Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(10)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Oh, Mr. Makepeace.” Lady Margaret caught his hand, smiling brightly, and Godric frowned, feeling a flicker of jealousy—which was completely ridiculous. His wife seemed to smile at everyone brightly. “May I present my sister-in-law and my dear great-aunt?”

Introductions were made. Makepeace inclined his head gravely to each lady rather than making the more usual sweeping bow, but neither Sarah nor Great-Aunt Elvina seemed at all put out.

The manager of the home turned to Godric and the panting pug in his arms, his eyes lit with a gentle amusement. “Who is your companion?”

“Her Grace,” Godric said curtly.

Makepeace blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Godric began to shake his head when a small white terrier came barreling down the hallway. The animal was making a sound rather like a bumblebee, but on sight of Her Grace, the terrier erupted into hysterical barking.

Her Grace yipped back—very shrilly—while both Lady Margaret and Sarah made futile shushing noises, and if Godric wasn’t mistaken, Great-Aunt Elvina aimed a surreptitious kick at the terrier.

Makepeace stepped to the side, opened a door into the sitting room, and cocked an eyebrow. Godric nodded and in a few brisk movements deposited the pug back in Great-Aunt Elvina’s arms and ushered the three ladies into the sitting room where the meeting was being held.

Makepeace shut the door so swiftly the terrier nearly lost her nose. He glanced at Godric. “This way.”

The home’s manager turned toward the staircase at the back of the hall. “Really, that was most inhospitable of you, Dodo.”

The terrier, trotting adoringly by his side, tilted her head, perking up one ear as if listening attentively.

“You’re quite lucky I don’t lock you up in the root cellar.” Makepeace’s voice was calm and reasoned as he chided the dog.

Godric cleared his throat. “Does, er, Dodo always attack visitors?”

“No.” Makepeace shot Godric a sardonic look. “Only canine visitors receive that welcome.”

“Ah.”

“Two new girls came to our home last night,” Makepeace continued as he mounted the wide marble staircase, his tone bone-dry. “Deposited here by the notorious Ghost of St. Giles.”

“Indeed?”

Makepeace flashed him an intelligent glance. “I thought you might like to meet our newest inmates.”

“Naturally.” At least his trip to the home wasn’t without purpose.

“Here we are,” Makepeace said, holding open a door to one of the classrooms.

A glance inside showed rows of girls sitting on benches, dutifully copying something down on their slates. At the far end of one of the rows sat Moll and her elder sister, their heads together. Godric was glad to see them whispering to one another. Chatting seemed to be a uniquely feminine sign of happiness—Lady Margaret talking with the other ladies in the carriage flashed through his mind—and he hoped it meant the girls would settle happily at the home.

“Moll and Janet McNab,” Makepeace said in a low voice. “Moll is too young for this class, but we thought it best not to separate the sisters in their first few days here.” He closed the door and strolled farther along the deserted hall. All the children appeared to be at lessons behind the closed doors. “The girls are orphans. Janet has told me that their father was a night-soil man who met an unfortunate end when one of the mounds of … er … dirt on the outskirts of London fell and buried him.”

Godric winced. “How awful.”

“Quite.” Makepeace paused at the end of the corridor. There were two chairs here, arranged beneath a window, but he made no move to sit. “It seems the McNab sisters were on the streets for nearly a fortnight before they ran afoul of the lassie snatchers.”

“Lassie snatchers,” Godric repeated softly. “I seem to remember that name being bandied about St. Giles awhile back. You dealt with them, didn’t you?”

Makepeace glanced cautiously down the hall before lowering his voice. “Two years ago, the lassie snatchers kidnapped girls off the streets of St. Giles.”

Godric raised his brows. “Why?”

“To make lace stockings in an illegal workshop,” Makepeace said grimly. “The girls were made to work long hours with very little food and with frequent beatings. And they weren’t paid.”

“But the lassie snatchers were stopped.”

Makepeace nodded his head curtly. “I stopped them. Found the workshop and cut off the head of the snake—an aristocrat by the name of Seymour. I haven’t heard of them since.”

Godric narrowed his eyes. “But?”

“But I’ve heard disturbing rumors in the last few weeks.” Makepeace frowned. “Girls disappearing off the streets of St. Giles. Gossip about a hidden workshop manned by little girls. And worse: my wife has found evidence of the lace silk stockings they make being hawked to the upper crust of aristocratic society.”

Isabel Makepeace was still a formidable force in society, despite her marriage to the manager of an orphanage.

Godric said, “Did you kill the wrong man?”

“No.” Makepeace’s look was grim. “Seymour was quite proud of his crime, believe me. He boasted of it before I ended his life. Either someone else has started up an entirely different operation or—”

“Or Seymour wasn’t the only one in the original business,” Godric murmured.

“Either way, someone must find out who is behind the lassie snatchers and stop them. I’m out of the business since my marriage.” Makepeace paused delicately. “I assume that you’re still operating. Although, with your wife now in town—”

“She won’t be for long,” Godric said crisply.

Makepeace arched an eyebrow but was far too discreet to inquire further.

Godric’s lips thinned. “What about the other?”

Makepeace shook his head. “He hunts only one thing in St. Giles; you know that. He’s been monomaniacal for years now.”

Godric nodded. They were all loners, but the third of their bizarre trilogy was near obsessive. He would be no help in this matter.

“It’s up to you alone, I’m afraid,” Makepeace said.

“Very well.” Godric thought a moment. “If Seymour did have a partner, do you have any idea who it might be?”

“It could be anyone, but were I you, I’d begin with Seymour’s friends: Viscount d’Arque and the Earl of Kershaw. All three were as thick as thieves before Seymour’s death.” Makepeace paused and looked at him intently. “But, St. John?”