Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(32)

“But he didn’t have his druthers,” Griffin said softly.

And it came to her in a sudden and rather unwelcome flash as she stared into her brother’s too-intelligent features. “You blackmailed him?”

Griffin winced. “Now, Meggie …”

“Oh, my Lord, Griffin!” She stood, too appalled to sit. “No wonder he …” Doesn’t want to bed me. She stopped abruptly, realizing she was about to say much too much to her perceptive brother. Megs inhaled instead. “What did you blackmail him with? It must be truly terrible for a man to marry when he never wanted to in the first place.”

Griffin’s eyes were narrowed suspiciously, but he replied, “It’s not as terrible as you seem to be thinking.”

“Then what is it?”

But he was already shaking his head as he rose in front of her. “That was part of the bargain: I’d keep his secret to the grave. I can’t tell you, Megs. I suggest if you really want to know, you ask St. John yourself.”

GODRIC PAUSED TO catch his breath across the street from Lord Griffin Reading’s town house. Sarah hadn’t told him until nearly fifteen minutes after Margaret had left the wretched ball that his darling wife intended to ask her bastard of a brother something of import. He’d wasted another ten minutes making sure Sarah and Great-Aunt Elvina had proper escort home, and then he’d left with a muttered and probably ill-believed excuse. He’d hailed a hack back home and then changed into his Ghost costume as a precaution. Who knew where Megs might lead him?

He’d done it badly, his abrupt exit from the ball, but it wasn’t as if he’d had much choice in the matter.

He could think of no reason why Margaret would seek Reading’s counsel so suddenly unless it was to inquire about the circumstances of their marriage.

Damn it. He’d known, deep in his gut, the night he’d found Reading waiting for him in his own study, that giving in to Reading’s demands would come back to bite him in the arse. But what choice had he had? Reading knew. Knew that Godric was the Ghost of St. Giles. The ass had threatened to make public the knowledge, and though something in Godric wanted to tell him to publish and be damned, he’d held back at the thought of St. Giles.

He still ruled the night in St. Giles. There was still a tiny spark inside of him that cared about the people there and the help he could give them. A part that hadn’t died with Clara.

So he’d submitted to the blackmail and married Margaret, and now he’d had the stupidity to all but dare Margaret to ask her brother why.

Did he want her to find out?

The thought brought him up short. Idiot idea. Of course he didn’t.

And he hadn’t a moment more to think on the matter. The front door of Reading’s town house opened and Margaret emerged, briefly haloed by the door’s lanterns. She turned to say something to her brother and then descended the steps, looking the same as ever: maddeningly inquisitive and beautiful in her salmon ball gown and a white and gold short cape tied close at her throat.

Apparently one couldn’t tell just by looking if a woman had learned one’s deepest secret.

Margaret climbed into the carriage and the driver touched the horses with his whip. The convenience rumbled off, but because of the nature of London’s narrow streets, Godric could easily keep up. Jogging behind the carriage, staying in the shadows, he was mostly hidden from others on foot.

Well, except for the night-soil man, who gave a strangled shout and dropped one of his odiferous buckets.

Godric winced as he ran by.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the driver finally pulled the horses to a stop outside Saint House. He should run around back. Be sure to be in his study when she came inside—assuming she went looking for him.

Something made him pause, watching the carriage, waiting like a lovesick schoolboy for the sight of his wife again. The footman descended the carriage and placed the step, opening the door for Margaret. But instead of her emerging, the footman leaned forward as if to catch murmured words from inside. He stepped back and called something to the driver, and then he was remounting the carriage.

Damn it! What was she about?

He watched helplessly as the driver turned the carriage around and rolled away from Saint House.

Godric cursed under his breath and followed, glad now that he was in his Ghost costume. If she were going to meet a lover …

His chest squeezed at the thought. He might be a dog in a manger, as she’d accused him, but he couldn’t let her go to another man. He’d kill the bastard first.

The carriage rumbled through London, heading north and a bit to the west. Toward St. Giles, in fact.

Surely she wouldn’t? Not after being accosted that first night?

God’s balls. She would. The carriage turned into St. Giles like a calf fattened for market, all but bawling its vulnerability and rich, succulent meat.

Godric drew both swords and followed.

MEGS GAZED OUT the window of her carriage. St. Giles was dark and quiet—almost peaceful-looking, though she knew that was deceptive. This was the most violent area of London.

This was where Roger had been stabbed to death two years before. He’d lain here on a cold early spring night and his life had bled away into the filthy channel in the middle of the lane, his precious life’s blood mingling with excrement and worse.

She blinked back the tears in her eyes and inhaled, opening the carriage door.