Damn it! Godric leaped for the man, catching his arm before he could lay hand on the pistol, and yanked hard. The dragoon half fell over the side of the saddle. His horse shied violently at the shift in weight, and the man tumbled to the ground.
Godric turned to the first dragoon in time to parry a sword thrust aimed at his head. He was at a disadvantage on the ground, but he was in no mood to retreat. He swung at the mounted man, missed, and only just in time saw the flicker of the other man’s eyes.
Or perhaps it wasn’t quite in time.
The blow from behind knocked him to his knees. His head spun dizzily, but his mood was foul. Godric twisted and embraced his attacker’s legs, toppling the dragoon. He swarmed up the other man’s supine form, straddling him, and—
God fucking damn!
The dragoon really shouldn’t have kneed him in the bollocks.
Godric sucked in a pained breath, reared over the soldier, and slammed his fist into the man’s face. Over and over again. The smack of bare flesh on flesh savagely satisfying in the dark alley. Behind him, the other dragoon was shouting something and the horse’s hooves were clattering dangerously close to where they were sprawled, but Godric just didn’t give a damn.
Only the sound of more horses nearing made Godric stop. He stared at the man beneath him. The dragoon’s eyes were swollen and his lips split and bleeding, but he was alive and still struggling.
Thank God.
He was up and running in less than a second, the horses close behind him. A barrel at the corner of a house gave him a leg up and then he was climbing the side of the house, toes and fingertips straining for holds before he reached the rooftop.
A shout came from below, but he didn’t take the time to look back, simply fleeing over the roof, loose tiles sliding and crashing to the street below. He ran, the blood pumping in his chest, and didn’t stop until he was nearly a half-mile away.
Only then, as he leaned panting against a chimney, did he realize he was still being followed.
Godric drew his short sword, watching as the slim shape cautiously made the ridge of the roof and nimbly began climbing down. He waited until the lad came abreast of him. Godric grabbed him by the collar, arching his head back, laying the short sword on the bared neck.
“Why are you following me?”
Quick, intelligent eyes flashed to his, but the boy made no move to free himself. “Digger Jack said as ’ow you’d be wantin’ information ’bout the lassie snatchers.”
“And?”
The wide mouth curved without mirth. “I’m one o’ ’em.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER Godric watched as the boy stuffed his face with tea and lavishly buttered bread. He’d revised his estimation of the former lassie snatcher’s age downward. When he’d first seen the boy, Godric had thought him a young man, but that was because he had the height of a grown man. Now, sitting in the kitchens of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, he saw the boy’s soft cheeks, the slim neck, and gentle lines of his jaw. He couldn’t be older than fifteen at the most.
His brown hair was clubbed back with a ragged bit of string, strands falling out and around his oval face. He wore a greasy waistcoat and a coat several sizes too big for him and a floppy hat pulled low over his brow, which he hadn’t bothered removing even when inside. His wrists were thin and rather delicate and the nails on both hands were rimmed with grime.
The boy caught him staring and jerked his chin up defiantly, the corners of his mouth wet with milky tea. “Wha’?”
Winter Makepeace, sitting beside Godric, stirred. “What is your name?”
The boy shrugged and, apparently sensing no immediate threat, turned his attention to the plate of bread before him. “Alf.”
He spooned out a huge blob of strawberry jam from an earthen jar, plopping it on a slice of already buttered bread, and folded the bread around the gooey middle. Then he shoved half of the bread into his mouth.
Godric exchanged glances with Winter. It had taken quite a bit of persuasion—as well as a threat or two—before he’d been able to get Alf into the home. Godric daren’t remain outside in St. Giles while the dragoons were abroad, and he certainly wasn’t about to take a strange lad back to his own house.
Especially when the lad was an admitted lassie snatcher.
“How long have you been employed by the lassie snatchers?” Winter asked in his deep, calm voice.
Alf gulped and washed down his bread with a long drag of tea. “’Bout a month, but I don’ work for them arse’oles no more.”
Winter refilled his teacup without comment, but Godric was less forbearing. “You led me to believe you were a lassie snatcher now.”
Alf stopped chewing and looked up, his eyes narrowed. “An’ I’m the best yer gonna get. Ain’t none o’ them ’oo’s lassie snatchers now gonna talk to yer. Best settle for me.”
Winter caught Godric’s eye and shook his head slightly.
Godric sighed. He was finding it difficult to quiz this youth while keeping his own voice to a whisper so it might not be recognized in the future. Besides, Winter had far more experience with boys.
Even difficult ones.
“How did you become a lassie snatcher?” Winter asked now. He reached for the loaf of bread and sawed off two more slices.
Godric raised his eyebrows. Alf had already eaten half the loaf.
“Word gets ’round,” Alf said as he started smearing large lumps of butter on his bread. “They like to work in teams, like, a bloke an’ a lad. Knew one o’ their snatcher lads ’oo got run over by a dray cart. Busted ’is ’ead an’ were dead in a day. So there were an openin’ like. Pay was good.” He paused to take a slurping gulp of tea before covering the bread with jam. “Job was fine.”
“Then why are you no longer employed as a lassie snatcher?” Winter asked neutrally.
Alf’s bread was all ready, jam running out of the pinched sides, but he just stared at it. “It were one o’ the young ones, name o’ Hannah. ’Ad ginger ’air, she did. Not more’n five or so. Chattered a lot, like, wasn’t afraid o’ me or nothin’, even though ’er auntie ’ad sold ’er to us. Me an’ Sam took ’er to the workshop and she seemed fine enough. …”
“Fine?” Godric growled low. “They work those girls, beat them, and hardly feed them.”
“There’re worse.” Alf’s words were defiant, but he wouldn’t meet Godric’s eyes. “Bawdy ’ouses, beggars what’ll blind a babe to make ’er more pathetic.”
Winter shot Godric a quelling look. “What happened to Hannah, Alf?”
“Just it, innit?” Alf dug his dirty fingers into the folded bread until red jam oozed out. “She weren’t there next time I come by. They wouldn’t tell me what ’ad ’appened to ’er. She were just … gone.” Alf looked up then, his eyes angry and wet. “Stopped it then, didn’t I? Ain’t gonna be part o’ ’urting wee little lassies.”
“That was very brave of you,” Winter said softly. “I would think the lassie snatchers would not be pleased by a defection.”
Alf snorted, finally picking up his messy bread and jam. “Don’t know ’xactly what defection is, but they’d be glad enough to see me put to bed wif a shovel.”
“Tell us where they are, who they are, and we’ll solve the problem for you,” Godric growled.
“Ain’t just one place,” Alf said, speaking seriously. “There’s three workshops I knows of, and prolly more’n that.”
“Three?” Winter breathed. “How could we not have known?”
“Sly ones, ain’t they?” Alf shoved the bread into his mouth and for a moment was mute as he chewed. Then he swallowed. “Best do it at night. They’ve guards, but everyone’s sleepier at night. I can show you.”
“We’ll have to move fast,” Godric said, looking at Winter and receiving a nod. “Can you show me tomorrow night?”
“Aye.” Alf took the rest of the cut bread and shoved it into a pocket of his coat. “Best be off, then, ’adn’t I, afore ’tis light
out.”
“You’re more than welcome to stay here,” Winter offered.
Alf shook his head. “Kind o’ you, but I don’t like staying in such a big place.”
Godric frowned. “Will you be safe?”
Alf cocked his head, smiling cynically. “Worried I won’t be back tomorrow? Nah, no one’s can catch me if’n I don’t want. Ta for the tea.”
And he was gone out the kitchen door.
“Damn it, I should follow him,” Godric muttered.
But Winter shook his head. “We don’t want to scare him off. Besides, I saw the dragoons in the back alley earlier.”
Godric swore. “They followed me.” That would make getting home more difficult than usual. He looked at Winter. “Do you really think the boy’s safe until tomorrow?”
Winter shrugged as he put away the bread. “It’s out of our hands now.”
And Godric supposed he’d have to be content with that knowledge until tomorrow night.
THE SOUND OF male voices outside her window woke Megs from a restless slumber. She blinked sleepily, glancing about her bedroom. It was light, but so early Daniels hadn’t yet come to wake her and help dress her.
Megs rose and wandered to the window, parting the curtains to look down on the courtyard. Godric stood, wrapped in a cloak, talking to a man in a tricorne. Megs stared. There was something about the other man, something about the way Godric stood so stiffly that made her uneasy.
Then the man in the tricorne looked up at the house and Megs gasped.
It was Captain Trevillion.
As she watched, his hand shot out suddenly, wrenching Godric’s cloak open.
She whirled and found her wrapper, pulling it on as she ran from the room and down the stairs, her heart in her throat. Would Godric’s costume be enough for the dragoon captain to arrest him?
But when she tumbled breathlessly into the entry hall, her husband was closing the door behind him as serenely as if he’d just returned from a chat with the king.
“Godric!” she hissed.
He looked up and she froze.
It was subtle, but she could read the signs now—his mouth thin and tense, his eyes a little narrowed. He wasn’t serene, not really. He looked both tired and angry.
She didn’t remember descending the rest of the stairs, only her hands rising toward his face, wanting to give comfort.
His own hands blocked hers.
She blinked, focusing on his eyes, and saw that he stared at her blankly.
He hadn’t forgiven her for the night before, then.
“What happened in St. Giles?” she asked in a small voice. She wanted so badly to touch him, to make sure he was whole and well. “Why did Captain Trevillion let you go?”
“Godric.” Mrs. St. John’s surprised voice came from the stairs and Megs turned to see that both she and all three of Godric’s sisters stood there.
Moulder appeared from somewhere. “Sir?”
“Why is everyone up so early?” Godric muttered.
“Have you been out?” Sarah asked quietly.
“None of your business,” her brother said flatly, walking toward the back of the house.
“But—” his stepmother started.
“Don’t question me,” he growled without looking back, and disappeared down the hall.
Mrs. St. John looked helplessly at Megs, her eyes shining with tears.
“I’ll talk to him,” Megs said with all the reassurance she could muster before hurrying after Godric.
If it weren’t for her mother-in-law and those tears, she would never have dared beard him again this soon after the disaster of last night. She’d hurt him badly, and he’d already made it clear he didn’t want her nearby.
Well, he’d just have to put up with her anyway.
She opened the door to his study without bothering to knock.
Inside, Godric was pouring himself a glass of brandy and talking to Moulder. “The usual place. Make sure you’re not followed.”
“Yes, sir.” Moulder looked relieved to scurry from the room.
Megs closed the door behind him and cleared her throat.
“Go away,” Godric growled at her, tossing back half his glass of liquid.
Megs winced. He truly was a bear bearded in his den.
She took a deep breath. “No. I’m your wife.”
He cocked his head, his beautiful lips curled. “Are you?”
Her face flamed. “Yes.”
Godric looked away then, as if losing interest in her. He shrugged off his cloak and coat, moving stiffly.
Megs blinked. Beneath the cloak Godric was wearing a sedate brown suit, not a trace of harlequin motley anywhere. He pressed his fingers against a panel next to the fireplace. The panel sprang open, revealing a hidden cupboard behind it. She watched as he took his short sword from an inner pocket in his cloak and stowed it in the secret cupboard.
She ventured a little farther into the room. “Did Captain Trevillion follow you?”
“Yes.” He hissed under his breath as he gingerly pulled his shirt over his head and she inhaled. His wound had reopened, a sluggish trail of blood dripping down his broad back. “From St. Giles. He’s very good, actually. Several times I wasn’t sure he was even there behind me.”
She picked up his shirt and started to tear a strip from the tail—it was ruined by the blood anyway. “I’m so glad you didn’t wear your Ghost costume last night.”
“But I did.”
Her hands froze on his shirt, staring at his crystal gray eyes. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged and then winced. “I knew he was following me and would no doubt take the opportunity to confront me if I led him home. Fortunately I made provisions for just such an eventuality years ago. I left a set of clothes in the care of an old widow. It was only a moment to duck into her crowded tenement and exchange the Ghost’s costume for my hidden clothes. Actually,” he said thoughtfully as he stared into his glass, “it’s rather a miracle Trevillion didn’t lose my trail in the tenement. But then again, I did say he was good.”
“I’m so glad you admire him.” Megs tore a strip from his shirt with a rather violent motion. She wadded the linen and dipped it unceremoniously into his brandy glass.
“That’s good French brandy,” Godric said mildly.
“And your back is good English flesh,” she retorted rather nonsensically before pressing the wet cloth against the cut.
He grunted.
“Oh, Godric.” She dabbed with tender care at his hot skin, her fingers trembling. “What happened last night?”
He shot a look over his shoulder at her, his eyes glittering, and for a moment she thought he’d say something they’d both regret. “I questioned the owner of a tavern on your behalf.”
“And?”
His jaw tightened. “I learned very little, I’m afraid. The footman who reported Fraser-Burnsby’s death is thought to be dead himself.”
Her hand stilled on him. “Killed?”
He shook his head. “Perhaps. I simply don’t know. But it’s certainly suspicious that the only witness disappeared and then presumably met his death soon after Fraser-Burnsby was murdered.”
His wound had ceased bleeding and the blood was cleaned from his back. Still she pressed the cloth carefully to his skin, loath, somehow, to stop touching him. “Where do we go from here?”
“The footman must have family or friends.” Godric frowned. “If nothing else, I can ask d’Arque again about Fraser-Burnsby.”
“But I can do that—”
“No.” He stepped away from her.
She blinked at the fierce growl, her hand still raised foolishly in the air.
He grimaced and looked away from her, grabbing a banyan that had been lying over the back of a chair. “If the footman was deliberately killed, Megs, then there is at least one man out there willing to murder to hide his crime. I don’t want you poking at this.”
“Godric—”
“We made a pac
t.” Godric pulled on the banyan, buttoning it up. “I upheld my part.”
She held his gaze a moment longer before throwing the bloody bit of linen down. They’d have to burn it later so the servants wouldn’t see. “Very well.”
His shoulders visibly relaxed.
She pressed her useless hands together. “You said earlier that you had your own Ghostly business to attend to in St. Giles. Can I ask what it was?”
His eyes narrowed and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer her. “I was on the trail of a group who steal little girls and work them near to death making silk stockings, of all things. They’re called the lassie snatchers.”
Megs’s mouth sagged with horror. She thought of the girls at the home, the little maids they’d so recently hired. The idea of someone abusing children just like them made her stomach roll.
“Oh,” she said weakly.
He nodded curtly. “Now if your curiosity is assuaged …?”
It was a dismissal, but her curiosity wasn’t satisfied. “What about your back? You’ve pulled the stitches out.”
“Don’t fuss. I’ll have Moulder bandage it later,” Godric said curtly. “It’ll just pull out again when—” He glanced at her and closed his lips.
She felt an awful premonition. “When what, Godric?”
The corner of his beautiful mouth curled down. “When I return to St. Giles tonight.”
Chapter Thirteen
The air became brisk as the Hellequin’s great black horse climbed into the Peak of Whispers. Faith shivered and huddled against the Hellequin until he reached into one of his saddlebags and drew out a cloak.
“Wrap this about you, lass,” he said gruffly, and Faith took the cloak with a grateful word of thanks.
Tall pines, gloomy and black, rose around them now, and as the wind whistled through their branches, Faith seemed to hear faint cries and murmurs. As she looked, she saw small, trailing wisps, floating in the wind. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Artemis Greaves slipped through the crowded London street, her pace fast and determined that morning. She had only a couple of hours to herself before Penelope would wake and want her company to chat and analyze every detail of the previous evening’s ball. Artemis sighed—albeit fondly. If she’d thought Penelope featherheaded before, it was nothing to what her cousin was like when she was determined to marry a duke. There were angled invitations, plotted chance meetings, and the near-constant jealousy over Miss Royle, who, Artemis suspected, didn’t even know she was engaged in a fierce rivalry with Penelope.