Captain Trevillion turned his gimlet eyes on the maidservant. “He can defend himself in a court of law.”
Winter snorted under his breath. The Ghost might “defend” his innocence, but only if he could afford to pay the magistrate. The courts were notoriously corrupt in London.
“I expect your cooperation in this endeavor, Mr. Makepeace,” Captain Trevillion said coolly. “I shall be requesting the same from the other merchants and men of business in St. Giles, but as an educated man, I hope in particular to have your cooperation. Do I have it?”
“Naturally,” Winter said. He laid a restraining hand on Nell. The maidservant seemed about to make another protest. “We will do whatever we can to help the king’s men.”
“Good.” The captain nodded. “Whatever rumors you may hear will be of great help in hunting the Ghost of St. Giles and other miscreants. Indeed—”
“What a brave man,” came a husky feminine voice, “to declare he will hunt the Ghost of St. Giles.”
Winter stiffened even before he turned to see Lady Beckinhall. He’d been so intent on the confrontation with Captain Trevillion that he’d not been aware of her approach. The thought shocked him almost as much as the wash of quite inappropriate gladness that shot through him at the sight of her.
Lady Beckinhall wore a flaming red gown today, covered in silver embroidery. He felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. Her gown was at least as grand as Lady Penelope’s, perhaps more so, and it set off her rich mahogany hair exquisitely. Yet it wasn’t the expensiveness of her attire that perturbed him.
No. Disconcertingly, it was the woman herself.
Lady Beckinhall smiled quite blindingly and held out one slim hand to the man on the horse. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Captain.”
The soldier took her gloved hand and bowed over it. “Captain Trevillion at your service, ma’am.”
“Indeed?” Lady Beckinhall drawled. “How charming.”
A faint red stain tinged the captain’s craggy cheekbones, poor bastard. “If you say so, ma’am.”
“Oh, I do.” Lady Beckinhall glanced around at the people gathered before the home’s door. “To chase down a bloodthirsty murderer? Quite charming indeed.”
Lady Penelope gave a shriek at the word “bloodthirsty.” “Oh, my goodness! You told us the Ghost was harmless, Mr. Makepeace.”
Captain Trevillion’s stern eyes swung to Winter. “You have had some dealings with the Ghost of St. Giles, Mr. Makepeace?”
Winter shrugged. “Some. As I say, he never seemed particularly dangerous to me.”
“He has been accused of several bloody murders,” Captain Trevillion said.
Lady Penelope shrieked again.
Winter winced.
“But have no fear, darling,” Lady Beckinhall drawled, “Captain Trevillion is here to protect us, are you not, Captain?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Which is a good thing since we seem to have no other gentlemen as stalwart as the captain.” Lady Beckinhall widened her eyes at Winter.
Winter felt his jaw tighten at the ridiculous insult to his manhood, but he did his best not to let her see it. Instead he looked up at the captain. “If that is all, sir, I will bid you good day and see my guests inside the house.”
Captain Trevillion bowed again. “Good day to you, sir. Ladies.”
He wheeled the big black and set it to a trot, his men following behind. In another moment they were around a corner and gone from sight.
“My nerves are quite overset,” Lady Penelope declared. “And I’m sure Sugar’s are as well”—she waved vaguely at the little white dog, which appeared to be asleep in her companion’s arms—“I do hope that even a bachelor establishment such as yours has some tea and refreshments available, Mr. Makepeace?”
A bachelor establishment? What odd phrasing. Winter pasted a polite smile on his face and bowed to the silly woman. “Of course, Lady Penelope.”
He opened the door and watched her and Miss Greaves step inside. Lady Beckinhall was behind them and he cleared his throat as she drew abreast of him.
“I thought not to see you here again, my lady.”
“Had you not?” Her eyebrows arched over mischievous eyes. “But then I’ve decided that the home needs my help, even if you don’t think so, Mr. Makepeace.”
And she swept inside, leaving him to follow her, his eyes narrowed in contemplation.
ALMOST A WEEK later Silence frowned over her knitting. It was always hard to make the heel of a stocking, but this one seemed particularly misshapen. Michael’s carriage gave a bump and began slowing. She glanced out the window and saw that they were turning into a narrow, tree-lined country lane. Lad the dog raised his head at the change in speed. He lay on the floor of the carriage, taking up far too much room.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked. “This isn’t a London inn.”
The last week had been a blur of tedious travel over bumpy roads, interrupted now and again by stops at little inns where the food could vary quite drastically from good to inedible. Each night she’d fallen into a strange bed, exhausted, with Mary Darling snuggled close to her side. She’d woken in the mornings to find Michael already up from whatever bed he’d spent the night in and usually bringing her a pot of tea. He’d been kind and attentive and rather distant, now that she thought of it.
“We’re in Greenwich,” Michael said. “We’re home.”
She looked at him, sitting across the carriage with the baby on his lap, and as always the sight of him made her heart beat faster. “Home?”
He smiled crookedly, but didn’t answer. He wore the same clothes he’d had on when he’d first come for her at Lord Caire’s residence: worn and simple. She was almost used to this more sedate Michael. This Michael who might have been a traveling merchant or prosperous farmer.
What an odd thought. Silence peered out the window to try and find out what “home” was to Michael. The tree-lined lane opened up to a small circular drive in front of a mansion made of warm red brick. Ivy covered one corner, its branches still bare, and a half dozen chimneys rambled over the gabled roofs. Tender green shoots had begun to poke through the soil around the foundation of the house.
Silence looked at Michael in surprise. The mansion was quite lovely, it did indeed look like someone’s “home”—but certainly not a pirate’s.