him. He never wanted her hurt. The knowledge he now had would bring no relief from her sorrow. But she wasn’t a child. He hadn’t the right to decide what information to give her and what to keep from her.
He took a breath. “Two years ago, the Ghost of St. Giles—a different Ghost than me—killed Charles Seymour.” His eyes flicked up at her. “Seymour had been enslaving girls—small girls, most younger than twelve—to make fancy ladies’ stockings.”
“Like the workshops you told me about.” She nodded. “What does that have to do with Roger?”
“We thought the stocking workshops had been shut down with the death of Seymour. But they started again in St. Giles, not long ago. Last night I found the last one—and freed eleven little girls. I got this”—he raised his injured left arm—“when I was attacked by a gentleman.”
She simply looked at him, the question in her eyes.
He sighed. “It was Kershaw.”
Her lips parted slowly, her brows drawing together. “Lord d’Arque said that the Earl of Kershaw offered him an investment opportunity but didn’t say what it was. If Roger was made a similar offer by the earl …” She stood suddenly as if she could no longer sit still, pacing agitatedly in front of the bed. “He wanted to improve his funds before offering for my hand. If he accepted the business deal without inquiring what kind of business it was …” She stopped, staring at him, her eyes wide. “If he went to St. Giles and was presented with a workshop with enslaved little girls … dear God, Godric! Roger was a good man. He would’ve never condoned such horror.”
Godric inclined his head. “They would’ve had to murder him so he wouldn’t tell others.”
“This is the answer, then,” Megs whispered. “We must tell the authorities. We must—”
“No.”
She jerked, her eyes wounded. “What?”
He sat up, leaning forward. “He’s an earl, Megs, and we have no proof of anything, really, merely guesses. For all we know, Seymour killed Roger. Or someone else. Unlikely that an earl would do such stuff himself.”
Her hands became tight fists. “He’s still responsible, even if it was his partner or someone he hired. He helped kill Roger.”
“We don’t even know that,” Godric said tiredly. “This is all speculation.”
“If I told Lord d’Arque—”
“If you told the viscount—and he believed you—what do you think would happen?” he asked hard. “D’Arque would be forced to call Kershaw out.”
She blinked and opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it. Dueling was illegal. Even if d’Arque survived a duel—and Godric wouldn’t put it past Kershaw to cheat—he would be banished from the country.
“Give me some time,” he said gently. “I’ll investigate and learn more.”
She bit her lip and whispered, “I can’t stand the thought of him walking free when Roger is in his grave.”
“I’m sorry.” He held out his hands. “Come here.”
She came with slow steps like a reluctant child.
He took her hands, pulling her down to the bed with him, and he felt her slight resistance. “Shhh. I just want to lie with you, nothing more.”
He was afraid she would make an excuse and pull away. He wasn’t hurt and they weren’t about to have sex. There was no practical reason for her to lie with him.
But she did anyway, a soft weight against his side, smelling of orange blossoms and life. He couldn’t help but feel glad when she laid her hand on his chest and her breathing grew slow.
Still, he stared at the ceiling of his bedroom for long minutes, planning, calculating, trying to find a way to bring down an earl.
Chapter Eighteen
“Poor, poor souls!” Faith cried, and a single tear fell from her eye.
Her unhappiness so enchanted Loss that he forgot himself, letting go of the horse and clapping his tiny red hands. Swifter than the blink of an eye, Faith pushed the imp from the horse. He fell with a shriek and was trampled beneath the big black horse’s hooves.
The Hellequin chuckled under his breath. “Those demon imps have been my sole companions for an eternity, yet you’ve rid me of them in one day.”…
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Late the next morning, Megs stared down at her figures and did the calculation again. For the third time. Both because she always got a bit muddled when it came to numbers and because, well, they couldn’t be correct.
Yet the result was the same: She’d missed one of her courses and was late for the second. How was that possible? She tried