Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(18)

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.