Lord of Darkness

A small but very rotund fawn pug waddled into the room, glanced perfunctorily at Great-Aunt Elvina, and plopped down onto the rug, rolling immediately to her side. She lay there, panting pathetically, her distended belly rising and falling.

Her Grace’s flair for the dramatic was almost as well honed as her mistress’s.

“This is Her Grace,” Megs hurried to explain to her husband, adding perhaps unnecessarily, “She’s in an interesting way.”

“Indeed,” Godric murmured. “Is the … er … Her Grace quite well? She looks rather worried.”

“Pugs always look worried,” Great-Aunt Elvina pronounced loudly. Her ability to hear came and went with disconcerting irregularity. “She could do with a dish of warm milk with perhaps a spoonful of sherry in it.”

Godric blinked. “Ah … I do apologize, but I don’t believe we have any milk on the premises. As for the sherry …”

“None o’ that neither,” Moulder said with dour satisfaction as he entered the room behind Great-Aunt Elvina. In his arms he carried an array of mismatched teacups.

“Quite,” Godric murmured. “Perhaps if I’d been informed in advance of your arrival …”

“Oh, no need to apologize,” Megs said quickly.

He turned and narrowed his eyes at her. This close she could see the small lines fanning from the corners of his eyes in an altogether alluring way, which made no sense because why would crow’s-feet be alluring?

Megs shook herself mentally and continued. “After all, your house hasn’t had a feminine hand managing it in quite some time. I expect once we employ a new cook and some scullery maids—”

“And a housekeeper and upstairs maids,” Sarah put in.

“Not to mention some footmen,” Great-Aunt Elvina muttered. “Big, strong ones.”

“Well, we did bring Oliver and Johnny and your two footmen,” Megs pointed out.

“They can’t be expected to do all the heavy lifting required to clean this place,” Great-Aunt Elvina said with a frown. “Have you seen the upper floors?”

“Er …” Megs hadn’t in fact explored the upper floors, but if the condition of the rooms they’d slept in last night were any indication … “Best we hire at least half a dozen strapping lads.”

“I doubt I’ll need a veritable army to run Saint House,” her husband said in a dry tone, “especially after you all leave, which will, I’m sure, be soon.”

“What?” barked Great-Aunt Elvina, cupping her hand behind her ear.

Megs held up a finger to interrupt because a thought had occurred to her. She addressed Moulder. “Surely you have some help running the house?”

“There was a couple o’ strong lads and some maids, but they left awhile back, one by one, like, and we just never hired others.” Moulder cast his eyes up as if to address the spiders lurking in the cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. “Did have a girl name o’ Tilly, m’lady, but she got in the family way ’bout a month back—not my fault.”

All eyes swung toward Godric.

He raised his brows in what looked like mild exasperation. “Nor mine.”

Thank goodness. Megs returned her gaze to Moulder, very aware of her husband glowering at her shoulder.

The butler shrugged. “Tilly up and left not long after. Think she was chasin’ the butcher’s apprentice. Maybe he was the father. Or it might’ve been the tinker what used to come ’round the kitchen door.”

For a moment there was silence as they all contemplated the mystery of Tilly’s baby’s paternity.

Then Godric cleared his throat. “How long, exactly, were you planning on staying in London, Margaret?”

Megs smiled brilliantly, even though she’d never really liked her full name—especially when it was drawled in a gravelly voice that seemed somehow ominous—for she really didn’t want to answer the question. “Oh, I don’t like to make plans. It’s so much more fun to simply let matters take their own course, don’t you think?”

“Actually I don’t—”

Good Lord, the man was persistent! She turned hastily to Moulder. “Then you’ve been managing the house all by yourself?”

Moulder’s great shaggy brows knit, causing a myriad of wrinkles to form in his forehead and around his hangdog eyes. He was the very picture of martyrdom. “I have, m’lady. You have no idea the work—the terrible job ’tis!—to keep up a house such as this. Why, me health is much the worse for it.”

Godric muttered something, the only words of which Megs caught were “laying it on thick.”

She ignored her husband. “I really must thank you, Moulder, for taking care of Mr. St. John so loyally, despite the toil involved.”

Moulder blushed. “Aw, it weren’t nothin’, m’lady.”

Godric snorted loudly.

Megs hastily said, “Yes, well, I’m sure now that I’m in residence, we’ll have the house in order in no time.”

“And exactly how long will it take to—” Godric began.

“Oh, look at the time!” Megs said, squinting at a small clock on the fireplace mantel. It was hard to tell if it still ran, but no matter. “We must be going or we’ll be late to the meeting of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children.”

Sarah looked interested. “At the orphanage in St. Giles you told us about?”

Megs nodded.

Great-Aunt Elvina glanced up from trying to tempt Her Grace with a bit of toast. “What is it?”

“The Ladies’ Syndicate meeting at the orphanage,” Megs said in a sort of muted shout. “It’s time we go there.”

“Good,” Great-Aunt Elvina pronounced, stooping to pick up Her Grace. “With any luck, they’ll have some tea and refreshments at the meeting.”

“That’s settled, then.”

Megs finally turned to look at her husband. His face was rather stern and she was suddenly aware that he’d been watching her.

He glanced away now, though. “I suppose you’ll all return for supper, then.”

His tone was lifeless, nearly bored.

Something inside her rebelled. He’d taken her invasion into his home and their plans to hire new servants and clean up his ratty old house without turning a hair.

She wanted to see him turn a hair.

And, more importantly, she reminded herself: baby. “Oh, no,” she purred, “I expect you’ll see us again in ten minutes.”

He turned slowly back to her, his eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

She opened her eyes wide. “You are coming with us, aren’t you?”

“I believe it’s a ladies’ syndicate,” he said, but there was a whisper of uncertainty in his tone.

“I’d like your company.” She let the tip of her tongue nudge the corner of her mouth.

And there—finally!—she saw it. His gaze flickered oh so briefly to her mouth.

Megs had to bite back a grin as he said with surly suspicion, “If you wish.”

GODRIC SAT IN the carriage watching Lady Margaret with what he very much feared was a brooding air. He wasn’t entirely certain how he’d come to be here. Usually at this time of day he’d be at his favorite coffeehouse engrossed in newspapers or barricaded in his study perusing his latest classical tome. Except that wasn’t quite right. It’d been weeks since he’d lingered at Basham’s Coffeehouse and longer still since he’d found the energy to read his favorite books.

More often he’d found himself simply staring at the damp walls of his study.

And yet today his whirlwind of a wife had persuaded him to accompany her on a social call.

He narrowed his eyes. If he weren’t a man of reason and learning, he might suspect some type of sorcery. His wife sat across from him, talking animatedly with her great-aunt next to her and Sarah, who was beside Godric. Lady Margaret was very careful to avoid his eye as she kept up a running stream of chatter about London and the history of this ladies’ syndicate.

His wife’s cheeks were lightly flushed with her excitement, making her dark eyes sparkle. A curling strand of hair had already escaped her coiffure and now bobbed seductively against her temple, as if to tempt some unwary male to try to contain it.

Godric pressed his lips together and faced the window.

Perhaps his wife had a lover.

The thought was not a pleasant one, but why else would such a vivacious girl seek his company except that she had a secret lover in London? It hadn’t occurred to him before that his absent wife might take a lover, but after all, was it such a strange thought? She was no virgin and he’d never attempted to consummate their marriage. Just because he was resigned to a solitary, celibate life didn’t mean she was. Lady Margaret was a young, beautiful woman. A woman of high spirits, if this morning was anything to go by. Such a lady might even have more than one lover.

But no. Godric’s sense of logic broke through his melancholy thoughts. If she had a lover, surely he would reside near Godric’s country estate. After all, Lady Margaret had left Laurelwood Manor only a few times in the last two years—and then only to visit her family. She must have some other reason for suddenly descending on him.

“Here we are at last,” his wife exclaimed.

Godric glanced out the window and saw that the carriage was indeed drawing up outside the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children. The building was only a couple of years old, a clean, neat edifice several stories high and taking up most of Maiden Lane. The bright brick stood out, fresh and new, against the other, older and destitute buildings in St. Giles.

Godric waited until Lady Margaret’s footman had set the step and then jumped down to help the ladies. Great-Aunt Elvina rose precariously. The lady was at least seventy, and although she disdained the use of a cane, Godric had noticed that she was at times unsteady on her feet. She held her pregnant pug in her arms, and Godric swiftly realized he would have to do the gentlemanly thing.

“If I might take Her Grace,” he enunciated into her ear.

The elderly lady shot him a grateful glance. “Thank you, Mr. St. John.”

Godric gingerly took the warm, panting little body, pretending not to notice when the animal drooled on his sleeve. He held out his free hand to Great-Aunt Elvina.

The lady descended, then frowned, glancing around. “What a very disreputable area this is.” She brightened. “Won’t dear Lady Cambridge be scandalized when I write her about it!”

Still holding the pug, Godric helped Sarah out and then took Lady Margaret’s hand, warm, trembling, and alive, in his. She kept her gaze lowered as she stepped from the carriage, the curl of hair bobbing gently against her face. The scent of something sweet lingered in the air. She made a show of shaking out her skirts when she stood on the cobblestones.

Damn it, she wasn’t looking at him. On impulse, he reached out and took that wayward tendril between thumb and forefinger, firmly tucking it behind her ear.

She glanced up, her lips parted, so near he could see the swirls of gold in her pretty brown eyes, and he suddenly identified her scent: orange blossoms.

Her voice was breathless when she spoke. “Thank you.”

His jaw flexed. “Not at all.”

Godric turned and mounted the steps to the home, knocking briskly.

The door was opened almost at once by a butler who looked haughty enough to be attending a royal palace rather than an orphanage in St. Giles.

Godric nodded to the man as he entered. “My wife and her friends are here for the Ladies’ Syndicate meeting. I wonder if Makepeace is about?”

“Certainly, sir,” the butler intoned. He took hats and gloves from the ladies as they entered in a flurry of skirts and chatter behind Godric. “I’ll fetch Mr. Makepeace.”