Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(36)

But then, as if with a supreme effort of will, he straightened again, his gray eyes clear and piercing as he stared at her, even though his face had gone pasty white. “Do you trust your coachman? Your footman?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said at once, and then realized: his very life might depend upon the discretion of Oliver and Tom. She swallowed and thought about it, but in the end said sincerely, “They both have always been loyal. All my servants are.”

“Good. When the carriage stops, please send Oliver in to get Moulder. He’ll know what to do.” A thin white line incised itself around his mouth as he pressed his lips together. He must be in terrible pain.

“How many times have you done this before?” she whispered.

He shook his head slightly. “Enough to know this wound isn’t fatal.”

She stared at him, appalled. Only days before, she’d thought him a doddering old man. And now … even wounded, the breadth of his shoulders strained the white shirt he wore, his hands were elegant and strong, and his face hard and intelligent. He fairly vibrated with vitality.

How had his pretended senility ever deceived her?

She shivered. She was still all but bare to the waist because he’d cut the dress from her torso and bent his head to fasten those ridiculously sensuous lips onto her breast. The shock of it, after violence and, yes, sexual excitement, had nearly made her forget their danger. When the dragoon captain had opened the carriage door, she’d squeaked with real surprise.

Megs shook her head. She’d have to examine these troubling feelings later. Right now they were nearing Saint House. She scrabbled for the edges of what remained of her bodice, pulling it over herself as best she could and then buttoning her half-cape all the way to her neck. If no one looked too closely, she could make it to her room without embarrassment.

The carriage shuddered to a stop and she remembered his directions. Quickly, she opened the door a crack and ordered Oliver to fetch Moulder. Lord knew what the footman and Tom thought of tonight’s events. They must’ve caught glimpses of Godric’s costume as he’d entered the carriage, and if that hadn’t been enough, the dragoon captain had shouted his suspicions.

Yet Godric hadn’t been arrested.

Megs vowed to talk to both men and thank them for their discretion.

The carriage door opened again as Moulder said, “Got yourself into a fix again, have you? Told you that …” The servant’s eyes widened, his words trailing away as he caught sight of Megs. “M’lady?”

“I have a knife wound in my back,” Godric said calmly, even though his hands were trembling.

Moulder blinked and turned his attention to his master. “Best get you inside, then, hadn’t we?”

“Yes, and discreetly.” Godric looked at his servant and some unspoken communication seemed to pass between them.

“O’ course.” Moulder produced an old cape and threw it around Godric’s shoulders, effectively hiding the Ghost’s costume. In a louder voice he said, “Had a few too many, have we, sir?”

Godric rolled his eyes as Moulder wrapped his arms around his middle to help him descend the carriage. “Hate this particular subterfuge. Makes me look such an idiot.”

“Only an idiot would let himself get stabbed in the back by some footpad,” Moulder said far lower. He grunted as they made the cobblestones, and Godric staggered.

“Wasn’t a footpad,” Godric gasped.

“Oh? Then who?”

The two of them were weaving as if Godric really were intoxicated. Megs hastily got down from the carriage and ran to Godric’s other side, taking his arm over her shoulder. “It was I.”

Moulder’s eyes widened at her for the second time that night. “Is that right? Would’ve liked to’ve seen that, I would.”

“Bloodthirsty bastard,” Godric hissed as they made the front door.

“I’m not proud of it,” Megs whispered miserably.

Godric halted, swiveling his face to look at her, his gray eyes like crystals. “Not your fault.”

Moulder muttered something under his breath and they all paused for a moment on the landing. Godric’s arm was like a lead weight across Megs’s shoulders, and she would probably be sore on the morrow, but that wasn’t what worried her. She could feel Godric trembling against her and, even more distressing, the seep of something wet against the side pressed to his.

He was still bleeding.

“Come on,” she urged gently. “We’ll rest once we get you to your room.”

For a second, her gaze caught Moulder’s and she knew they shared the same concern. If Godric collapsed on the stairs, they’d have to get the footmen to carry him up. The fewer servants who knew of this matter, the better.

As if Megs’s thought had summoned her, Mrs. Crumb appeared at the bottom of the stairway. “May I be of assistance?”

Megs turned her head to look at the housekeeper. It must be well into the early hours of the morning, but Mrs. Crumb wore her starched black dress, the white apron and cap as crisp as ever, and she gazed up at them as calmly as if inquiring if they’d like tea served in the small sitting room.

“Hot water,” Moulder said before Megs could gather her wits, and his next words confirmed her suspicion that he was quite used to emergencies of this nature. “A stack of clean cloths and the brandy from Mr. St. John’s study, if you please, Mrs. Crumb.”