Megs took a breath and smoothed her skirts before gliding down the hallway at a sedate pace. She opened the door to the primrose sitting room, bracing herself for some aged relation of Godric’s, but she immediately relaxed with relief when she saw the three ladies within.
“Oh, Mrs. St. John,” Megs exclaimed as she hurried forward. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming to London?”
Megs hugged the elder woman and then stood back. Godric’s stepmother was nearing her fifty-fifth year. A short, somewhat stout woman, she had the flaxen hair that all her daughters had inherited, though hers was faded now to a vague pale color. Mrs. St. John’s face had taken on a ruddy hue as she aged. She was a rather plain woman, physically, but one hardly noticed because of the vivaciousness of her expression. Megs knew from village gossip that Godric’s father had been deeply in love with his second wife.
“We took a page from your notebook, Megs, and thought it best to simply arrive on Godric’s doorstep.” Mrs. St. John huffed as she sat down on a settee.
“Rather like one of those vagabond peddlers,” Jane, eighteen and the youngest St. John sister, said. “The ones who won’t leave the doorstep until you buy some ratty length of ribbon.”
“That ribbon was not ratty.” Charlotte, who was two years older than Jane, looked indignant. “I vow you’re jealous because the peddler came around when you were out romping through the fields with Pat and Harriet.”
“Pat and Harriet needed a good run.” Jane pointed her nose in the air. “Besides, I wouldn’t want a ribbon that ratty if it were given to me.”
“Girls,” Mrs. St. John said, and both sisters abruptly shut their mouths. “I’m sure Megs doesn’t care to hear you bickering over fripperies and the dogs.”
Megs didn’t really mind. She found the St. John sisters’ obvious affection for each other—when they weren’t quarreling—rather refreshing, actually. She’d never been close to her own older sister, Caro. The St. John dower house was in the village of Upper Hornsfield, so she had the opportunity to observe the St. John sororal dynamics quite often.
“I can’t think where Sarah is,” she said diplomatically. “Or Godric, for that matter.”
“We were told that Godric had already gone out,” Jane informed her. “And no one could find Sarah.”
“That’s because I was out for a walk,” Sarah said from the doorway. The two little maids were behind her, carefully holding trays full of tea things. “I only just returned.”
Charlotte and Jane were up immediately, hugging and exclaiming over their sister as if they hadn’t seen her in months rather than little more than a week.
Mrs. Crumb entered the room with the maids during the flurry and quietly directed setting everything out. She glanced inquiringly at Megs when the maids were done. When Megs thanked her, Mrs. Crumb nodded and ushered the maids out, closing the door behind her.
“Mama,” Sarah said, leaning down to kiss her mother on the cheek. “What a surprise.”
“That was the idea,” Mrs. St. John said.
Sarah sat. “Why?”
“Well, I thought this estrangement had gone on long enough, and since Godric obviously won’t do anything about it, I decided to. Thank you, dear.” Mrs. St. John accepted a dish of tea from Megs, sweetened with several spoons of sugar, just the way Megs knew she liked it. “And,” she added practically after taking a sip, “the girls and I are in need of new frocks, especially Jane since she’ll have her coming-out this autumn. You as well, Sarah, dear.”
“Oh, good,” Megs murmured. “I’ve been meaning to visit a modiste. We can all go together.”
“What fun!” Jane bounced in her seat. The door to the sitting room opened, but she continued, oblivious. “That sounds much more pleasant than having to visit grumpy old Godric.”
“Jane!” Megs hissed, but it was far too late.
“I wasn’t aware we were expecting visitors,” Godric rasped from the doorway.
Megs bit her lip. He did not look pleased.
Chapter Eleven
“Is this Hell?” Faith asked as she looked at the rocky shore. “No,” the Hellequin said. He’d either not noticed or not cared that she’d pushed Despair off the great black horse. “We still have a long journey ahead before we reach Hell. Before us now is the Peak of Whispers.” He pointed to a range of black, jagged mountains that loomed across the distant horizon. “Are you sure you wish to continue?” “Yes,” Faith said, and wrapped her arms about the Hellequin’s middle.
He merely nodded and spurred his horse on. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Grumpy old Godric.
It was a fair assessment—though Godric doubted that Jane had taken any time thinking the matter over. He was grumpy—or at least morose. And as for old, well, he supposed he was that as well—in comparison to his half sisters, anyway. He was seven and thirty. Sarah was a mere dozen years younger than he, but Charlotte was seventeen years younger and Jane nineteen.
He was old enough to be her father.
It was an unspannable gap—always had been, always would be.
“Godric,” his stepmother said softly. She rose and crossed to him, and then surprised him by taking one of his hands in her own, small soft ones. “It’s so good to see you.”
There it was, the guilt and anxious resentfulness he felt every time he saw this woman. She made him into an awkward schoolboy, and he hated it.
“Madam,” he said, aware that his tone was too stiff, too formal. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
She looked up at him—the top of her head came only to his midchest—and her eyes seemed to search for something in his face.
“We wanted to see you,” she said at last.
“And we need new frocks,” Jane said from behind her mother. His half sister’s tone was defiant, but her expression was uncertain.
He’d probably looked like that much of the time when he’d been her age.
Godric nodded, leading his stepmother over to where she’d been seated before. “How long do you intend to stay?”
“A fortnight,” his stepmother said.
“Ah,” Godric murmured, and felt Megs’s look. For the first time he glanced at his wife.
His wife, whom he’d bedded just last night.
She wore a smart pink gown with black figures and trimmings, her hair dark and lustrous, and she sat very straight, watching him with a worried frown knit between her gracefully arched brows. He nearly stopped breathing. She was so lovely, Megs, his wife. Had his father’s family not been here, he might’ve crossed to her, pulled her from her seat, and led her to their rooms where—
But, no.
She’d made quite plain that was not the type of arrangement she wanted with him. Even had his stepmother and sisters not been looking on curiously, he would’ve had to wait until tonight.
He was a stud, nothing more.
Godric took a breath, focusing once more on the conversation. “Would you like me to escort you to the shops?”
He saw Megs’s look of surprise out of the corner of his eye.
Jane, predictably, opened her mouth first, but the glance her mother shot her made her close it again very quickly.
His stepmother smiled at him. “Yes, that would be lovely.”
He nodded. Megs gave him a small, grateful grin and handed him a dish of tea—a drink he’d never particularly cared for. But he sipped it and let the women’s chatter flow around him, observing.
It seemed his wife had formed an intimate bond with his father’s family while she’d lived at Laurelwood. That wasn’t so surprising, he supposed, since the dower house was nearby. She made a pretty picture with his sisters, her dark head in contrast with their lighter ones. All three had inherited their mother’s coloring. Charlotte was the fairest, while Jane’s tawny locks were the darkest. Sarah sat next to Megs, laughing at something, and Jane was nearly in Charlotte’s lap, her arm draped companionably over her sister’s neck, the skirts of their dresses frothing over each other. His stepmother looked on benignly and the circle was complete: a feminine sorority perfect and exclusive.
Godric glanced down at his tea.
It would be awkward with his father’s family in the house. He still had to continue his Ghostly duties, find the lassie snatchers, and now Roger Fraser-Burnsby’s murderer as well. Add to that Captain Trevillion watching him suspiciously, and his job had become much more difficult.
Not that obstacles would stop him.
“… if that’s agreeable with you, Godric?” his stepmother inquired.
He looked up to find five pairs of feminine eyes focused on him. Godric cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”
Megs sighed, making him aware that he’d missed more than one or two sentences. “We’ve decided to visit the modiste directly after luncheon and then tonight we’re to dine with Griffin and Hero. But”—she turned to his father’s family—“I’m sure Hero will invite you as well, once she hears you’re in town.”
Jane’s eyes rounded in awe. “She’s the daughter of a duke, isn’t she?”
Megs smiled. “And the sister of one. In fact, the duke may be there as well tonight.”
For a moment, the girl was frozen in apparent awe. Then she burst into a flurry of excited movement, chattering all the while about dresses and shoes and what would she wear?
Godric sighed. This was going to be a long day. He caught Megs watching him with a small, approving tilt to her lips.
But perhaps it would be worth it.
THAT NIGHT, MEGS watched as the Duke of Wakefield frowned down at his nephew in ducal disapproval and said, “I don’t understand why the boy cries every time he sees me.”
“He’s developing good taste,” Griffin replied kindly as he picked up sweet William, who immediately quieted, leaning against his father’s chest as he sucked on his forefinger.
Hero rolled her eyes discreetly—something she would never have done before marrying Griffin.
They were in the family sitting room where William had been brought down by his nurse before being put to bed. Great-Aunt Elvina leaned close to Hero, her hand behind her ear to hear whatever Hero was shouting at her. Jane sat ramrod straight, her eyes wide in awe as she watched every movement the Duke of Wakefield made. Beside her, her sisters and mother were more relaxed, obviously enjoying being in such exalted company. Knowing how the gossip mill worked in Upper Hornsfield, Megs knew they could dine upon this night for months. Godric stood near the mantel, watching. Megs frowned. Why was it that he always seemed so apart, even when in the midst of his own family?
William made a sound, drawing her eyes. A splotch of baby drool darkened Griffin’s waistcoat and Megs couldn’t help smirking. Her brother had been such a notorious rake before meeting Hero.
“May I?” she asked shyly, indicating William.
“Of course.”
Griffin placed sweet William in her arms and then she was being examined by large, green eyes the exact shade of his sire. He was heavier than she’d expected, a solid, warm bundle, smelling faintly of milk and biscuits. William had reddish-brown, curling hair, plump cheeks, and his lips, pursed around his finger, were so rosy and sweet Megs couldn’t help kissing him on his little forehead.
Soon, oh, please let it be soon.
William withdrew his finger from his mouth and patted her cheek wetly.
“Babies are terribly messy,” Great-Aunt Elvina announced, then ruined her stern words by making clucking noises at William.
“He’s teething again,” Hero said beside Megs. “Do you want me to take him? He’ll think nothing of ruining your dress.”
