AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Don’t be ridiculous.” His tone and words were more irritable than he wanted them to be, but his back was throbbing. “You know I’d never blame you for—”
“Do I?” She threw her head back, her dark eyes shining, her hair already beginning to struggle out of its confines as she started pacing in front of his fireplace. “Until yesterday evening I thought I knew you. I thought you were a staid, elderly scholar who lived by himself in a much too dusty mansion and once in a while for a bit of excitement went out to coffeehouses. And then”—she spun at the far end of the room, waving her hands as if battling birds were attacking her head—“and then I find that you’re a notorious madman who runs about in a ridiculous mask and gets into fights with footpads in St. Giles, and, Godric, I really, truly don’t think I know you at all now.”
shook her head. She’d have to examine these troubling feelings later. Right now they were nearing Saint House. She scrabbled for the edges of what remained of her bodice, pulling it over herself as best she could and then buttoning her half-cape all the way to her neck. If no one looked too closely, she could make it to her room without embarrassment.
The carriage shuddered to a stop and she remembered his directions. Quickly, she opened the door a crack and ordered Oliver to fetch Moulder. Lord knew what the footman and Tom thought of tonight’s events. They must’ve caught glimpses of Godric’s costume as he’d entered the carriage, and if that hadn’t been enough, the dragoon captain had shouted his suspicions.
Yet Godric hadn’t been arrested.
Megs vowed to talk to both men and thank them for their discretion.
The carriage door opened again as Moulder said, “Got yourself into a fix again, have you? Told you that …” The servant’s eyes widened, his words trailing away as he caught sight of Megs. “M’lady?”
“I have a knife wound in my back,” Godric said calmly, even though his hands were trembling.
Moulder blinked and turned his attention to his master. “Best get you inside, then, hadn’t we?”
“Yes, and discreetly.” Godric looked at his servant and some unspoken communication seemed to pass between them.
“O’ course.” Moulder produced an old cape and threw it around Godric’s shoulders, effectively hiding the Ghost’s costume. In a louder voice he said, “Had a few too many, have we, sir?”
Godric rolled his eyes as Moulder wrapped his arms around his middle to help him descend the carriage. “Hate this particular subterfuge. Makes me look such an idiot.”
“Only an idiot would let himself get stabbed in the back by some footpad,” Moulder said far lower. He grunted as they made the cobblestones, and Godric staggered.
“Wasn’t a footpad,” Godric gasped.
“Oh? Then who?”
The two of them were weaving as if Godric really were intoxicated. Megs hastily got down from the carriage and ran to Godric’s other side, taking his arm over her shoulder. “It was I.”
Moulder’s eyes widened at her for the second time that night. “Is that right? Would’ve liked to’ve seen that, I would.”
“Bloodthirsty bastard,” Godric hissed as they made the front door.
“I’m not proud of it,” Megs whispered miserably.
Godric halted, swiveling his face to look at her, his gray eyes like crystals. “Not your fault.”
Moulder muttered something under his breath and they all paused for a moment on the landing. Godric’s arm was like a lead weight across Megs’s shoulders, and she would probably be sore on the morrow, but that wasn’t what worried her. She could feel Godric trembling against her and, even more distressing, the seep of something wet against the side pressed to his.
He was still bleeding.
“Come on,” she urged gently. “We’ll rest once we get you to your room.”
For a second, her gaze caught Moulder’s and she knew they shared the same concern. If Godric collapsed on the stairs, they’d have to get the footmen to carry him up. The fewer servants who knew of this matter, the better.
As if Megs’s thought had summoned her, Mrs. Crumb appeared at the bottom of the stairway. “May I be of assistance?”
Megs turned her head to look at the housekeeper. It must be well into the early hours of the morning, but Mrs. Crumb wore her starched black dress, the white apron and cap as crisp as ever, and she gazed up at them as calmly as if inquiring if they’d like tea served in the small sitting room.
“Hot water,” Moulder said before Megs could gather her wits, and his next words confirmed her suspicion that he was quite used to emergencies of this nature. “A stack of clean cloths and the brandy from Mr. St. John’s study, if you please, Mrs. Crumb.”
Megs held her breath, waiting for the housekeeper’s outrage. To be ordered about in front of their employers was a clear breach of servant etiquette.
But Mrs. Crumb merely paused a moment before saying, “At once, Mr. Moulder.”
Her expression was as serene as ever as she turned to do the butler’s orders.
