between his teeth, “No doubt he does, St. John, but it might disturb the ladies should the box suddenly flood with blood.”
A wave of laughter rose through the theater as evidently the actors did something amusing onstage.
Godric cleared his throat. “Actually, I wanted to know what you’ve told my wife about Fraser-Burnsby.”
D’Arque stiffened. “I told her the truth: Roger was a very good friend of mine.”
Godric nodded. “Do you know anything about his death?”
The viscount’s eyes narrowed. He was a notorious rake, a man who seemed to spend his days—and nights—chasing women, but Godric had never thought him stupid. For a moment he waited for the question—why was he asking about Fraser-Burnsby’s death in the first place?—then d’Arque shrugged. “All the world knows that the Ghost of St. Giles killed my friend.”
Godric felt Lord Griffin’s swift glance. “But he didn’t.”
“And how do you know this?” The viscount’s words were scoffing, but his expression was reluctantly interested.
“I just do,” Godric said low. “Someone murdered Roger Fraser-Burnsby and blamed it on a convenient culprit: the Ghost of St. Giles.”
“Even if that was so,” d’Arque whispered, “what has that to do with your wife?”
Reading inhaled as if to interject something, but Godric was faster. “She was fond of Fraser-Burnsby and has taken up the cause of finding his murderer, I’m afraid.”
“What?” Reading’s exclamation was overloud, and both the ladies in front moved as if to turn and see what the commotion was about. Fortunately, something happened onstage at that moment, eliciting a gasp from the audience.
Godric waited until he was certain that the ladies’ attention was on the play. Then he sent a look to Reading. “I have no doubt you’d know this yourself had you asked your sister about her return to London.”
A dull flush lit Reading’s face. “My relationship with Megs is none of your business—”
“False,” Godric clipped out. “You made certain of that the day you signed the marriage settlement.”
“Fascinating as this discussion is, gentlemen,” d’Arque broke in quietly, “I’m more interested in the death of my friend. Who killed Roger if not the Ghost?”
“I don’t know,” Godric said.
The viscount leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his jaw. In the silence a feminine voice rose onstage in a bawdy song.
At last d’Arque looked at Godric. “If your assertion is true—which, I am not yet ready to entirely concede—then Roger’s murder wasn’t a mere robbery or matter of happenstance. Someone killed him and then attempted to cover up the crime.”
Godric nodded.
“But that can’t be,” d’Arque said slowly as if talking to himself. “Roger had no enemies. Everyone liked him—they had ever since we were both schoolboys. He’d smile at the most misanthropic bully and suddenly they were a jolly bosom-bow. I truly can’t think of anyone who would’ve wanted to kill him.”
“There were no witnesses?” Reading asked.
D’Arque’s eyes flicked to him. “There was a footman. He was the one who came to tell us of the news during a ball at my home.”
“Did you question him?” Godric asked.
“Only briefly.” The viscount hesitated. “His name was Harris. He disappeared in the weeks following Roger’s death. I remember a note came later asking that his things be sent to the One Horned Goat in St. Giles.”
“This footman, he was the one who reported that the Ghost was the murderer?” Reading asked.
D’Arque nodded.
“Perhaps he was bribed,” Reading murmured.
Godric leaned forward. “Had he been with Fraser-Burnsby long?”
“No.” D’Arque slowly shook his head, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Roger had hired him only the month before.”
All three men were silent, contemplating the obvious conclusion.
“Damn it!” d’Arque hissed low. “I spent months searching for Roger’s killer, but it never occurred to me that it might not be the Ghost of St. Giles.”
The viscount’s outburst seemed genuine enough. But then Godric had seen beggars weep real tears for the pain of their crippled legs—just before stealing a purse and running away.
“What about your friend Seymour?” he asked the viscount. “Wasn’t he killed in St. Giles as well?”
Reading started to say something, then closed his mouth.
D’Arque’s eyes narrowed. “What has that to do with Roger’s death?”
Godric shrugged, for he could not reveal what he knew of Seymour’s death. The viscount sighed and leaned back in his chair, watching the stage, though Godric doubted he saw anything. “We were all friends, Kershaw, Seymour, Roger, and I. Kershaw and Seymour helped me search for the Ghost of St. Giles before … before Seymour was killed in such an untimely manner.”