Godric doused the candles in the study and crossed to the long doors that led out into Saint House’s garden. He spent a full minute waiting for his eyes to adjust as he carefully peered out, but saw no one. If Trevillion was good enough to hide from him in his own garden, he deserved to be caught.
Cautiously, he opened the doors and stole out into the moonlight, Makepeace a silent shadow behind him. The home’s manager might not have donned the mask of the Ghost for over two years, but it was obvious that he’d not lost any of his skill in that time. The old fruit tree made a macabre outline against the night sky, and as he passed it, Godric wondered how long before Megs gave up and conceded that the thing was dead.
Then he shoved any thoughts of his wife from his mind. He needed to concentrate if he was to survive this night. Past the garden was the old river wall, the sound of lapping water and the stink of the river rising from beyond. An ancient gate pierced the wall, a crumbling arch crowning it. Godric pushed open the gate, glad that he made Moulder oil it monthly.
He grinned in the dark as the other man followed him. “One of the few advantages to owning a very old London house.”
They stood at the top of a set of bare stone steps, set flat into the river wall. Below was a small dock with a rowboat tied to a post. Godric led the way down, stepping carefully into the rowboat. He picked up one oar while Makepeace settled into the boat; then with a practiced movement, he used it to shove away from the dock and began sculling quietly downriver, using only his right hand.
They hadn’t far to go. At the next set of river stairs, Godric maneuvered the rowboat in and tied it up.
“You’ll not be able to use that method again,” Makepeace said as they climbed the steps. “Trevillion is smart. He’ll figure out how you slipped past him when he hears about your activity tonight.”
“Then I’d best make sure I need not return again.” Godric shrugged and amended his statement, “At least not for a while.”
He felt the other man’s gaze upon him as they made their way into the warren of streets beyond the river. This area wasn’t rich, but it was certainly respectable enough. Lanterns shown by nearly every door and they were forced to keep close to what shadows they could find.
“This life isn’t best suited for a married man,” Makepeace observed neutrally.
“I’ve been married nearly two years,” Godric replied. He didn’t want to think about Megs’s reproachful face right now.
“But living apart.”
They paused at the corner of a cobbler’s shop as a night watchman went limping by.
Godric glanced at the other man and Makepeace raised his brows. “Your good wife only came to London recently, yes?”
“Yes.” Godric shook his head irritably. “What of it?”
Makepeace shrugged. “Most would take the change as opportunity to quit this life.”
“And leave those children to be worked to death? Is that what you’re proposing?”
“No, but perhaps the dragoons could be of more use, especially,” Makepeace said drily, “if we let Trevillion in on the information we sometimes get.”
Godric snorted. “You think Captain Trevillion would bother himself with mundanities such as little girl slaves?”
“I think he’s not so unreasonable as he appears.”
Godric stared at the other man. “What makes you say that?”
A corner of Makepeace’s mouth lifted. “A feeling?”
“A feeling.” They were nearly in St. Giles now, walking fast. Godric drew his sword, ignoring the slight discomfort in his left wrist. He used his short sword as a defense weapon, and the knowledge that he was without it made him uneasy. “Pardon me if I do not put much trust in your ‘feelings.’”
“As you wish,” Makepeace said, easily matching his stride. “But please remember that not even Sir Stanley Gilpin expected us to do this for the rest of our lives.”
Godric stopped short, whirling to face the other man. They never said that name to each other. In fact, until Winter had spoken to him about the lassie snatchers, they hadn’t even acknowledged each other for years—since before Sir Stanley had died, he realized now.
Makepeace had stopped at his abrupt movement and was watching him with eyes that might have held sympathy. “I’ve been thinking recently about Sir Stanley.”
Godric flinched at the name of the man who’d been more father to him than his own father. Something inside of him wanted to weep and he repressed it savagely. “What about him?”
Makepeace cocked his head, his eyes sliding contemplatively to the full moon, half hidden by the rooftops above. “I wonder what he would make of us now. Your near-suicidal drive, our compatriot’s obsession, my own solitude until my dear wife drew me from it … somehow I don’t think this is what he meant for us to be. Sir Stanley was so playful in everything he did—the theater, teaching us tumbling, even while practicing sword craft. It was all a great, amusing lark for him. Not something to be taken seriously. Not something to die for—or to forsake life for. I don’t think he would’ve been proud of us for doing so.”
“He created us,” Godric said softly, “but we’re thinking creations with our own motivations. He cannot have been surprised when we made our own use of his instructions.”
“Perhaps.” Makepeace looked at him. “But it’s something to consider nonetheless.”
Godric didn’t bother answering that, merely breaking into a jog as they neared the home.
Five minutes later, they saw the familiar steps and lit front door. Godric slowed, peering cautiously around. “Alf?”
“She was to meet us here, but she wouldn’t come inside the home,” Makepeace muttered. He sighed. “I’ll go see if she changed her mind.”
But the moment he stepped from the shadows, Alf glided over, so quickly that Godric wasn’t sure where she’d been hiding. “Is ’e ’ere?”
“Yes.” Godric stepped out of the darkness.
The girl whirled, obviously having not noticed him before. She cocked her head when she saw that he bore only one sword. “Can you fight like that?”
Godric inclined his head in a curt nod.
“Good luck,” Makepeace said grimly.
“Come on.” The girl led the way, winding through the alleys of St. Giles. She didn’t try to move up into the rooftops, which Godric was grateful for. He might be able to fight with one hand, but he didn’t want to try climbing.
They were in a narrow tunnel, approaching a courtyard, when Alf stopped short. Godric could see movement in the courtyard beyond her, but only her cry made him realize what was happening.
“They’re taking away the lassies!”
At once he pushed past her. If the girls were moved, they might never find them again.
A man, obviously a guard, stood by as a tall, thin woman dragged two girls from a low cellar. Two more waited dispiritedly at the other end of the courtyard.
Godric charged the guard silently, dodging a blow made too late as the guard realized his danger and then hitting the man in the temple with the butt of his sword.
The guard crumpled, immobile.
The woman screamed, high and shrill, and two more men emerged from the cellar. Fortunately the door was so narrow they could exit only one at a time. Godric ran one through and caught the other by the arm, swinging him hard into the wall. The man’s head bounced off the brick with a wet sound.
He turned to the woman to see if she would attack, but she was already running out the far side of the courtyard. The girls were huddled together. One was crying, but the others were apparently too petrified to make a sound.
A scrape came from behind him, and Godric twisted around only just in time: a fourth man had already emerged.
And this one had a sword.
Godric parried the strike. The blades slid along each other, screeching, and then broke apart. Godric backed a pace, watching the swordsman advance. Only aristocrats were allowed by law to carry swords. He tried to catch a glimpse of the other man’s face, but he wore a tricorne and had wound his neck cloth around the lower half of his face.
Then he had no more time to ponder his attacker’s face. The man was on him, his sword flashing with compact, deadly intensity—expert intensity.
Godric knew if he backed any farther, he’d be cornered. He feinted left and ducked right, hearing the rip of his cloak as he just managed to pass the other man. He whirled to repel a savage thrust and then lunged for the other man’s exposed flank. His opponent curved to the side, his arm outthrust. Godric felt the blade tip run a line up the entire length of his right arm, searing like a brand. His sleeve flapped open and warmth began to run down his arm, but the cut must not’ve been deep—he could still use the arm. Godric attacked again. He thrust into the other’s face, making the man arch back. His blade was caught, but he jerked it free, circling as he did so, trying to yank the other’s sword from his hand. But the man leaped back, recovering, his blade still in his grip. The swordsman’s neck cloth slipped and for a moment Godric looked him full in the face.
Then the swordsman stabbed to Godric’s right and too late Godric realized it was a feint. He wasn’t quick enough to parry the sword thrust with his blade, but he brought his left arm up, catching the blow on his elbow.
His entire arm sang with agony.
His opponent turned and leaped away, running toward the alley on the farther side of the courtyard. Godric instinctively lunged after the man, the need to give chase and bring down his prey driving strong. His left arm was throbbing hard, though, and he remembered the promise he’d made to Megs. He’d said he’d return unharmed and alive.
Well, at least he was alive.
He turned wearily back to the children in time to see Alf kneel in front of a small, grimy redheaded girl. Alf was scowling fiercely, perhaps in an attempt to keep from seeming like she cared as she tenderly wiped the child’s tearstained face.
The sight almost made his heart lighten. He tried to tell himself that the girls were rescued and that was the main thing, but it didn’t lift the leaden weight in his chest. He’d seen the face of his attacker, the man responsible for enslaving children in St. Giles, the man he’d let escape alive, and Godric knew that the man was near untouchable. He’d never be brought to justice.
For the swordsman had been the Earl of Kershaw.
THERE WAS BLOOD on Godric.
Megs couldn’t think, couldn’t see beyond that one stark fact. She stood stock-still for an awful, endless minute after he opened the door to his bedroom, simply staring at the long bandage on his right arm and the slit, bloody sleeve that hung, flapping. She’d been waiting there, awake and pacing, ever since he’d left, and the room was in a bit of a mess—not that she cared. Moulder was behind him and Godric was saying something, but she couldn’t hear.
“Get out,” she told the manservant, unable to even phrase the order politely.
Moulder took one look at her and fled.
Godric wasn’t so smart. He was frowning slightly now and saying something about a minor cut and looks worse than it is, and Moulder has already seen to it, despite the fact that anyone could see he was holding his left arm stiffly as well, and she just wanted to hit him.
Instead she grabbed his face in both of her hands and stood on tiptoe to bring her mouth to his. She kissed him savagely, her lips wide, her tongue demanding wet access to his mouth, and it was a damned good thing he opened at once, because she would’ve bitten him if he hadn’t. She heard him groan and then his arms started to wrap around her, but she wasn’t having any of it.
She broke free to attack the falls of his Ghost costume. “You lied to me.”
“I came back alive,” he said in a soothing voice. At least he never pretended that he didn’t know the reason for her anger.
