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“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.
