proper. She should be able to talk to Lord d’Arque out of earshot of Sarah but still be within sight. “We’ve made several new plantings and I’m sure you’ll be pleased, my lord, to see them.”
She had no idea if the viscount was at all interested in gardening, but he murmured an assent.
Sarah arched a brow but merely said, “That sounds lovely. Shall I fetch our hats?”
Megs smiled at her. “Please.”
When she turned back around, Lord d’Arque was solemn again, but he didn’t mention Roger. They talked of inconsequential things until Sarah once again returned, a wide straw hat on her head and one in her hand. Megs thanked her and they all three proceeded to the garden. They strolled for a bit with Megs babbling about crocuses and forget-me-nots before Sarah cast her an odd look and declared that she wished to sit for a while. She sank onto one of the marble benches near the house—recently cleaned by the little maids—and gazed discreetly toward the river wall.
“Perhaps you can give me an opinion on my fruit tree,” Megs said as she and the viscount strolled in that direction.
Lord d’Arque glanced disinterestedly at the tree. “It looks dead.” He stopped. “My lady, you once asked about my friend Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”
“Yes.” She focused on the tree, searching out the tiny buds. It wasn’t dead—quite the contrary.
“I think,” the viscount said, “that you may have had a … close friendship with Roger.”
She looked at him. He was watching her frankly, and she could see a deep pain in his eyes. She made an impulsive decision. “I loved him and he loved me.”
He bowed his head. “I’m glad he found you before his death.”
Her eyes pricked and she blinked rapidly. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “I’ve been thinking the matter over since I talked to your husband at the theater. I wonder if perhaps we pooled our knowledge of his last movements, we might, between us, discover how he came to be killed—and who did it.”
She took a deep breath, once again looking at the tree. “The last time I saw him, Roger had proposed to me.”
His head jerked in surprise. “You were engaged?”
“Yes.”
“But why didn’t you tell anyone?”
She ran a finger over the gnarled branch of the old tree. “It was a secret—he hadn’t yet asked my elder brother for my hand. Roger wanted to prove himself, I think. He talked about a business proposition, one that would make enough money that he could ask for my hand properly.”
Lord d’Arque made a quiet exclamation.
She glanced at him curiously. “What is it?”
“About six months before Roger died, I was asked by a friend of ours if I wanted to take part in a business venture. One that he assured me would make lots of money.”
Megs frowned. “What was the business?”
“I don’t know.” Lord d’Arque shrugged. “I find that business propositions that promise cornucopias of money generally end up with the investor losing all but his smallclothes. I avoid them when possible. Since I turned down the proposition at once, I never found out what the business was.”
“Who was the friend who made the offer, then?”
Lord d’Arque hesitated only a moment. “The Earl of Kershaw.”
GODRIC OPENED HIS eyes to the sight of Megs sitting on a chair next to his bed. He glanced at the window and was surprised to see the light dimming. He must’ve slept all day. For a moment he watched her. She sat with her head bowed, staring at her hands as she idly twined her fingers together. She looked deep in thought, and the spark that lit in his chest just from her presence was … warming.
“Have you been there since morning?” he asked his wife softly.
She started and looked up. “No, I went down for luncheon, and we had a visitor this morning.”
“Oh?” He yawned, stretching lazily, a twinge from his left arm reminding him why he’d been abed to begin with. All things considered, he felt much better. Perhaps he could lure Megs into coming to bed with him for a repeat of this morning’s activities.
“Lord d’Arque came to call.”
He stilled. “Why?”
She bit her lip, looking a little lost. “He wanted to talk about Roger.”
She told him of the conversation she’d had with d’Arque, and by the time she was telling him that Kershaw had once asked the viscount to invest in a mysterious business, he’d closed his eyes in horror.
“What is it, Godric?”
How could he tell her? He opened his eyes, a fierce sense of protectiveness flooding