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“But why didn’t you tell anyone?”
She ran a finger over the gnarled branch of the old tree. “It was a secret—he hadn’t yet asked my elder brother for my hand. Roger wanted to prove himself, I think. He talked about a business proposition, one that would make enough money that he could ask for my hand properly.”
Lord d’Arque made a quiet exclamation.
She glanced at him curiously. “What is it?”
“About six months before Roger died, I was asked by a friend of ours if I wanted to take part in a business venture. One that he assured me would make lots of money.”
rinned at him, her mood lightening. “This is my prize, and I hope you’re properly appreciative of the efforts I’ve made to procure it.”
She drew out a fabulously quilted gentleman’s banyan in dark red.
He blinked at it a moment and then threw back his head, roaring with laughter. “I’ll look like a veritable Indian prince in that thing.”
She pursed her lips, trying to look stern. “It’s a castoff from Uncle and it’ll keep you warm at night. Here, try it on.”
Artemis helped him into the banyan and was pleased to see that while it was a tight fit across the shoulders, he was able to nearly pull it closed in front. He leaned back against the grimy stone of the chamber walls, and he did indeed look like an Indian prince.
If Indian princes had bruised faces and sat on straw.
After that, he insisted on sharing some of the food she’d brought, so they had something of a picnic. And if the sounds of shouted swearing filled the air at one point, counterbalanced by loud weeping, well, they both made a show of ignoring it.
All too soon, she knew she must leave. Penelope wanted to go shopping today, and Artemis would be needed to carry parcels and keep track of where they went and what her cousin bought.
She was quiet as she fussed with her basket, hating to leave him alone in this place.
“Come,” he said softly as her lip began to tremble. “Don’t carry on so. You know how I hate to see you sad.”
So she smiled for him and gave him a hug that lasted just a bit too long and then she left that horrible chamber without another word. Both she and he knew that she’d come again when she could—most probably not until another sennight had passed.
When she made the outer hallway, she paused by Charon and gave him all the money she had within her purse—an embarrassingly paltry amount, but it would have to do. Hopefully it would be enough for the guards to remember to feed him, to empty his slops, and to not beat him to death when his wit became too much for them to bear.
She glanced over Charon’s head at the sign that hung above the locked door at his back: Incurable.
Every time she saw it, her heart beat with equal parts rage and fear. Incurable. It might as well be a death sentence for her beloved twin brother, Apollo: the incurably insane never left Bethlem Royal Hospital.
Otherwise known as Bedlam.
WHEN THE DOCTOR arrived two hours after their lovemaking, Megs insisted on staying in the room while he examined Godric. The men seemed to find this an odd behavior. Godric exchanged a wary look with Moulder, while the doctor tutted under his breath, muttering in French. Megs wanted to roll her eyes. None of the ladies of the house thought her strange to stay with her injured husband to see if he’d ever use his left arm again. She nearly choked on another wave of fear, grief, and anger, and had to turn away from the sight of the doctor probing at Godric’s arm. He’d already taken apart the original bandage on Godric’s right arm, prodded the long, shallow cut, pronounced it trifling, and rebandaged the arm.
Megs glared when Godric shot her a triumphant glance.
She went to the window now and stared blindly out at the late-morning sun. Stupid men. Stupid, brave, foolhardy men who thought nothing of risking their lives by going into the worst part of St. Giles and seeking out danger. She raised her fisted hand to her mouth and bit down hard on her knuckle.
Sometimes losing their lives.
She couldn’t bear another man lost to her. She’d go mad.
The doctor gave a loud grunt behind her. “Very ill-advised, sir, to take the splint from your arm so soon. I cannot tell you how lucky you are not to have broken the wrist again.”
Megs turned to find the doctor standing over a stoic-faced Godric, carefully rebinding his arm.
“It’s not rebroken?” she asked.
“No,” the doctor muttered. “But there will be swelling from where Mr. St. John … er … fell on it.” That had been the tale they’d told the man—despite the ridiculousness of that long cut coming from anything but a sword.
She blew a breath out in relief. “And will it heal properly?”
