“I went away, as I said,” Godric said. “I had come to terms with my father by then, knew that I’d been acting like an immature fool. I determined to right my life and perhaps gain the respect of my father and stepmother. I could tell Sir Stanley was disappointed in my decision, but he was understanding as well. Too, by that point he had his second apprentice well in hand.”
Megs actually had to dig her nails into the palms of her hands to keep herself from asking the questions. Who was the other apprentice? Had Godric wanted to become the Ghost of St. Giles at such a young age? Had his father known what Sir Stanley was training Godric to be?
But her husband was speaking again. “So I went off to Oxford, learned many things, grew into a man, and when I came home to Laurelwood, I met Clara at a country ball.”
He closed his eyes. “I’ve told you how that went. We were happy—so very happy—for nearly a year. And then she became ill. We moved to London to be closer to the doctors. I hoped—I prayed—that we could find an elixir or treatment to cure her. I held out hope for a year and a half before I realized there was no cure for my Clara. That she would die from this disease and I could do nothing about it—nothing but watch.” A corner of his lovely mouth lifted, curling into an ugly sneer of pain. “I watched as she grew thinner, as the agony began to claw at her from the inside.”
He opened his clear gray eyes then, and she saw the remembered despair. It must’ve been truly hellish being helpless in the face of his love’s suffering.
She could stand it no more. Megs reached out, taking his cold hand in hers.
Godric bent his head, staring at her fingers atop his, making no move to grasp hers but not shaking her off either.
She took comfort in that.
“I think I would’ve gone insane,” he murmured to their hands, “if Sir Stanley had not called upon me one day. He’d heard, from my father, about Clara’s illness, and he had a simple offer: to come train with him again. He had by then the third of our small coterie, a young man, barely more than a lad. His second disciple, the one I had known, had broken away from Sir Stanley and had already become the Ghost of St. Giles. Sir Stanley made the excuse that his new pupil would need a sparring partner, but I knew. He offered salvation, a respite from the daily torment of watching Clara die. He offered the Ghost for me as well.”
Megs stared. “I don’t understand. If there was already a Ghost, how could you become one as well?”
“It wasn’t just me,” he said. “The third man took up the mask and swords soon after I did. Until two years ago, all three of us were the Ghost of St. Giles.”
Megs’s brow wrinkled. “Didn’t you run into each other?”
A smile lit Godric’s solemn crystal eyes. “Very rarely. You have to understand—I didn’t go out every night and neither did the other Ghosts. If by some chance we were both active on the same night, it was merely whispered that the Ghost could be in two places at once, which,” he said wryly, “he can.”
“But three different men …” Megs shook her head. “Didn’t people notice you weren’t the same man?”
Godric shrugged. “No. We have similar physiques. Besides, if one is wearing an outlandish costume composed of a mask, cape, large hat, and a harlequin’s livery, well, any witnesses rarely notice what the man beneath looks like.”
Megs nodded thoughtfully. “I think your Sir Stanley must have been a very clever man.”
“Oh, he was,” Godric said softly. He bent his head, seeming to be lost in a memory. He’d turned his hand in hers, and now his thumb was moving in circles on the back of her hand.
It was a rather nice sensation, actually.
“Godric,” Megs whispered carefully.
He glanced at her. “Hmm?”
She swallowed, loath to shatter this moment. But her curiosity had always been her downfall. “Clara died three years ago, didn’t she?”
He stiffened at the mention of his first wife’s name on her lips and dropped her hand. “Yes.”
She felt strangely bereft, but she soldiered on, asking the question. “Then why are you still the Ghost of St. Giles?”