Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(50)

Artemis took a deep breath and carefully, silently, backed away from the door. She had a sudden horrific image of the door opening by itself and those within finding her there, listening.

She whirled and ran back the way she came. Phoebe’s kind words should’ve healed any hurt the duke had inflicted so carelessly. He didn’t know her, didn’t care to know her. What a man like him thought of a woman like her should make no difference at all to her.

But no matter how many times she repeated this to herself, the arrow of his words still stuck in her bleeding breast.

And she still quivered with rage.

*   *   *

FOR A MAN who prided himself on his intelligence, it had taken Godric a ridiculously long time to figure out why Megs really wanted to talk to d’Arque. It wasn’t until they were in the duke’s box and she leaned close to d’Arque when she thought Godric wasn’t looking and said, “You must miss Roger Fraser-Burnsby terribly,” that the light had dawned.

D’Arque had been Fraser-Burnsby’s best friend. It was at the viscount’s ball, in fact, that the news had been first brought that Fraser-Burnsby had been murdered. Megs wanted the man as an informant, not as a lover.

And with that realization, all his male jealousy had calmed, letting Godric think again. Not only was d’Arque Fraser-Burnsby’s friend, but he was also one of the men mentioned by Winter Makepeace.

One of the men who might be behind the lassie snatchers.

So, as they’d all left Wakefield’s box, Godric had turned to d’Arque and, ignoring Megs’s expression of apprehension and Reading’s narrowed eyes, invited the man back to their box.

He’d had the pleasure of seeing swiftly masked surprise on the viscount’s face before the man had accepted the invitation.

Which was how Godric came to find himself sitting between the two men he liked least in the world.

The play began again and Megs and Lady Hero, sitting in front of the men, turned rapt faces toward the stage.

D’Arque waited a beat before murmuring under his breath, “Your courtesy astounds me, St. John. Should I beware a dagger ’tween my ribs?”

Godric turned his head very slightly toward the other man, his face expressionless. He might understand that Megs wanted nothing more than information from this fop, but that didn’t forgive the viscount’s flirtation with his wife. “Do you deserve one?”

On his other side, Griffin sighed heavily before muttering between his teeth, “No doubt he does, St. John, but it might disturb the ladies should the box suddenly flood with blood.”

A wave of laughter rose through the theater as evidently the actors did something amusing onstage.

Godric cleared his throat. “Actually, I wanted to know what you’ve told my wife about Fraser-Burnsby.”

D’Arque stiffened. “I told her the truth: Roger was a very good friend of mine.”

Godric nodded. “Do you know anything about his death?”

The viscount’s eyes narrowed. He was a notorious rake, a man who seemed to spend his days—and nights—chasing women, but Godric had never thought him stupid. For a moment he waited for the question—why was he asking about Fraser-Burnsby’s death in the first place?—then d’Arque shrugged. “All the world knows that the Ghost of St. Giles killed my friend.”

Godric felt Lord Griffin’s swift glance. “But he didn’t.”

“And how do you know this?” The viscount’s words were scoffing, but his expression was reluctantly interested.

“I just do,” Godric said low. “Someone murdered Roger Fraser-Burnsby and blamed it on a convenient culprit: the Ghost of St. Giles.”

“Even if that was so,” d’Arque whispered, “what has that to do with your wife?”

Reading inhaled as if to interject something, but Godric was faster. “She was fond of Fraser-Burnsby and has taken up the cause of finding his murderer, I’m afraid.”

“What?” Reading’s exclamation was overloud, and both the ladies in front moved as if to turn and see what the commotion was about. Fortunately, something happened onstage at that moment, eliciting a gasp from the audience.

Godric waited until he was certain that the ladies’ attention was on the play. Then he sent a look to Reading. “I have no doubt you’d know this yourself had you asked your sister about her return to London.”

A dull flush lit Reading’s face. “My relationship with Megs is none of your business—”

“False,” Godric clipped out. “You made certain of that the day you signed the marriage settlement.”

“Fascinating as this discussion is, gentlemen,” d’Arque broke in quietly, “I’m more interested in the death of my friend. Who killed Roger if not the Ghost?”

“I don’t know,” Godric said.

The viscount leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his jaw. In the silence a feminine voice rose onstage in a bawdy song.

At last d’Arque looked at Godric. “If your assertion is true—which, I am not yet ready to entirely concede—then Roger’s murder wasn’t a mere robbery or matter of happenstance. Someone killed him and then attempted to cover up the crime.”

Godric nodded.

“But that can’t be,” d’Arque said slowly as if talking to himself. “Roger had no enemies. Everyone liked him—they had ever since we were both schoolboys. He’d smile at the most misanthropic bully and suddenly they were a jolly bosom-bow. I truly can’t think of anyone who would’ve wanted to kill him.”