Lord of Darkness
She grinned at him, her mood lightening. “This is my prize, and I hope you’re properly appreciative of the efforts I’ve made to procure it.”
She drew out a fabulously quilted gentleman’s banyan in dark red.
He blinked at it a moment and then threw back his head, roaring with laughter. “I’ll look like a veritable Indian prince in that thing.”
She pursed her lips, trying to look stern. “It’s a castoff from Uncle and it’ll keep you warm at night. Here, try it on.”
Artemis helped him into the banyan and was pleased to see that while it was a tight fit across the shoulders, he was able to nearly pull it closed in front. He leaned back against the grimy stone of the chamber walls, and he did indeed look like an Indian prince.
If Indian princes had bruised faces and sat on straw.
After that, he insisted on sharing some of the food she’d brought, so they had something of a picnic. And if the sounds of shouted swearing filled the air at one point, counterbalanced by loud weeping, well, they both made a show of ignoring it.
All too soon, she knew she must leave. Penelope wanted to go shopping today, and Artemis would be needed to carry parcels and keep track of where they went and what her cousin bought.
She was quiet as she fussed with her basket, hating to leave him alone in this place.
“Come,” he said softly as her lip began to tremble. “Don’t carry on so. You know how I hate to see you sad.”
So she smiled for him and gave him a hug that lasted just a bit too long and then she left that horrible chamber without another word. Both she and he knew that she’d come again when she could—most probably not until another sennight had passed.
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.”
And leaving Godric.
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.
Lord d’Arque was examining a bookcase on the far side of the room, but he turned at her entrance and crossed to her.
“My lady.” He bent over her hand but didn’t touch it with his lips. When he straightened, she saw that he was grave.
Strange. She didn’t know him at all well, but whenever she’d seen him previously, he’d almost always been smiling wickedly.
Almost as if his smile were his armor.
“My lord,” she replied. “What brings you to my home?”
He looked doubtfully at her. “I had hoped to speak to your husband.”
“I fear he is indisposed.”
He blinked, appearing to consider the matter before saying, “I came about Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”
She nodded, having braced herself for the name.
Behind her, the door to the library opened again and Sarah came in. “Megs?”
“Oh, there you are,” Megs said lightly. “I can’t remember. Have you met Lord d’Arque?”
“I don’t believe so,” Sarah said, coming nearer.
“A terrible oversight on my part,” Lord d’Arque drawled.
Megs turned. Ah, there it was. His crooked smirk was in place. Beside her, Megs felt Sarah stiffen. Her sister-in-law had decided opinions on rakes.
“My lord, may I introduce my dear sister-in-law, Miss Sarah St. John?” Megs said formally. “Sarah, this is Viscount d’Arque.”
“I am entirely enchanted to meet you, Miss St. John,” the viscount said with smooth charm. “I confess your exquisite beauty dazzles my eyes.”
“That sounds inconvenient,” Sarah murmured as Lord d’Arque straightened. “Let’s hope you can see well enough not to bump into the furniture.”
Lord d’Arque arched an amused brow, but before he could say something awful, Megs broke in.
“Shall we adjourn to the garden?” That would be quite proper. She should be able to talk to Lord d’Arque out of earshot of Sarah but still be within sight. “We’ve made several new plantings and I’m sure you’ll be pleased, my lord, to see them.”
She had no idea if the viscount was at all interested in gardening, but he murmured an assent.
Sarah arched a brow but merely said, “That sounds lovely. Shall I fetch our hats?”
Megs smiled at her. “Please.”
When she turned back around, Lord d’Arque was solemn again, but he didn’t mention Roger. They talked of inconsequential things until Sarah once again returned, a wide straw hat on her head and one in her hand. Megs thanked her and they all three proceeded to the garden. They strolled for a bit with Megs babbling about crocuses and forget-me-nots before Sarah cast her an odd look and declared that she wished to sit for a while. She sank onto one of the marble benches near the house—recently cleaned by the little maids—and gazed discreetly toward the river wall.
“Perhaps you can give me an opinion on my fruit tree,” Megs said as she and the viscount strolled in that direction.
Lord d’Arque glanced disinterestedly at the tree. “It looks dead.” He stopped. “My lady, you once asked about my friend Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”
“Yes.” She focused on the tree, searching out the tiny buds. It wasn’t dead—quite the contrary.
“I think,” the viscount said, “that you may have had a … close friendship with Roger.”
She looked at him. He was watching her frankly, and she could see a deep pain in his eyes. She made an impulsive decision. “I loved him and he loved me.”
He bowed his head. “I’m glad he found you before his death.”
Her eyes pricked and she blinked rapidly. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “I’ve been thinking the matter over since I talked to your husband at the theater. I wonder if perhaps we pooled our knowledge of his last movements, we might, between us, discover how he came to be killed—and who did it.”
She took a deep breath, once again looking at the tree. “The last time I saw him, Roger had proposed to me.”
His head jerked in surprise. “You were engaged?”
“Yes.”
“But why didn’t you tell anyone?”
She ran a finger over the gnarled branch of the old tree. “It was a secret—he hadn’t yet asked my elder brother for my hand. Roger wanted to prove himself, I think. He talked about a business proposition, one that would make enough money that he could ask for my hand properly.”
Lord d’Arque made a quiet exclamation.
She glanced at him curiously. “What is it?”
“About six months before Roger died, I was asked by a friend of ours if I wanted to take part in a business venture. One that he assured me would make lots of money.”