?” Artemis whispered. The orchestra had launched into a lively tune.
“I’ve misplaced my fan.” She looked up, her brow furrowed. “I must’ve left it in the duke’s box. Too bad, because if the play had not already started, I could go back and spend more time with the duke.” She shrugged. “But you’ll have to get it now.”
“Of course.” Artemis sighed silently.
She placed Bon Bon gently on her seat before leaving the box. No one was in the corridor now, and Artemis gathered her skirts to run lightly down the hall. She paused outside the duke’s box to catch her breath and pat at her hair, and as she did so, she couldn’t help but hear the voices within, for the door was not shut fully.
“… must belong to Lady Penelope. It’s far too expensive to be Artemis’s,” Miss Picklewood was saying.
“Who?” came the duke’s bored drawl.
“Artemis Greaves,” Miss Picklewood said. “Come, Maximus, you must’ve noticed that Lady Penelope has a companion.”
Artemis put her hand up to push the door open.
“You mean that invisible little woman who trails her everywhere like a pale wraith?”
The duke’s deep, masculine voice seemed to cut straight through Artemis. In the back of her mind, she noticed absently that her fingers were trembling on the door. Quietly, she balled her fist and let it drop.
“Maximus!” Miss Picklewood’s tone was shocked.
“You must admit it’s an apt description,” the duke replied impatiently. “And I don’t think I can be faulted for not knowing the woman’s name when she does everything she can to blend into the woodwork.”
“Artemis is my friend,” Phoebe said, her tone very firm for one so young.
Artemis took a deep breath and carefully, silently, backed away from the door. She had a sudden horrific image of the door opening by itself and those within finding her there, listening.
She whirled and ran back the way she came. Phoebe’s kind words should’ve healed any hurt the duke had inflicted so carelessly. He didn’t know her, didn’t care to know her. What a man like him thought of a woman like her should make no difference at all to her.
But no matter how many times she repeated this to herself, the arrow of his words still stuck in her bleeding breast.
And she still quivered with rage.
* * *
FOR A MAN who prided himself on his intelligence, it had taken Godric a ridiculously long time to figure out why Megs really wanted to talk to d’Arque. It wasn’t until they were in the duke’s box and she leaned close to d’Arque when she thought Godric wasn’t looking and said, “You must miss Roger Fraser-Burnsby terribly,” that the light had dawned.
D’Arque had been Fraser-Burnsby’s best friend. It was at the viscount’s ball, in fact, that the news had been first brought that Fraser-Burnsby had been murdered. Megs wanted the man as an informant, not as a lover.
And with that realization, all his male jealousy had calmed, letting Godric think again. Not only was d’Arque Fraser-Burnsby’s friend, but he was also one of the men mentioned by Winter Makepeace.
One of the men who might be behind the lassie snatchers.
So, as they’d all left Wakefield’s box, Godric had turned to d’Arque and, ignoring Megs’s expression of apprehension and Reading’s narrowed eyes, invited the man back to their box.
He’d had the pleasure of seeing swiftly masked surprise on the viscount’s face before the man had accepted the invitation.
Which was how Godric came to find himself sitting between the two men he liked least in the world.
The play began again and Megs and Lady Hero, sitting in front of the men, turned rapt faces toward the stage.
D’Arque waited a beat before murmuring under his breath, “Your courtesy astounds me, St. John. Should I beware a dagger ’tween my ribs?”
Godric turned his head very slightly toward the other man, his face expressionless. He might understand that Megs wanted nothing more than information from this fop, but that didn’t forgive the viscount’s flirtation with his wife. “Do you deserve one?”
On his other side, Griffin sighed heavily before muttering between his teeth, “No doubt he does, St. John, but it might disturb the ladies should the box suddenly flood with blood.”
A wave of laughter rose through the theater as evidently the actors did something amusing onstage.
Godric cleared his throat. “Actually, I wanted to know what you’ve told my wife about Fraser-Burnsby.”
D’Arque stiffened. “I told her the truth: Roger was a very good friend of mine.”
Godric nodded. “Do you know anything about his death?”
The viscount’s eyes narrowed. He was a notorious rake, a man who seemed to spend his days—and nights—chasing women, but Godric had never thought him stupid. For a moment he waited for the question—why was he asking about Fraser-Burnsby’s death in the first place?—then d’Arque shrugged. “All the world knows that the Ghost of St. Giles killed my friend.”
Godric felt Lord Griffin’s swift glance. “But he didn’t.”
“And how do you know this?” The viscount’s words were scoffing, but his expression was reluctantly interested.
“I just do,” Godric said low. “Someone murdered Roger Fraser-Burnsby and blamed it on a convenient culprit: the Ghost of St. Giles.”
“Even if that was so,” d’Arque whispered, “what has that to do with your wife?”
Reading inhaled as if to interject something, but Godric was faster. “She was fond of Fraser-Burnsby and has taken up the cause of finding his murderer, I’m afraid.”
“What?” Reading’s exclamation was overloud, and both the ladies in front moved as if to turn and see what the commotion was about. Fortunately, something happened onstage at that moment, eliciting a gasp from the audience.
Godric waited until he was certain that the ladies’ attention was on the play. Then he sent a look to Reading. “I have no doubt you’d know this yourself had you asked your sister about her return to London.”
A dull flush lit Reading’s face. “My relationship with Megs is none of your business—”
“False,” Godric clipped out. “You made certain of that the day you signed the marriage settlement.”
“Fascinating as this discussion is, gentlemen,” d’Arque broke in quietly, “I’m more interested in the death of my friend. Who killed Roger if not the Ghost?”
“I don’t know,” Godric said.
The viscount leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his jaw. In the silence a feminine voice rose onstage in a bawdy song.
At last d’Arque looked at Godric. “If your assertion is true—which, I am not yet ready to entirely concede—then Roger’s murder wasn’t a mere robbery or matter of happenstance. Someone killed him and then attempted to cover up the crime.”
Godric nodded.
“But that can’t be,” d’Arque said slowly as if talking to himself. “Roger had no enemies. Everyone liked him—they had ever since we were both schoolboys. He’d smile at the most misanthropic bully and suddenly they were a jolly bosom-bow. I truly can’t think of anyone who would’ve wanted to kill him.”
“There were no witnesses?” Reading asked.
D’Arque’s eyes flicked to him. “There was a footman. He was the one who came to tell us of the news during a ball at my home.”
“Did you question him?” Godric asked.
“Only briefly.” The viscount hesitated. “His name was Harris. He disappeared in the weeks following Roger’s death. I remember a note came later asking that his things be sent to the One Horned Goat in St. Giles.”
“This footman, he was the one who reported that the Ghost was the murderer?” Reading asked.
D’Arque nodded.
“Perhaps he was bribed,” Reading murmured.
Godric leaned forward. “Had he been with Fraser-Burnsby long?”
“No.” D’Arque slowly shook his head, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Roger had hired him only the month before.”
All three men were silent, contemplating the obvious conclusion.
“Damn it!” d’Arque hissed low. “I spent months searching for Roger’s killer, but it never occurred to me that it might not be the Ghost of St. Giles.”
The viscount’s outburst seemed genuine enough. But then Godric had seen beggars weep real tears for the pain of their crippled legs—just before stealing a purse and running away.
“What about your friend Seymour?” he asked the viscount. “Wasn’t he killed in St. Giles as well?”
Reading started to say something, then closed his mouth.
D’Arque’s eyes narrowed. “What has that to do with Roger’s death?”
Godric shrugged, for he could not reveal what he knew of Seymour’s death. The viscount sighed and leaned back in his chair, watching the stage, though Godric doubted he saw anything. “We were all friends, Kershaw, Seymour, Roger, and I. Kershaw and Seymour helped me search for the Ghost of St. Giles before … before Seymour was killed in such an untimely manner.”
His eyelids flickered and Godric took note. He knew from Winter Makepeace that d’Arque had known about Seymour’s involvement in the lassie snatchers, had in fact helped cover up the true nature of Seymour’s death for the sake of his widow.
Makepeace seemed to think that d’Arque had not been involved with the illegal workshop and the lassie snatchers. Godric decided to reserve judgment. After all, if d’Arque had been the other partner in the workshop, it would’ve been smart of him to lie low for a bit, convince Makepeace that he had indeed cleared up the entire lassie snatcher evil.
And then when the coast was clear, he could start up operations again.
“Odd,” Godric said softly, “that two of four friends should be killed in St. Giles.”
D’Arque frowned as if considering. “Don’t think that I hadn’t thought of the matter before now, but that’s just it. There was no link between the killings.” He turned to meet Godric’s eyes. “None at all.”
The audience roared and rose to their feet, clapping. Godric’s gaze jerked to his wife, her head together with Lady Hero’s, whispering some feminine secret. The play was obviously over.
The viscount caught his arm.
Godric looked down at the hand on his sleeve.
D’Arque let go of his arm, his face darkening with something that might’ve been embarrassment. “I wish to continue this discussion.”
“Don’t worry.” Godric stood, watching as Megs turned and beamed at him, all glorious, vibrant life. Everything he was not. Everything worth protecting. “We will.”