Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(44)

Godric leaned into the smaller man until the crooked nose of his black leather mask nearly touched Digger’s face. “But I do mind.”

Digger gulped, his eyes flaring wide in alarm. “I … I don’t know nothin’, ’onest!”

“Jack,” Godric rasped quietly. “You’re a liar.”

“All right, all right.” Digger held up his hands as if warding off a physical attack. “There was rumors about when it ’appened. Talk that it ’adn’t been the Ghost at all ’oo killed that aristo.”

Godric raised his brows. “Did you hear who the real murderer was?”

Digger glanced over his shoulder as if searching for eavesdroppers. “Word was, it were another toff.”

“Anything else?”

The grave robber threw up his hands. “Ain’t that enough? You could get me killed, if’n this is toff business and they ’ear I been flappin’ me mouth.”

“No one will hear,” Godric said softly. “You won’t tell and I certainly don’t plan to.”

Digger’s only reply was a derisive snort.

Godric tipped his hat ironically to his informant and made his escape from the graveyard, loping on foot toward the river and Saint House. The thought of Megs seeking bloody revenge troubled him. She was a woman of light and laughter. She wasn’t made for grim retribution and death.

That was his job.

He couldn’t let her do it. Even if it were safe for a lady to seek a murderer in St. Giles, he couldn’t let her risk dimming her light, tarnishing her laughter. That kind of revenge would scar her forever.

There was only one way he could think of to distract her from her mission immediately and get her out of London.

Twenty minutes later, Godric neared Saint House, and as he always did, he slowed and ducked into the shadows of a doorway to watch and make sure he was unobserved. In all his years of acting the role of the Ghost of St. Giles, he could count on one hand the times when someone had been outside his house in the middle of the night. The times when his caution paid off.

This was one of those times.

It took him less than a minute to find the dark figure lurking by the corner of his house. A shadow so immobile, so silent, that had Godric not long ago memorized the monotone lines of his home by moonlight, he would have never seen him.

Godric stilled. He could flush the watcher, challenge him, and run him off. Or he could wait and see who had such interest in Saint House. His left shoulder throbbed, but he made himself breathe, deep and even, for he had a feeling this might be a long vigil.

As it turned out, it was three hours. Three hours of standing still, leaning against the doorway. Three hours of wishing he were asleep in his own bed. But at the end of those three hours he knew who was keeping watch over his house.

As the first gray-pink light began to dawn in the east, Captain James Trevillion stepped from the shadows. Without a backward glance to the house he’d guarded all night, he walked calmly away.

Godric waited until he could no longer hear the dragoon officer’s footfalls—and then he waited five minutes more.

Only then did he creep to the back of his house and into his study. Godric doffed his costume slowly, weariness and pain making him clumsy. His sword belt slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. He stood staring at it. His hasty subterfuge the night Megs had stabbed him must not have fooled the dragoon captain entirely. Trevillion suspected he was in truth the Ghost. Why else keep vigil all night but to catch him as he returned from his wanderings? Godric had the feeling the man wouldn’t care overmuch for rank should he obtain clear proof that a member of the aristocracy were the Ghost. The captain was dogged, a man who appeared to have no life outside of the chase. A corner of Godric’s mouth kicked up in sardonic amusement. Perhaps his nemesis was only truly alive when he was hunting.

If so, they had more in common than the dragoon would ever suspect. Godric had long ago made peace with the knowledge that what small part of himself had survived Clara’s passing dwelt behind the mask.

He heaved a sigh. The captain must be dealt with, the lassie snatchers and Mistress Cook found, and Megs kept safe even against her will.

All this he must do, but right now he needed sleep.

Godric put away the accouterments of the Ghost and donned his nightshirt and banyan before leaving his study. As he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, he remembered once again Megs’s question: Why was he still the Ghost of St. Giles? and the answer he’d not spoken:

It was the only way he had left to know he yet breathed.

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.