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She blew a breath out in relief. “And will it heal properly?”
He gave a Gallic shrug. “Perhaps. Certainly not if Mr. St. John abuses it further.”
“I shall make certain he does not, then,” Megs said determinedly, ignoring the wry look Godric sent her.
The doctor fussed for another five minutes, by which time Godric was leaning back in his bed, obviously quite tired. Megs saw the doctor to the bedroom door and then returned to the bed where she was exasperated to find Godric struggling upright.
“What are you doing?”
He glanced up, his brows drawn together. “Rising.”
“No,” she said, placing a hand on his chest and pushing down, “you are not. The doctor specified rest if that wrist is to heal.”
He blinked up at her, a faint trace of amusement flashing in his eyes. She hadn’t exactly let him rest when he’d first returned home. Heat rose in her cheeks.
But he replied gently, “Yes, my lady.”
She eyed him suspiciously, but he had lain back down, his body relaxed. He really did look quite exhausted.
Her heart contracted painfully.
“Go to sleep,” she whispered, softly touching the bandages on his right arm. When had he come to mean so much to her?
He closed his eyes, turned his head, and kissed her finger.
She swallowed down the lump in her throat. The only chair in the room was the one by the desk, so she took it and moved it closer to the bed, ignoring Moulder’s look. Then she sat and watched Godric sleep.
It may’ve been minutes or hours later when a gentle tap came at the bedroom door. It had been left cracked so that Her Grace could come and go as she pleased. Megs looked up to see Mrs. Crumb beckoning her.
She glanced back at the bed, but Godric lay in deep slumber, so she rose and followed the housekeeper out of the room.
“Pardon me, my lady,” Mrs. Crumb said in a low voice, “but there is a caller and he insists on speaking to either you or Mr. St. John.”
Megs’s brows rose. “Who is it?”
“Lord d’Arque.”
For a moment she blinked, confused, before realization flooded her: He must’ve come about Roger and his murder. She followed the housekeeper down the stairs, feeling an odd sort of guilt at leaving Godric. But this was part of the reason why she’d come all the way to London, wasn’t it? If she could find out more about Roger’s murder, then she’d be that much closer to avenging him.
And leaving Godric.
The thought made her nearly stumble.
It wasn’t until they made the first-floor hallway and the housekeeper indicated that Lord d’Arque was waiting in the library that she remembered Godric’s dislike of the viscount. Even if her husband had been polite to the other man at the theater, it didn’t mean he would approve of a private tête-à-tête with the man.
She looked at the housekeeper. “Will you ask Miss Sarah St. John to come here, please?”
“Yes, my lady.”
She waited while Mrs. Crumb mounted the stairs, waited a moment more, took a deep breath, and entered the library.
Lord d’Arque was examining a bookcase on the far side of the room, but he turned at her entrance and crossed to her.
“My lady.” He bent over her hand but didn’t touch it with his lips. When he straightened, she saw that he was grave.
Strange. She didn’t know him at all well, but whenever she’d seen him previously, he’d almost always been smiling wickedly.
Almost as if his smile were his armor.
