Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(45)

“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?”