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He inclined his head gravely. “Yes.”
She nodded absently, turning to run a finger down a crease in one of the old apple tree’s branches. “Godric?”
“Yes?” He’d stepped closer. She had the feeling that if she turned, she might be in his arms.
Megs shivered and concentrated on tracing patterns in the bark. “How did my brother know you were the Ghost of St. Giles?”
He was silent and she could almost hear him thinking. “I was careless. He followed me back from St. Giles one night.”
She knit her brows. “St. Giles? Whyever would Griffin have been in St. Giles at night?”
“You don’t know?”
Well, no one could withstand that kind of line. She turned and found she was nearly in his arms. He was looking down at her with his now-familiar puzzled half-frown.
“Know what?” she asked, breathless. Silly, of course. He wouldn’t tell her, would fob her off with some transparent excuse as gentlemen always did to the ladies in their care.
But he surprised her. “Your brother Griffin used to have a business in St. Giles.”
She blinked, stunned by both his honesty and the information. “But … Griffin has never been in business. He’s never had to …” She trailed off at the expression on Godric’s face. “Has he?”
Her husband shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. “I don’t know the state of your brother’s finances. I only know that before he married Lady Hero, he ran a business in St. Giles.”
Her brows knit. “What type of business?”
He watched her for what seemed almost a minute, and she waited to see if he’d answer.
Finally, he sighed. “A gin still.”
“What?”
Her mouth fell open. Of all the things for her brother—the son of a marquess—to be doing, running an illegal—and immoral—gin still was the last thing she’d guess. Why would he? Griffin had skirted the edge of impropriety before his marriage, had had rather a terrible reputation as a rake, but she knew him. Deep down he was a good man, a man who wouldn’t be doing such a horrible thing unless he were truly hard up for money, and why would he be? Their family was landed, had plenty of funds—
Her thoughts abruptly ran aground because she realized that she didn’t actually know the state of her family’s finances. She was a lady. Ladies didn’t inquire about such things—it was considered vulgar. When she’d wanted a dress, when she’d come out and needed an entirely new wardrobe, she’d never asked if they could afford it, because they could.
Couldn’t they?
Except now she remembered small things. The time Mama had suggested the less expensive striped silk rather than the embroidered. Megs had liked the color of the stripe better anyway—a lovely rose—so she hadn’t thought much about it at the time. And then there had been the time the modiste had become quite snippy, insisting she hadn’t been paid yet. Mama had said it was a mistake, but what if it hadn’t been?
What if her family had been in financial straits—secret financial straits—and she’d never even known enough to ask?
“Does he still have that business in St. Giles?” she asked Godric in a very small voice.
“No.” He shook his head at once. “He closed it—actually it burned just before he married Lady Hero.”
She nodded, feeling deflated. “I’m glad. But if he needed money, how does he make it now?”
“I don’t know,” Godric said gently. “We haven’t been exactly on speaking terms the last couple of years. However, I’m sure Lady Hero’s dowry was more than adequate to see to their needs.”
A sudden, horrible thought crossed Megs’s mind. “And my dowry? Was it adequate?”
“Your brother didn’t offer one.”
Her eyes widened. “But—”
“It’s all right.” He held out his hands, forestalling her protest. “I have more than enough money. I never needed your dowry, Megs.”
Well, she supposed she should be glad of that at least. Megs poked at the apple tree rather irritably before heaving a sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t know of this before. You must’ve been terribly angry when my brother made his demand.”
