Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(75)

“Don’t you?” The captain’s thin lips twisted. “Your husband may be an aristocrat, but he isn’t a peer, my lady. Sooner or later I’ll catch him in disguise as the Ghost, and when I do, I’ll see him kicking up his heels at Tyburn.”

Her chin jerked at his blunt words.

The dragoon spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Please, my lady. Much better for you to disown Mr. St. John before his disgrace. You can retire quietly to the country and never be witness to the shame of having married a murderer.”

She couldn’t help but flinch at the last, awful word. He was right. Godric had murdered—had confessed he didn’t even know how many he’d killed—and she hated it. But that didn’t mean that she hated the man himself.

“You are mistaken,” she said with commendable levelness.

He arched a brow. “Am I?”

Megs started forward, sweeping past the awful man, but then suddenly rage, pure and blinding, overtook good sense. This man had no right to say such things about Godric!

She whirled, marching right up to the dragoon captain and stabbing her forefinger into his chest. “I would never desert my husband, Captain Trevillion, and if you think I’d ever feel shame for being married to Godric St. John, you understand neither him nor me. My husband is the most honorable man I know. He’s a good man—the best man I’ve ever known in my life—and if you don’t understand that, well, then you’re an addlepated ass.”

She thought she saw a fleeting look of surprise on the dragoon captain’s face as she whirled to stalk away, but she was too agitated to spare a second glance.

“My lady,” he called behind her.

She ignored the horrible man, climbing the home’s steps and lifting the knocker. A fine tremor was making her hands shake. She wanted only to get inside, to find Godric and make sure he was safe and well.

The best man she’d ever known. She’d said it in the heat of anger, but it was true. She might’ve loved Roger with all her heart, but Godric was the one who risked his life to save complete strangers. He might deal in violence, but he also dealt in deliverance.

Even if it meant risking his soul.

The door opened to reveal the concerned face of Isabel Makepeace. She took one look at Megs and then her eyes flickered over Megs’s shoulder. Immediately a serene social smile was pasted on her face. “Oh, do come inside, my lady,” Mrs. Makepeace said loudly as if Megs were making an unremarkable predawn visit to the home. “Captain Trevillion? Is that you? Oh, sir, your sense of duty is to be commended, but I do feel that you may rest well at your own home now that the day is upon us. Besides”—Isabel’s smile widened until her white teeth shone—“I don’t think a single man, even one so brave as yourself, is much good against the many ruffians of St. Giles.”

Megs turned inside the hall as Mrs. St. John and the footmen crowded beside her and Isabel shut the door. “Did he go?”

“No.” Isabel shook her head, her social smile slipping now they were all out of sight of the dragoon captain. “Captain Trevillion has the most inconvenient stubborn streak. But please don’t let it worry you. He’s been hunting the Ghost of St. Giles for over two years and has yet to lay hands on the man. It’s enough to make even the most serene of gentlemen become bullheaded.”

Isabel’s tone was light, but Megs wasn’t reassured. The dragoon captain knew who Godric was—and as Isabel had noted, he was bullheaded. She shivered. He didn’t seem the type to give up his hunt.

“Where is Godric?” Mrs. St. John interrupted her gloomy thoughts.

“Upstairs.” Isabel immediately turned to lead the way.

Megs followed, afraid to look at her mother-in-law. What must the other woman think? There was no way she could’ve missed the captain’s accusations.

But that worry fled when Isabel tapped at a door at the end of the upstairs corridor. She opened it and Megs saw Godric sitting on the side of the bed, in shirtsleeves and his Ghost leggings. His face was pale and he held his left arm cradled in his lap, but otherwise he seemed alert and unharmed.

Megs felt relief sweep through her.

An elderly woman rose from where she’d been sitting on a nearby chair.

“Thank you, Mistress Medina,” Isabel said as she followed the elderly woman from the room.

The door shut gently behind them.

Megs started toward Godric but was stopped by the harshness of his voice.

“Why,” Godric rasped, “did you bring her here?”

THE PAIN FROM his wrist was nearly overwhelming—sharp, jabbing, even now making the bile back up into his throat. Still, Godric knew his words had been overly harsh. Megs flinched, withdrawing the hand she’d stretched out to him, her beautiful mouth crimping with hurt.

But it was his stepmother who replied. “Please don’t chastise Megs. I insisted on coming here, Godric. You’re hurt and I care for you very much.”

He opened his mouth, pain and irritation driving hot words to his lips, but then he looked at her. She stood before him, this little plump woman, as bravely as a martyr before Roman lions, her chin raised, her warm brown eyes steady but sad at the same time. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t crush the flicker of hope he saw in her face.

Perhaps he simply was too weary.

She took advantage of his weakness, pressing forward. “Let us help you, Godric.”