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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.”
Megs frowned. “What was the business?”
“I don’t know.” Lord d’Arque shrugged. “I find that business propositions that promise cornucopias of money generally end up with the investor losing all but his smallclothes. I avoid them when possible. Since I turned down the proposition at once, I never found out what the business was.”
“Who was the friend who made the offer, then?”
Lord d’Arque hesitated only a moment. “The Earl of Kershaw.”
GODRIC OPENED HIS eyes to the sight of Megs sitting on a chair next to his bed. He glanced at the window and was surprised to see the light dimming. He must’ve slept all day. For a moment he watched her. She sat with her head bowed, staring at her hands as she idly twined her fingers together. She looked deep in thought, and the spark that lit in his chest just from her presence was … warming.
“Have you been there since morning?” he asked his wife softly.
She started and looked up. “No, I went down for luncheon, and we had a visitor this morning.”
“Oh?” He yawned, stretching lazily, a twinge from his left arm reminding him why he’d been abed to begin with. All things considered, he felt much better. Perhaps he could lure Megs into coming to bed with him for a repeat of this morning’s activities.
“Lord d’Arque came to call.”
He stilled. “Why?”
She bit her lip, looking a little lost. “He wanted to talk about Roger.”
She told him of the conversation she’d had with d’Arque, and by the time she was telling him that Kershaw had once asked the viscount to invest in a mysterious business, he’d closed his eyes in horror.
“What is it, Godric?”
How could he tell her? He opened his eyes, a fierce sense of protectiveness flooding him. He never wanted her hurt. The knowledge he now had would bring no relief from her sorrow. But she wasn’t a child. He hadn’t the right to decide what information to give her and what to keep from her.
He took a breath. “Two years ago, the Ghost of St. Giles—a different Ghost than me—killed Charles Seymour.” His eyes flicked up at her. “Seymour had been enslaving girls—small girls, most younger than twelve—to make fancy ladies’ stockings.”
“Like the workshops you told me about.” She nodded. “What does that have to do with Roger?”
“We thought the stocking workshops had been shut down with the death of Seymour. But they started again in St. Giles, not long ago. Last night I found the last one—and freed eleven little girls. I got this”—he raised his injured left arm—“when I was attacked by a gentleman.”
She simply looked at him, the question in her eyes.
He sighed. “It was Kershaw.”
Her lips parted slowly, her brows drawing together. “Lord d’Arque said that the Earl of Kershaw offered him an investment opportunity but didn’t say what it was. If Roger was made a similar offer by the earl …” She stood suddenly as if she could no longer sit still, pacing agitatedly in front of the bed. “He wanted to improve his funds before offering for my hand. If he accepted the business deal without inquiring what kind of business it was …” She stopped, staring at him, her eyes wide. “If he went to St. Giles and was presented with a workshop with enslaved little girls … dear God, Godric! Roger was a good man. He would’ve never condoned such horror.”
Godric inclined his head. “They would’ve had to murder him so he wouldn’t tell others.”
“This is the answer, then,” Megs whispered. “We must tell the authorities. We must—”
“No.”
She jerked, her eyes wounded. “What?”
He sat up, leaning forward. “He’s an earl, Megs, and we have no proof of anything, really, merely guesses. For all we know, Seymour killed Roger. Or someone else. Unlikely that an earl would do such stuff himself.”
Her hands became tight fists. “He’s still responsible, even if it was his partner or someone he hired. He helped kill Roger.”
