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Dear Lord, where had Apollo gotten the necklace?
* * *
DUSK WAS FALLING when Megs went into the garden for a walk after an early supper. Higgins had cleared the paths and laid down fine gravel, weeded the beds and neatly edged them. A few faltering daffodils trailed bravely near the house, planted and then forgotten by some ancestor of Godric’s.
Megs paced and thought. Gardens were such peaceful spots, even half-naked ones such as this. But soon she and Higgins would be able to add roses and irises, peonies and Michaelmas daisies.
If Godric let her stay that long.
She frowned. He’d shut himself in his room since his early morning appearance, ignoring both luncheon and the dinner summons, although she’d noticed that trays of food had been brought up to him. At least he wasn’t starving in there.
She paused by the old fruit tree and laid her hand on the rough bark, somehow soothed by its presence. The light was nearly gone, but she peered closer at the low branches, her heart beginning to speed. There were buds on the twigs that lined the branches, she could swear. Maybe—
“Megs.”
His voice was low but carried easily through the garden, steady and commanding.
She turned and saw Godric, standing in the open doorway to Saint House, the light behind him casting a long, black shadow into the garden. For a second she shivered at the image, the dark stranger come to invade her peaceful garden, but then she shook herself. This was Godric, and whatever else he might be, he was no longer a stranger.
He was her husband.
She walked toward him, and as she neared, he held out his hand to her. She took it, lifting her head to peer at him as she’d peered at the fruit tree, looking for signs of life.
“Come,” he said, and pulled her gently into the house.
He led her through the hall and ascended the stairs, her hand still locked in his, and with every step her pulse beat faster until she was nearly panting when he opened the door to his room.
rugged 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.
