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Megs had to bite back a grin as he said with surly suspicion, “If you wish.”
GODRIC SAT IN the carriage watching Lady Margaret with what he very much feared was a brooding air. He wasn’t entirely certain how he’d come to be here. Usually at this time of day he’d be at his favorite coffeehouse engrossed in newspapers or barricaded in his study perusing his latest classical tome. Except that wasn’t quite right. It’d been weeks since he’d lingered at Basham’s Coffeehouse and longer still since he’d found the energy to read his favorite books.
More often he’d found himself simply staring at the damp walls of his study.
And yet today his whirlwind of a wife had persuaded him to accompany her on a social call.
He narrowed his eyes. If he weren’t a man of reason and learning, he might suspect some type of sorcery. His wife sat across from him, talking animatedly with her great-aunt next to her and Sarah, who was beside Godric. Lady Margaret was very careful to avoid his eye as she kept up a running stream of chatter about London and the history of this ladies’ syndicate.
His wife’s cheeks were lightly flushed with her excitement, making her dark eyes sparkle. A curling strand of hair had already escaped her coiffure and now bobbed seductively against her temple, as if to tempt some unwary male to try to contain it.
Godric pressed his lips together and faced the window.
Perhaps his wife had a lover.
The thought was not a pleasant one, but why else would such a vivacious girl seek his company except that she had a secret lover in London? It hadn’t occurred to him before that his absent wife might take a lover, but after all, was it such a strange thought? She was no virgin and he’d never attempted to consummate their marriage. Just because he was resigned to a solitary, celibate life didn’t mean she was. Lady Margaret was a young, beautiful woman. A woman of high spirits, if this morning was anything to go by. Such a lady might even have more than one lover.
But no. Godric’s sense of logic broke through his melancholy thoughts. If she had a lover, surely he would reside near Godric’s country estate. After all, Lady Margaret had left Laurelwood Manor only a few times in the last two years—and then only to visit her family. She must have some other reason for suddenly descending on him.
“Here we are at last,” his wife exclaimed.
Godric glanced out the window and saw that the carriage was indeed drawing up outside the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children. The building was only a couple of years old, a clean, neat edifice several stories high and taking up most of Maiden Lane. The bright brick stood out, fresh and new, against the other, older and destitute buildings in St. Giles.
Godric waited until Lady Margaret’s footman had set the step and then jumped down to help the ladies. Great-Aunt Elvina rose precariously. The lady was at least seventy, and although she disdained the use of a cane, Godric had noticed that she was at times unsteady on her feet. She held her pregnant pug in her arms, and Godric swiftly realized he would have to do the gentlemanly thing.
“If I might take Her Grace,” he enunciated into her ear.
The elderly lady shot him a grateful glance. “Thank you, Mr. St. John.”
Godric gingerly took the warm, panting little body, pretending not to notice when the animal drooled on his sleeve. He held out his free hand to Great-Aunt Elvina.
The lady descended, then frowned, glancing around. “What a very disreputable area this is.” She brightened. “Won’t dear Lady Cambridge be scandalized when I write her about it!”
Still holding the pug, Godric helped Sarah out and then took Lady Margaret’s hand, warm, trembling, and alive, in his. She kept her gaze lowered as she stepped from the carriage, the curl of hair bobbing gently against her face. The scent of something sweet lingered in the air. She made a show of shaking out her skirts when she stood on the cobblestones.
Damn it, she wasn’t looking at him. On impulse, he reached out and took that wayward tendril between thumb and forefinger, firmly tucking it behind her ear.
She glanced up, her lips parted, so near he could see the swirls of gold in her pretty brown eyes, and he suddenly identified her scent: orange blossoms.
Her voice was breathless when she spoke. “Thank you.”
His jaw flexed. “Not at all.”
Godric turned and mounted the steps to the home, knocking briskly.
The door was opened almost at once by a butler who looked haughty enough to be attending a royal palace rather than an orphanage in St. Giles.
Godric nodded to the man as he entered. “My wife and her friends are here for the Ladies’ Syndicate meeting. I wonder if Makepeace is about?”
“Certainly, sir,” the butler intoned. He took hats and gloves from the ladies as they entered in a flurry of skirts and chatter behind Godric. “I’ll fetch Mr. Makepeace.”
ll but very rotund fawn pug waddled into the room, glanced perfunctorily at Great-Aunt Elvina, and plopped down onto the rug, rolling immediately to her side. She lay there, panting pathetically, her distended belly rising and falling.
Her Grace’s flair for the dramatic was almost as well honed as her mistress’s.
“This is Her Grace,” Megs hurried to explain to her husband, adding perhaps unnecessarily, “She’s in an interesting way.”
“Indeed,” Godric murmured. “Is the … er … Her Grace quite well? She looks rather worried.”
