Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(59)

“Oh, yes, Your Grace,” she murmured, watching as he tore apart a crusty roll. “And you?”

“I confess that the theater doesn’t entertain me,” he replied, his voice bored, but then something softened about his eyes as he glanced at her. “But both Phoebe and Cousin Bathilda like it very much.”

For the first time, Megs felt a faint liking for the duke. “Do you take them there often?”

He shrugged. “There or other theaters in London. They also like the opera, particularly Phoebe. I think the music partially compensates for the fact that she can’t entirely see the stage.” He frowned down at his fish as if it had offended him.

Megs felt a pang. “It’s that bad, then?”

He merely nodded and seemed relieved when Thomas’s voice rose farther down the table.

“The act hasn’t been given enough time,” he was telling Griffin. “When the gin sellers all have been arrested, then the drink must perforce be reduced in the streets of London.”

“It’s been two years,” Griffin growled back, “and your gin act hasn’t done much more than line the pockets of a few crooked informers. I could still buy gin at every fourth house in St. Giles were I wont.”

Thomas’s eyes narrowed as the footmen brought in the next course—a roasted joint and various vegetables—and he opened his mouth to retort.

But the duke intervened. “Griffin is right.”

Both brothers turned to him, astonished. The duke was not a bosom-bow of Griffin’s—he’d been determinedly against the younger brother’s marrying his sister—and Megs knew Thomas considered him a friend and ally.

But the duke set his fork down and sat back. “The act has had two years to effect change and it hasn’t. The only real good it’s done is correct the faults of the ‘36 act, which”—the duke grimaced—“is faint praise indeed. We are at an impasse. London cannot continue with the loss of vigor and blood that gin sucks from it like some ungodly parasite.”

“What do you suggest?” Thomas asked slowly.

The duke pinned him with his cold eyes. “We need a new act.”

Griffin, Thomas, and the duke burst into furious political argument while Godric twirled his wineglass, his eyes intent as he followed the discussion. He wasn’t a peer, so he didn’t sit in Parliament, but every male seemed infected by the blight of gin these days and the discussion on what to do about it.

And, of course, the blight of gin affected everything in St. Giles.

Megs sighed and turned toward Charlotte on her other side. “Are you pleased with the gowns you selected today?”

“Yes, although I did want that sky-blue moiré.”

Charlotte cast a disgruntled glance at Jane across the table. The sisters had nearly come to blows over the gorgeous fabric before Mrs. St. John had hushed them with the simple threat that no one would get the sky-blue moiré if the matter wasn’t decided in the next second. Charlotte and Jane had looked at each other silently and Charlotte had huffed and conceded the silk to Jane. Ten minutes later, they were enjoying ices, elbows linked, bright blond heads together, and one would never have known the sisters had fought so adamantly just moments before.

Which didn’t mean that Charlotte had entirely forgiven her sister, of course.

“You did get that lovely turquoise brocade,” Megs reminded her diplomatically.

“Yes,” Charlotte said, brightening, “and those delicious lace mitts.” She sighed happily before turning to Megs. “That peachy-pink silk is going to look so pretty with your dark hair. I’m sure Godric will be smitten.”

Megs smiled, but she couldn’t help her gaze sliding away from her sister-in-law’s. Did she want Godric smitten? She glanced up and saw that he was watching her now, his gray eyes heavily lidded, his long, elegant fingers still playing with the stem of his wineglass.

Twirling. Twirling. Twirling.

Her face heated for some reason and she looked hastily away again, taking a sip of her wine to calm herself.

“Megs?” Charlotte asked hesitantly.

Megs focused her attention on her sister-in-law. “Yes?”

Charlotte was pushing together a mound of creamed potatoes and parsnips, pressing the tines into the fluffy vegetables to make small, parallel furrows. She leaned close to Megs, her voice lowering. “Do you think Godric will ever …” She cleared her throat as if searching for the word, her forehead compressing into furrows that matched the ones on her plate. “Do you think he’ll ever want to be close to us?”

“I don’t know,” Megs said honestly. Having heard Godric’s recollections of his youth, she knew now the broad gulf between him and the rest of his family had started long before Clara’s death had made him a near hermit. They were so very far apart. Could anything bridge a gap widened by both time and distance?

Megs bit her lip and sat back as the footmen cleared their plates and brought in individual glasses of syllabub.

“It’s just …” Charlotte was still frowning, peering now at her dish of syllabub. She picked up her spoon and poked the quivering mass, then sighed and set her spoon down again. “I remember when I was very young. He seemed so tall and strong then. I thought he was a god, my elder brother. Mama says I used to follow him about like a chick when he visited, though that wasn’t often. He must’ve found it very boring to be tagged by a girl child still in the nursery.”