Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(61)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Suddenly it was too much. Her eyes overflowed, the tears coursing down her cheeks.

“Megs?” Mrs. St. John stepped forward, pulling Megs close and framing her face with her palms. “What has happened? You must tell me.”

“Godric is in St. Giles. I’ve been sent word to go to him. He’s hurt.”

For a moment her mother-in-law simply looked at her, and Megs saw each and every line that had folded itself into the older woman’s face. All the sorrows she’d borne. All the disappointments.

Then Mrs. St. John nodded decisively and turned quickly to the door. “I’ll just be three minutes. Nothing more. Wait for me.”

Megs blinked, bewildered. “What are you doing?”

Mrs. St. John glanced over her shoulder, her face firm and strong. “I’m his mother. I’m coming with you.”

And she was gone.

Megs blinked, but she was far too worried to contend with trying to talk Mrs. St. John out of going to St. Giles. If Godric found fault with his stepmother discovering the truth about his secret life, then Megs would deal with the problem later.

Pray she had a problem to deal with later. Pray he wasn’t dying at this very moment.

Megs dashed at the tears on her cheeks and scuffed on her slippers. She hadn’t time for this. Every particle of her body was urging her forward, spurring her to go to Godric’s side. She wasn’t sure she could wait for Mrs. St. John.

But when she made the hallway below, her mother-in-law stood by the door, already waiting. The older woman was pale, her face sagging as if she braced herself for some terrible news, but she straightened and nodded as Megs came down the stairs.

There didn’t seem to be anything to say. They stepped into the chill dark, walking briskly to the carriage. It was so early there was no light in the sky, not even the hint of dawn’s welcome succor from the blackness of night.

She was glad to see both Oliver and Johnny standing on the running board behind the carriage, and then Megs climbed in with Mrs. St. John and the fear crowded close. What would she do if he were unconscious? If he’d sustained permanent injury?

She recognized then the awful thing trying to burrow itself into her chest: the same hopeless regret she’d felt on the night of Roger’s death. Her breast tightened and blackness swam before her eyes. She couldn’t do this again. Couldn’t lose another so close to her. He wasn’t Roger, she tried to tell herself. He wasn’t her true love. But her heart didn’t seem able to tell the difference. The panic was real—maroon edged with mud-green—twisting, twisting inside of her, making her feel nauseous.

I can’t. I can’t.

“You will survive.” Mrs. St. John’s voice was sharper than Megs had ever heard it.

The black receded enough to let Megs see her mother-in-law’s face. Mrs. St. John was stern, the comfortable softness taking on a strength she’d never guessed was in the older woman. And she remembered: Mrs. St. John had lost a beloved husband. Had known sorrow and still lived.

“Listen to me,” her mother-in-law said in a no-nonsense voice. “Whatever we find, you must be like iron. He will need you and you must not let him down.”

“Yes.” Megs nodded shakily. “Yes, of course.”

Mrs. St. John gave her one more sharp look as if judging her mettle, and then nodded and sat back. They made the rest of the hellishly long drive in silence.

The lane in front of the home was narrow, and thus they were forced to halt the carriage at the far end. Megs clutched the soft bag holding Godric’s clothes and descended with Mrs. St. John. She was comforted when Oliver and Johnny came to stand beside them, each of the footmen holding a pistol.

She glanced up at Tom. “Will you be all right by yourself?”

“Aye,” the coachman said grimly. He brandished a pair of pistols. “Doubt anyone will bother me.”

Megs nodded and turned, hurrying down Maiden Lane to the home. Two lanterns hung to either side of the home’s front door and she was so focused on their beckoning light that she never even noticed the tall man who separated himself from the shadows until Oliver gave a warning cry.

Captain James Trevillion raised his hands with insulting indifference. “Surely you’ll not have your man shoot a soldier of the Crown, my lady?”

“Of course not,” Megs said, eyes narrowing. What was the dragoon doing lurking outside the home? She glanced at her mother-in-law and was relieved to see that the older woman was watching her warily but was smart enough not to say anything. “But you must admit it’s not wise to startle an armed guard in St. Giles.”

“Naturally one can’t be too cautious.” A corner of the dragoon captain’s rather cruel mouth twitched in something that definitely wasn’t a smile. “Especially when the Ghost of St. Giles was seen this very night.”

“That’s none of my business.”

“Isn’t it?” Captain Trevillion stepped closer, despite Oliver’s growl. “The Ghost went to ground near here.” The captain turned and looked speculatively at the home.

Megs sucked in a breath, tilting her chin. “Let us pass.”

Something darkened in the dragoon captain’s pale blue eyes. “You are well esteemed, my lady, by everyone who knows you. Had I not seen it myself, I would not credit that you would shield a murderer such as your husband.”

Megs heard the sharp gasp her mother-in-law made beside her. She couldn’t turn to give the older woman a warning look—she was too busy staring the dragoon captain down. He’d come right out and accused Godric of being the Ghost of St. Giles. She shouldn’t show fear, shouldn’t show any emotion at all.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, half surprised that her voice emerged evenly.

“Don’t you?” The captain’s thin lips twisted. “Your husband may be an aristocrat, but he isn’t a peer, my lady. Sooner or later I’ll catch him in disguise as the Ghost, and when I do, I’ll see him kicking up his heels at Tyburn.”

Her chin jerked at his blunt words.

The dragoon spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Please, my lady. Much better for you to disown Mr. St. John before his disgrace. You can retire quietly to the country and never be witness to the shame of having married a murderer.”

She couldn’t help but flinch at the last, awful word. He was right. Godric had murdered—had confessed he didn’t even know how many he’d killed—and she hated it. But that didn’t mean that she hated the man himself.