Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(87)

When she made the outer hallway, she paused by Charon and gave him all the money she had within her purse—an embarrassingly paltry amount, but it would have to do. Hopefully it would be enough for the guards to remember to feed him, to empty his slops, and to not beat him to death when his wit became too much for them to bear.

She glanced over Charon’s head at the sign that hung above the locked door at his back: Incurable.

Every time she saw it, her heart beat with equal parts rage and fear. Incurable. It might as well be a death sentence for her beloved twin brother, Apollo: the incurably insane never left Bethlem Royal Hospital.

Otherwise known as Bedlam.

WHEN THE DOCTOR arrived two hours after their lovemaking, Megs insisted on staying in the room while he examined Godric. The men seemed to find this an odd behavior. Godric exchanged a wary look with Moulder, while the doctor tutted under his breath, muttering in French. Megs wanted to roll her eyes. None of the ladies of the house thought her strange to stay with her injured husband to see if he’d ever use his left arm again. She nearly choked on another wave of fear, grief, and anger, and had to turn away from the sight of the doctor probing at Godric’s arm. He’d already taken apart the original bandage on Godric’s right arm, prodded the long, shallow cut, pronounced it trifling, and rebandaged the arm.

Megs glared when Godric shot her a triumphant glance.

She went to the window now and stared blindly out at the late-morning sun. Stupid men. Stupid, brave, foolhardy men who thought nothing of risking their lives by going into the worst part of St. Giles and seeking out danger. She raised her fisted hand to her mouth and bit down hard on her knuckle.

Sometimes losing their lives.

She couldn’t bear another man lost to her. She’d go mad.

The doctor gave a loud grunt behind her. “Very ill-advised, sir, to take the splint from your arm so soon. I cannot tell you how lucky you are not to have broken the wrist again.”

Megs turned to find the doctor standing over a stoic-faced Godric, carefully rebinding his arm.

“It’s not rebroken?” she asked.

“No,” the doctor muttered. “But there will be swelling from where Mr. St. John … er … fell on it.” That had been the tale they’d told the man—despite the ridiculousness of that long cut coming from anything but a sword.

She blew a breath out in relief. “And will it heal properly?”

He gave a Gallic shrug. “Perhaps. Certainly not if Mr. St. John abuses it further.”

“I shall make certain he does not, then,” Megs said determinedly, ignoring the wry look Godric sent her.

The doctor fussed for another five minutes, by which time Godric was leaning back in his bed, obviously quite tired. Megs saw the doctor to the bedroom door and then returned to the bed where she was exasperated to find Godric struggling upright.

“What are you doing?”

He glanced up, his brows drawn together. “Rising.”

“No,” she said, placing a hand on his chest and pushing down, “you are not. The doctor specified rest if that wrist is to heal.”

He blinked up at her, a faint trace of amusement flashing in his eyes. She hadn’t exactly let him rest when he’d first returned home. Heat rose in her cheeks.

But he replied gently, “Yes, my lady.”

She eyed him suspiciously, but he had lain back down, his body relaxed. He really did look quite exhausted.

Her heart contracted painfully.

“Go to sleep,” she whispered, softly touching the bandages on his right arm. When had he come to mean so much to her?

He closed his eyes, turned his head, and kissed her finger.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat. The only chair in the room was the one by the desk, so she took it and moved it closer to the bed, ignoring Moulder’s look. Then she sat and watched Godric sleep.

It may’ve been minutes or hours later when a gentle tap came at the bedroom door. It had been left cracked so that Her Grace could come and go as she pleased. Megs looked up to see Mrs. Crumb beckoning her.

She glanced back at the bed, but Godric lay in deep slumber, so she rose and followed the housekeeper out of the room.

“Pardon me, my lady,” Mrs. Crumb said in a low voice, “but there is a caller and he insists on speaking to either you or Mr. St. John.”

Megs’s brows rose. “Who is it?”

“Lord d’Arque.”

For a moment she blinked, confused, before realization flooded her: He must’ve come about Roger and his murder. She followed the housekeeper down the stairs, feeling an odd sort of guilt at leaving Godric. But this was part of the reason why she’d come all the way to London, wasn’t it? If she could find out more about Roger’s murder, then she’d be that much closer to avenging him.

And leaving Godric.

The thought made her nearly stumble.

It wasn’t until they made the first-floor hallway and the housekeeper indicated that Lord d’Arque was waiting in the library that she remembered Godric’s dislike of the viscount. Even if her husband had been polite to the other man at the theater, it didn’t mean he would approve of a private tête-à-tête with the man.

She looked at the housekeeper. “Will you ask Miss Sarah St. John to come here, please?”

“Yes, my lady.”

She waited while Mrs. Crumb mounted the stairs, waited a moment more, took a deep breath, and entered the library.