He shot her a look of incredulous exasperation.
“She had no idea that was Clara’s room, and even if she did”—she threw up her hands helplessly—“what do you intend to do, keep it the way it is as a shrine to her death?”
He was suddenly too close, his head bent down, shoved in her face, and she felt herself go quite still.
“You,” he breathed very quietly, so close his lips almost brushed hers, “need to learn when not to overstep yourself.”
She swallowed. “Do I?”
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. He was too near, his body tensed as if to do … something, and the tension seemed to communicate itself to her own body until she felt strung as tight as a violin string.
He muttered something foul under his breath and stepped back. “I’ll apologize to my sister later.”
And he spun and clattered down the stairs.
Megs inhaled and thoughtfully retraced her steps to Clara’s room. One look at Sarah’s face and Megs crossed to hug her. “Gentlemen can be so hardheaded.”
“No.” Sarah sniffed and pressed a lace handkerchief to her reddened nose. “Godric was quite correct—I ought to have asked him before rearranging this room.”
Megs pulled back. “But you had no idea this was Clara’s room.”
“I had a notion.” Sarah folded her handkerchief and gestured shakily to the massive bed in the center of the room. “Why else would that be there? Who else could’ve lived here?”
“Then why—”
“Because he can’t just keep the room as some kind of macabre shrine to Clara.”
“That’s what I told him.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “What did he say?”
Megs grimaced. “Well, he wasn’t best pleased.”
“Oh, Megs,” Sarah cried, “I’m so sorry you got drawn into this, but … come here.”
She darted away to one of the now-bare windows.
Megs followed more slowly. “What is it?”
“Look.” Sarah pointed to iron bars running on the outside of the window. Iron bars meant to keep the occupants of the room safe. “This was the nursery once upon a time. And … and I know you don’t have that kind of marriage with my brother, but I hoped with this trip to London, perhaps …” Sarah swallowed and grasped her hands together, whispering, “We’ve all worried for him so much.”
Megs nodded. “I know. And to be truthful, I’d hoped to become closer to Godric too.” She blushed but soldiered on. “It’s just … I’m not sure how. I’ve tried, but he’s stubborn. He loved Clara very much.”
“Yes, he did,” Sarah said, her voice grim. “But Clara’s dead and you’re here now. Don’t give up on him, Megs, please?”
Megs nodded, but even as she tried to smile in reassurance at Sarah, she wondered, how was she to help a man who’d given up on himself?
Chapter Five
Now, it’s rare for a mortal to be able to see the Hellequin, for being a thing of the night and death, he is usually invisible to all. But the young man’s beloved was a different matter. Her name was Faith, and she’d been born with the second sight. She knew who the Hellequin was—and moreover, she knew where he was bound. “My beloved has never hurt man nor beast in all his life,” she cried. “You cannot take his soul down to Hell to burn for eternity.” …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
“She’s going where?” Godric stopped in the act of pulling off his neck cloth that night and glanced at Moulder.
“A ball,” Moulder repeated. “They’re all going. Should’ve seen the maids running up and down the servants’ stairs. Seems to take quite a bit to get a lady ready for a ball.”
Why hadn’t Megs mentioned that she intended to go out tonight? Of course, he realized with a wince, the last time they’d spoken they’d argued and he’d kept well away from the house since then. He’d returned only to ready himself to go out again to St. Giles. Which he was doing now. What his wife did in the evening wasn’t any concern of his.
“Whose ball?” Godric demanded.
“Lord Kershaw’s,” Moulder replied promptly. “’Tis said to be one o’ the biggest o’ the season, what with him marrying that foreign heiress couple o’ years back.”
Godric stared at his manservant for a moment. When had Moulder become such a font of gossip? He must’ve been listening at doors all day. Godric shook his head. Kershaw. That was one of the names Winter Makepeace had given him. Perhaps his investigation into the lassie snatchers would be better served at a ball. He deliberately ignored the small, dry part of his intelligence that whispered it would mean spending the evening with his beautiful wife.
“Get out my good suit and then make sure the carriage waits for me.”
“Wise o’ you, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Moulder said as he did as instructed.
Godric pulled on a fresh white shirt. “What do you mean?”
“Well, no telling who she might meet there, is there?”
“What,” he asked very slowly, “are you talking about?”
Moulder’s eyes widened as it apparently belatedly occurred to him that he might’ve crossed a line. “Ah … nothing, nothing. I’ll just go see to the carriage, shall I?”
“Do that,” Godric bit out.
Moulder hurried from the room.
Godric grunted and threw on the rest of his suit, all the while conscious that he was being unreasonable. He’d told Margaret that he couldn’t bed her. Rather dog in the manger, then, to care if she chose to go looking for a lover. He cursed and strode out the door. The thing was, he did care, and not just about the humiliation of Margaret possibly bearing another man’s child. It was one thing for her to be pregnant by another man when he hardly knew her. Now that he’d spent over a year reading her letters, had sat across from her at dinner, had felt the sweet, urgent touch of her lips …
He stopped dead on the landing. Damnation. He didn’t want Margaret taking another man to her bed; it was as simple as that.
The realization did not improve his mood.
He took a deep breath and descended the rest of the stairs more slowly. He had to keep his purpose in attending this ball at the forefront of his mind. He needed to find out if Kershaw knew anything about what his friend Seymour had been doing in St. Giles with the lassie snatchers. This was strictly a Ghostly matter.