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She bit her lip, thinking of that lost boy, cut off from his family, angry and alone. She had a sudden warm gratitude toward the late Sir Stanley Gilpin. He might’ve been an eccentric, but he also obviously knew much about young men and their needs.
His eyes drifted to her mouth and then down to his hands, again clasped between his knees. “We continued thus for several years. It wasn’t until I was eighteen that we figured out, from signs and odd comings and goings, that Sir Stanley was the Ghost of St. Giles and—”
“What? Wait.” Megs jerked up her hands, snapping the thread on her dress, but she was too eager to care. “Sir Stanley was the original Ghost of St. Giles?”
“Yes. Well”—Godric’s lips quirked and he tilted his head—“at least he’s the only one I know about. The legend of the Ghost of St. Giles has been around for years, perhaps centuries. Who is to say that some other man in some other time didn’t don the costume?”
Megs’s lips parted slowly as she imagined a parade of men, year after year, pretending to be the Ghost of St. Giles. Who would do such a thing? She looked at Godric, the question on her lips, but she didn’t want to forget another pressing question.
“Who is ‘we’?”
“Ah.” Godric straightened in his chair, his hand absently rising to his left shoulder before he apparently remembered and let it drop to his lap. “As to that …”
Why was he stalling? “Yes?”
He inhaled deeply and looked her in the eye. “There’s more than me.”
“More …” Her eyes widened. “Ghosts?” The incredulous word came out a squeak. “At one time?”
He nodded. “By the time I was eighteen, another boy had joined our practice sessions. He was younger than I, but just as angry as I had been at fourteen.” His brows drew together. “More so, actually.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said apologetically.
“What?” Megs straightened in indignation. “Why not?” He shrugged. “It’s not my secret to tell.”
Well, she supposed that was terribly honorable of him—and quite, quite frustrating for her. “So there were two of you. …”
He cleared his throat. “Three, actually. Another came after I left.”
Her eyes widened, the questions charging about and bumping up against each other in her mind. “Three? But—”
He held up his hands, palms toward her. “I know you were told that Roger was killed by the Ghost of St. Giles, but that’s simply not true. None of us would ever—could ever—kill a good man such as Roger.”
She nodded, swallowing. Somehow something was wrong with the story of Roger’s murder. Either the witness had been mistaken …
Or he had lied. She frowned at the thought.
“Megs.”
She looked up, meeting his eyes. She would follow the trail of Roger’s murder, but at the moment Godric needed to finish his tale. “How did there come to be three Ghosts?”
Godric sighed. “I think Sir Stanley saw it as a lark, dressing up as the Ghost of St. Giles. He had rather a mischievous sense of humor. But by the time I left for Oxford, he was definitely looking for a successor for his grand scheme. He’d fallen in love with the people of St. Giles and wanted to make sure they had a protector even after he became too old to play the Ghost himself.”
More questions trembled on her lips, and Megs had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her mouth shut and not interrupt. She nodded for him to continue.
“I went away, as I said,” Godric said. “I had come to terms with my father by then, knew that I’d been acting like an immature fool. I determined to right my life and perhaps gain the respect of my father and stepmother. I could tell Sir Stanley was disappointed in my decision, but he was understanding as well. Too, by that point he had his second apprentice well in hand.”
Megs actually had to dig her nails into the palms of her hands to keep herself from asking the questions. Who was the other apprentice? Had Godric wanted to become the Ghost of St. Giles at such a young age? Had his father known what Sir Stanley was training Godric to be?
But her husband was speaking again. “So I went off to Oxford, learned many things, grew into a man, and when I came home to Laurelwood, I met Clara at a country ball.”
He closed his eyes. “I’ve told you how that went. We were happy—so very happy—for nearly a year. And then she became ill. We moved to London to be closer to the doctors. I hoped—I prayed—that we could find an elixir or treatment to cure her. I held out hope for a year and a half before I realized there was no cure for my Clara. That she would die from this disease and I could do nothing about it—nothing but watch.” A corner of his lovely mouth lifted, curling into an ugly sneer of pain. “I watched as she grew thinner, as the agony began to claw at her from the inside.”
He opened his clear gray eyes then, and she saw the remembered despair. It must’ve been truly hellish being helpless in the face of his love’s suffering.
She could stand it no more. Megs reached out, taking his cold hand in hers.
