Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(67)

He shrugged and then winced. “I knew he was following me and would no doubt take the opportunity to confront me if I led him home. Fortunately I made provisions for just such an eventuality years ago. I left a set of clothes in the care of an old widow. It was only a moment to duck into her crowded tenement and exchange the Ghost’s costume for my hidden clothes. Actually,” he said thoughtfully as he stared into his glass, “it’s rather a miracle Trevillion didn’t lose my trail in the tenement. But then again, I did say he was good.”

“I’m so glad you admire him.” Megs tore a strip from his shirt with a rather violent motion. She wadded the linen and dipped it unceremoniously into his brandy glass.

“That’s good French brandy,” Godric said mildly.

“And your back is good English flesh,” she retorted rather nonsensically before pressing the wet cloth against the cut.

He grunted.

“Oh, Godric.” She dabbed with tender care at his hot skin, her fingers trembling. “What happened last night?”

He shot a look over his shoulder at her, his eyes glittering, and for a moment she thought he’d say something they’d both regret. “I questioned the owner of a tavern on your behalf.”

“And?”

His jaw tightened. “I learned very little, I’m afraid. The footman who reported Fraser-Burnsby’s death is thought to be dead himself.”

Her hand stilled on him. “Killed?”

He shook his head. “Perhaps. I simply don’t know. But it’s certainly suspicious that the only witness disappeared and then presumably met his death soon after Fraser-Burnsby was murdered.”

His wound had ceased bleeding and the blood was cleaned from his back. Still she pressed the cloth carefully to his skin, loath, somehow, to stop touching him. “Where do we go from here?”

“The footman must have family or friends.” Godric frowned. “If nothing else, I can ask d’Arque again about Fraser-Burnsby.”

“But I can do that—”

“No.” He stepped away from her.

She blinked at the fierce growl, her hand still raised foolishly in the air.

He grimaced and looked away from her, grabbing a banyan that had been lying over the back of a chair. “If the footman was deliberately killed, Megs, then there is at least one man out there willing to murder to hide his crime. I don’t want you poking at this.”

“Godric—”

“We made a pact.” Godric pulled on the banyan, buttoning it up. “I upheld my part.”

She held his gaze a moment longer before throwing the bloody bit of linen down. They’d have to burn it later so the servants wouldn’t see. “Very well.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed.

She pressed her useless hands together. “You said earlier that you had your own Ghostly business to attend to in St. Giles. Can I ask what it was?”

His eyes narrowed and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer her. “I was on the trail of a group who steal little girls and work them near to death making silk stockings, of all things. They’re called the lassie snatchers.”

Megs’s mouth sagged with horror. She thought of the girls at the home, the little maids they’d so recently hired. The idea of someone abusing children just like them made her stomach roll.

“Oh,” she said weakly.

He nodded curtly. “Now if your curiosity is assuaged …?”

It was a dismissal, but her curiosity wasn’t satisfied. “What about your back? You’ve pulled the stitches out.”

“Don’t fuss. I’ll have Moulder bandage it later,” Godric said curtly. “It’ll just pull out again when—” He glanced at her and closed his lips.

She felt an awful premonition. “When what, Godric?”

The corner of his beautiful mouth curled down. “When I return to St. Giles tonight.”

Chapter Thirteen

The air became brisk as the Hellequin’s great black horse climbed into the Peak of Whispers. Faith shivered and huddled against the Hellequin until he reached into one of his saddlebags and drew out a cloak.

“Wrap this about you, lass,” he said gruffly, and Faith took the cloak with a grateful word of thanks.

Tall pines, gloomy and black, rose around them now, and as the wind whistled through their branches, Faith seemed to hear faint cries and murmurs. As she looked, she saw small, trailing wisps, floating in the wind. …

—From The Legend of the Hellequin

Artemis Greaves slipped through the crowded London street, her pace fast and determined that morning. She had only a couple of hours to herself before Penelope would wake and want her company to chat and analyze every detail of the previous evening’s ball. Artemis sighed—albeit fondly. If she’d thought Penelope featherheaded before, it was nothing to what her cousin was like when she was determined to marry a duke. There were angled invitations, plotted chance meetings, and the near-constant jealousy over Miss Royle, who, Artemis suspected, didn’t even know she was engaged in a fierce rivalry with Penelope.

All of it would be a quiet source of amusement were it not for the object of Penelope’s obsession: His Grace, the Duke of Wakefield. Artemis didn’t like the man, doubted very much that he would, in the end, make her cousin happy. And if they ever did marry …