She flushed, looking away from her brother, the embarrassment and shame so strong she nearly didn’t hear his next words.
“If your lover hadn’t been dead, I would’ve killed him myself.”
She stared at him, her mouth falling open. “Griffin! Roger was a good man, a man I loved, a man who loved me—”
“He seduced my baby sister and got her with child.” Griffin’s green eyes flashed. “I understand you loved him, Megs, but don’t expect me to wax poetic on the man. He should’ve never touched you.”
“We would’ve married had he lived,” she said with dignity, and then more pragmatically, “and you shouldn’t be throwing any stones.”
Griffin’s cheeks turned ruddy at her words. There had been rather a scandal when he’d married Hero—who had originally been betrothed to Thomas. “We stray from the point. You were in pain and you needed a husband. St. John had a spotless reputation, was from an old aristocratic family, and perhaps most importantly, the man has enough money to keep you happy for the rest of your life. I didn’t have much time, but I made the best match I could under the circumstances.”
“And I thank you for it,” Megs said with real warmth. Without Griffin, she would’ve been banished forever from society, a family shame to be kept secret and hidden perhaps until the day of her death. “But that still doesn’t answer my question. Why did Godric marry me? He loved his first wife dearly. I believe had he had his druthers, he wouldn’t have married again at all.”
“But he didn’t have his druthers,” Griffin said softly.
And it came to her in a sudden and rather unwelcome flash as she stared into her brother’s too-intelligent features. “You blackmailed him?”
Griffin winced. “Now, Meggie …”
“Oh, my Lord, Griffin!” She stood, too appalled to sit. “No wonder he …” Doesn’t want to bed me. She stopped abruptly, realizing she was about to say much too much to her perceptive brother. Megs inhaled instead. “What did you blackmail him with? It must be truly terrible for a man to marry when he never wanted to in the first place.”
Griffin’s eyes were narrowed suspiciously, but he replied, “It’s not as terrible as you seem to be thinking.”
“Then what is it?”
But he was already shaking his head as he rose in front of her. “That was part of the bargain: I’d keep his secret to the grave. I can’t tell you, Megs. I suggest if you really want to know, you ask St. John yourself.”
GODRIC PAUSED TO catch his breath across the street from Lord Griffin Reading’s town house. Sarah hadn’t told him until nearly fifteen minutes after Margaret had left the wretched ball that his darling wife intended to ask her bastard of a brother something of import. He’d wasted another ten minutes making sure Sarah and Great-Aunt Elvina had proper escort home, and then he’d left with a muttered and probably ill-believed excuse. He’d hailed a hack back home and then changed into his Ghost costume as a precaution. Who knew where Megs might lead him?
He’d done it badly, his abrupt exit from the ball, but it wasn’t as if he’d had much choice in the matter.
He could think of no reason why Margaret would seek Reading’s counsel so suddenly unless it was to inquire about the circumstances of their marriage.
Damn it. He’d known, deep in his gut, the night he’d found Reading waiting for him in his own study, that giving in to Reading’s demands would come back to bite him in the arse. But what choice had he had? Reading knew. Knew that Godric was the Ghost of St. Giles. The ass had threatened to make public the knowledge, and though something in Godric wanted to tell him to publish and be damned, he’d held back at the thought of St. Giles.
He still ruled the night in St. Giles. There was still a tiny spark inside of him that cared about the people there and the help he could give them. A part that hadn’t died with Clara.
So he’d submitted to the blackmail and married Margaret, and now he’d had the stupidity to all but dare Margaret to ask her brother why.
Did he want her to find out?
The thought brought him up short. Idiot idea. Of course he didn’t.
And he hadn’t a moment more to think on the matter. The front door of Reading’s town house opened and Margaret emerged, briefly haloed by the door’s lanterns. She turned to say something to her brother and then descended the steps, looking the same as ever: maddeningly inquisitive and beautiful in her salmon ball gown and a white and gold short cape tied close at her throat.
Apparently one couldn’t tell just by looking if a woman had learned one’s deepest secret.
Margaret climbed into the carriage and the driver touched the horses with his whip. The convenience rumbled off, but because of the nature of London’s narrow streets, Godric could easily keep up. Jogging behind the carriage, staying in the shadows, he was mostly hidden from others on foot.
Well, except for the night-soil man, who gave a strangled shout and dropped one of his odiferous buckets.
Godric winced as he ran by.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the driver finally pulled the horses to a stop outside Saint House. He should run around back. Be sure to be in his study when she came inside—assuming she went looking for him.
Something made him pause, watching the carriage, waiting like a lovesick schoolboy for the sight of his wife again. The footman descended the carriage and placed the step, opening the door for Margaret. But instead of her emerging, the footman leaned forward as if to catch murmured words from inside. He stepped back and called something to the driver, and then he was remounting the carriage.
Damn it! What was she about?
He watched helplessly as the driver turned the carriage around and rolled away from Saint House.
Godric cursed under his breath and followed, glad now that he was in his Ghost costume. If she were going to meet a lover …
His chest squeezed at the thought. He might be a dog in a manger, as she’d accused him, but he couldn’t let her go to another man. He’d kill the bastard first.
The carriage rumbled through London, heading north and a bit to the west. Toward St. Giles, in fact.
Surely she wouldn’t? Not after being accosted that first night?
God’s balls. She would. The carriage turned into St. Giles like a calf fattened for market, all but bawling its vulnerability and rich, succulent meat.
Godric drew both swords and followed.
MEGS GAZED OUT the window of her carriage. St. Giles was dark and quiet—almost peaceful-looking, though she knew that was deceptive. This was the most violent area of London.
This was where Roger had been stabbed to death two years before. He’d lain here on a cold early spring night and his life had bled away into the filthy channel in the middle of the lane, his precious life’s blood mingling with excrement and worse.
She blinked back the tears in her eyes and inhaled, opening the carriage door.
Oliver started to climb down from the footboard of the carriage, but Megs waved him back. “Stay here.”
“Best ye take him, m’lady,” Tom rumbled worriedly from the high driver’s seat.
“I … I need a moment alone. Please.”
Megs leaned back into the carriage and withdrew one of the pistols from underneath the seat. She hesitated a moment and then took out a small dagger and carefully shoved it up her sleeve. It was mostly ornamental, but it might deter a robber long enough to call Tom and Oliver.
Not that she intended to be waylaid. She wouldn’t go far from the carriage, but she’d been honest with Tom.
She needed a moment alone … with her memories of Roger.
Perhaps it was all the male stubbornness she’d dealt with tonight: Griffin and Godric and even Lord d’Arque in a way—the man had been more interested in flirting with her than wondering why she’d sought him out in the first place. She felt blocked at every turn. Nothing she’d come to London for was working out as she’d hoped.
Especially, in a way, this.
She felt farther from Roger than she ever had before—even as she walked the streets where he’d lived his last moments.
She stopped and looked up and down the empty lane. It was darker than most London streets. The St. Giles merchants and residents either couldn’t afford to light their homes, or they didn’t care to. In either case, the area was dim and shadowed, tall buildings leaning ominously overhead. The sound of something breaking and the clatter of footfalls came from … somewhere. Megs shivered and drew her short cape closer, even though it wasn’t especially cold out tonight. Sound was hard to estimate here. The buildings and small, crooked passageways seemed to echo back whispers and swallow shouts.
This place was haunted by more than Roger’s memory.
Megs turned in a circle. Her carriage was only yards away, a lighted, reassuring presence, but she felt isolated nonetheless.
Why had Roger come here that night?
He didn’t live nearby, hadn’t, as far as she knew, anyone to visit. She had loved him and knew, deep in her heart, that he’d truly loved her in return, but she had no explanation for his last journey.
All she knew, in fact, was that he’d come to St. Giles—and that the Ghost of St. Giles had seen fit to murder him here.
Why? Why Roger of all people?
Megs tried to imagine Roger being held at sword point, deciding to fight back even if mismatched.
She shook her head. Her conjured image was blurry. She couldn’t quite set his features right. When she’d first heard the news of his murder, she’d been sure that he wasn’t the type of man to foolishly provoke a fight with a footpad. Now …
Now she’d lost part of his memory. Lost part of Roger himself. She wasn’t sure she knew who he’d been anymore, and the thought sent panic racing in her chest.
Something moved in the shadows.
She had the pistol grasped in both hands and pointed even before the Ghost of St. Giles stepped from the doorway.
The rage hit her, hot and quick. How dare he? He was sullying ground sacred to her, ground sacred to her memory of Roger.
“You shouldn’t be here, my—”
She fired the pistol … except nothing happened but a sputtering sound and a tiny spark.
Then he was on her, big and hard, wrenching the pistol from her hands and throwing it, clattering, onto the cobblestones, out of reach.
She opened her mouth to shriek her anger, but his hand clamped down on the lower half of her face, his other arm hugging her close, trapping her hands against her sides.
She went insane. Men! All telling her what to do, all unable to give her the simple courtesy of treating her like she mattered. She writhed, trying to elbow him, trying to stamp on his toes, her dancing slippers sliding harmlessly against his jackboots. She twisted, small sounds of frustration and rage pushing against his damned hand. He grunted and staggered, pulling her with him as he half fell into the shadows against a house wall. She tucked her chin into her neck and slammed the top of her head against him, missing his jaw and connecting painfully with his chest, shaking with fury.
“Damn it—” His growl was low.
He didn’t seem affected at all, this murderer, this killer of all she’d ever held dear. She raised her head and glared at him over the top of his hand, daring him to do what he might.
He met her look and his eyes narrowed behind that stupid mask, and then his hand was moving from her mouth, but before she could draw breath, he was slamming his lips over hers and he was …
Kissing her?
Her world whirled sickeningly because he was angry and she was angry and his mouth wasn’t at all gentle, but somehow, despite all of that, or maybe because all of that, she felt it: a stirring. A warmth down below where—
No! This wasn’t right; this wasn’t going to happen, not for this man of all men. She tried to arch her head away, but he had a hand on the back of her neck, holding her there as he opened his mouth against hers, sweetly hot, wrongly enticing, and she bit him. She clamped down on his lower lip, tasting blood, whimpering. She couldn’t take much more of this, couldn’t hold out, but he didn’t pull away. He still held her close against his large, warm, masculine frame and she could feel that part of him now, hard and erect, pushing into her, even through her many skirts, and the feeling was supposed to repulse and scare her.