Lord of Darkness (24 page)

She realized that Charlotte sat to her left—the gentlemen were overmatched by the ladies—and,
oh dear
, to her right was the duke. Megs mentally sighed. The Duke of Wakefield was a rather daunting gentleman to make dinner conversation with. The footmen brought out great platters of fish and began serving as Megs searched her mind for something to say to His Grace.

Instead it was he who turned to her. “I trust you enjoyed the play at Harte’s Folly last night, my lady?”

“Oh, yes, Your Grace,” she murmured, watching as he tore apart a crusty roll. “And you?”

“I confess that the theater doesn’t entertain me,” he replied, his voice bored, but then something softened about his eyes as he glanced at her. “But both Phoebe and Cousin Bathilda like it very much.”

For the first time, Megs felt a faint liking for the duke. “Do you take them there often?”

He shrugged. “There or other theaters in London. They also like the opera, particularly Phoebe. I think the music partially compensates for the fact that she can’t entirely see the stage.” He frowned down at his fish as if it had offended him.

Megs
felt a pang. “It’s that bad, then?”

He merely nodded and seemed relieved when Thomas’s voice rose farther down the table.

“The act hasn’t been given enough time,” he was telling Griffin. “When the gin sellers all have been arrested, then the drink must perforce be reduced in the streets of London.”

“It’s been two years,” Griffin growled back, “and your gin act hasn’t done much more than line the pockets of a few crooked informers. I could still buy gin at every fourth house in St. Giles were I wont.”

Thomas’s eyes narrowed as the footmen brought in the next course—a roasted joint and various vegetables—and he opened his mouth to retort.

But the duke intervened. “Griffin is right.”

Both brothers turned to him, astonished. The duke was not a bosom-bow of Griffin’s—he’d been determinedly against the younger brother’s marrying his sister—and Megs knew Thomas considered him a friend and ally.

But the duke set his fork down and sat back. “The act has had two years to effect change and it hasn’t. The only real good it’s done is correct the faults of the ‘36 act, which”—the duke grimaced—“is faint praise indeed. We are at an impasse. London cannot continue with the loss of vigor and blood that gin sucks from it like some ungodly parasite.”

“What do you suggest?” Thomas asked slowly.

The duke pinned him with his cold eyes. “We need a new act.”

Griffin, Thomas, and the duke burst into furious political argument while Godric twirled his wineglass, his eyes intent as he followed the discussion. He wasn’t a peer,
so he didn’t sit in Parliament, but every male seemed infected by the blight of gin these days and the discussion on what to do about it.

And, of course, the blight of gin affected everything in St. Giles.

Megs sighed and turned toward Charlotte on her other side. “Are you pleased with the gowns you selected today?”

“Yes, although I did want that sky-blue moiré.”

Charlotte cast a disgruntled glance at Jane across the table. The sisters had nearly come to blows over the gorgeous fabric before Mrs. St. John had hushed them with the simple threat that
no one
would get the sky-blue moiré if the matter wasn’t decided in the next second. Charlotte and Jane had looked at each other silently and Charlotte had huffed and conceded the silk to Jane. Ten minutes later, they were enjoying ices, elbows linked, bright blond heads together, and one would never have known the sisters had fought so adamantly just moments before.

Which didn’t mean that Charlotte had entirely forgiven her sister, of course.

“You did get that lovely turquoise brocade,” Megs reminded her diplomatically.

“Yes,” Charlotte said, brightening, “and those delicious lace mitts.” She sighed happily before turning to Megs. “That peachy-pink silk is going to look so pretty with your dark hair. I’m sure Godric will be smitten.”

Megs smiled, but she couldn’t help her gaze sliding away from her sister-in-law’s. Did she want Godric smitten? She glanced up and saw that he was watching her now, his gray eyes heavily lidded, his long, elegant fingers still playing with the stem of his wineglass.

Twirling.
Twirling. Twirling.

Her face heated for some reason and she looked hastily away again, taking a sip of her wine to calm herself.

“Megs?” Charlotte asked hesitantly.

Megs focused her attention on her sister-in-law. “Yes?”

Charlotte was pushing together a mound of creamed potatoes and parsnips, pressing the tines into the fluffy vegetables to make small, parallel furrows. She leaned close to Megs, her voice lowering. “Do you think Godric will ever …” She cleared her throat as if searching for the word, her forehead compressing into furrows that matched the ones on her plate. “Do you think he’ll ever want to be
close
to us?”

“I don’t know,” Megs said honestly. Having heard Godric’s recollections of his youth, she knew now the broad gulf between him and the rest of his family had started long before Clara’s death had made him a near hermit. They were so very far apart. Could anything bridge a gap widened by both time and distance?

Megs bit her lip and sat back as the footmen cleared their plates and brought in individual glasses of syllabub.

“It’s just …” Charlotte was still frowning, peering now at her dish of syllabub. She picked up her spoon and poked the quivering mass, then sighed and set her spoon down again. “I remember when I was very young. He seemed so tall and strong then. I thought he was a god, my elder brother. Mama says I used to follow him about like a chick when he visited, though that wasn’t often. He must’ve found it very boring to be tagged by a girl child still in the nursery.”

Megs rather wanted to hurl her own spoon at her husband at that moment.

“I doubt
very much that he was bored by you,” she said gently. “It’s just that your mother married your father when Godric was at a difficult age for a boy. And, too, he’d lost his own mother. …” She trailed off, feeling inadequate. The fact was that Godric might’ve been hurt as a lad, but he was a
man
now. There was no reason for him to hold himself apart from his sisters.

“He’s my brother,” Charlotte whispered so low that Megs nearly didn’t catch the words. “My
only
brother.”

And even the delicious syllabub didn’t make up for the sinking of Megs’s heart at those words. She had to find a way to make Godric see that his sisters and stepmother were important. This might be his only chance. Once they were married and had families of their own, they’d have far less incentive to want to bring him into their fold.

He’d end up entirely alone.

Megs slowly lowered her spoon to her empty dish at the thought. She’d promised to leave London—leave
Godric
—once she was with child. She’d have the baby and all her friends and relations in the country. She lived a full and happy life there—one that wanted only a child of her own. But Godric …

Well, who did Godric have, really?

There was his friend, Lord Caire. But Lord Caire had his own family—one that would no doubt grow and demand more of his time. She had a vision of Godric, old and alone, surrounded by his books and little else. Someday he’d have to give up being the Ghost of St. Giles—always assuming he didn’t die doing it—and then he’d have … nothing.

The thought was distressing. Megs looked over at Godric, who was now bending down to listen to something Lavinia was
saying. She might not love him, but he was her husband. Her
responsibility
. How had she not seen before that she
couldn’t
leave him alone?

The gentlemen suddenly rose and Megs realized that she’d missed Hero inviting the ladies to the sitting room for tea. The duke held Mrs. St. John’s chair for her and then Megs’s—putting age before rank, and quite properly in Megs’s opinion.

Mrs. St. John linked arms with Megs on one side and Charlotte on the other. “And what were you two whispering about so seriously during the dessert?”

“Godric.” Charlotte sighed, and Mrs. St. John merely nodded because there wasn’t much to say to that, was there?

In the sitting room, Hero was already serving tea while Sarah sat at the harpsichord, experimentally plunking the keys.

“Oh, do sing, girls,” Mrs. St. John said as she took a cup of tea. “That old ballad you learned the other day.”

So Jane and Charlotte linked arms and sang to Sarah’s accompaniment, for as it turned out the ballad was to a tune Sarah already knew.

“Lovely, quite lovely,” Great-Aunt Elvina murmured, tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair in time to the song.

Megs leaned back and listened with enjoyment. Her own voice would startle a crow, but she did like to hear others sing and the St. John girls, while not the most polished voices she’d ever heard, were very pleasant. If they stopped now and again to giggle and retry a phrasing, Megs didn’t mind. They were singing to family, and she was rather pleased that they had become comfortable enough with
Hero and Lavinia to include them in that designation.

After an hour, the gentlemen joined them and Megs saw the moment the St. John girls instinctively stiffened. She sighed. It was hard to be relaxed with either Thomas or the duke about. But Griffin was here now and she was determined to talk to him.

So she sidled up to her brother and in a low tone suggested he show her his new house—after all, she hadn’t been given a proper tour before.

Griffin gave her an alert look, but he held out his arm readily enough, leading her out of the sitting room with a murmured word to Hero. Megs felt Godric’s curious gaze even after they’d shut the door behind them. The house was quiet outside the sitting room, until the harpsichord started again and a beautiful baritone voice began singing. Megs knit her eyebrows. That was funny. Thomas had no more vocal talent than she, and she hadn’t been aware that Godric could sing.

But Griffin was leading her to the grand staircase and muttering something about
skylights
and
pilasters
and
the Italian influence
. Megs squinted at him. Was he having her on?

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Griffin, do stop,” she said at last.

He turned and grinned down at her mischievously. “Thought you didn’t really want to tour the house. What is it, Megs?”

“You and gin distilling,” she said bluntly, because she couldn’t think of any way to get to the point delicately, and anyway, she hadn’t the time.

“What about me and gin distilling?” he asked carelessly, but his
face had closed, which on Griffin was a dead giveaway.

She took a deep breath. “I heard that you used to support the family, even Thomas, by distilling gin in St. Giles.”

“Goddamn St. John!” he exploded. “He had no right to tell you.”

Megs raised her eyebrows. “I think he did have a right. I’m his
wife
and more importantly
your
sister. Griffin! Why ever didn’t you tell us that we were in financial straits?”

“It wasn’t your business.”

“Wasn’t our business?” She gaped at her older brother and not for the first time thought how much a good knock on the head might suit him. “Caro and I were spending money as if we hadn’t a care in the world. I distinctly remember Thomas buying that terrible gilt-trimmed carriage after Papa died. Surely he wouldn’t have done that had he known.
Of course
it was our business. We could’ve been more frugal. Could’ve minded our purchases.”

“I didn’t want you to mind your purchases.” Griffin expelled a hard breath, stepping back from her. “Don’t you see, Megs? That was my burden to bear. I was supposed to take care of you and Mater and Caro.”

“And Thomas?” she asked softly, incredulously.

“He hasn’t a head for money. Neither did Pater. There wasn’t anyone else.”

“Griffin,” she said softly, laying her hand on his arm. “There was me. Maybe not when I was younger, but I’ve been past twenty for five years now. I had the right to provide mental support for you at the very least. I had the right to
know
.”

Griffin grimaced and looked away. Megs expected him to refute
her right—the Griffin of three years ago, prior to marrying Hero, would’ve—but when he glanced back at her, his eyes had softened.

“Oh, Megs,” he said. “You know I can’t deny you anything.” She arched her eyebrows pointedly, and he threw up his hands. “Fine. Yes.
Yes
, I should’ve told you, should’ve let you shoulder a bit of my burden.”

“Thank you,” she said, not without a hint of complacency. “I have one more question.”

He looked a little hunted but nodded his head bravely enough.

“Is the family still in financial straits?” she asked. “Are
you
in financial straits?”

“No,” he said immediately, with what sounded like relief. “I’m still in filthy business, of course, but it’s respectable enough now. I’ve got sheep grazing on the family lands and a workshop here in London spinning the wool.” He shrugged. “It’s small now, but we’re making a good profit and I’ll be expanding soon. Not”—he added wryly—“that I’d ever say that aloud in society.”

Having
money was good, naturally. Actually
making
money was deeply frowned upon by society. Presumably a gentleman would rather starve than let his hands get dirty with commerce.

Megs was very grateful that Griffin had never cared particularly for society’s rules.

She threaded her arm through his elbow. “I’m glad to hear it. But, Griffin?”

“Hmm?” He was strolling with her back toward the sitting room where the baritone was still singing.

“Promise me that if ever you run into straits again—financial or otherwise—you’ll tell me.”

“Oh, all
right, Megs,” he replied, rolling his eyes a bit.

She smiled to herself. He might balk, but it was important to her that Griffin was honest with her. A family should be honest. And they should share things—both good and bad.

She was reflecting on the subject and wondering how exactly she could push Godric in that direction with his own family when they entered the sitting room and she stopped short in surprise.