further. She was stronger than she looked, his stepmother, and he stared down at her, puzzled. Why was she doing this?
Her gaze met his, and for a moment she seemed to read his thoughts, rolling her eyes. “Don’t worry yourself over it. You always were such a sensitive boy, reading too much into every little thing and making yourself sick over all possible ramifications. For now just accept that I’m helping you to make your way to the hallway.”
He laughed at that, a soft puff of air. “Very well.”
Outside the home’s sickroom, they found Winter Makepeace leaning against the wall. His dark eyes flicked to Godric’s stepmother. “There are … matters we should discuss before you leave.”
Godric glanced down at Mrs. St. John. “I’ll join you downstairs, ma’am.”
His stepmother pressed her lips together but merely nodded before turning away.
Godric looked at Winter. “My wife brought a change of clothes.”
The home’s manager followed him back inside the sickroom and watched as Godric began picking at the buttons on his leggings. “You rescued nearly thirty girls tonight. Six will need to stay abed for some days, but the rest are in fair condition, all things considered. They mostly appear to need decent food.”
Godric grimaced at the thought of little girls deprived of enough sustenance, then remembered the main part of his worry. “Did Alf tell you where the third workshop is located?”
“He did.” Winter frowned and helped him strip out of the leggings. “But I’m thinking they will have moved after your work this night. They’d be fools to stay and wait for your attack.”
“True.” Godric pulled on a pair of black breeches then looked down at his arm, already swollen. Perhaps if he braced it, there would still be time. “If I went out again tonight—”
“Don’t even contemplate it,” Winter said curtly. “You need to heal before you try again.”
“I need to find those girls,” Godric growled. The buttons of his fall were damnably difficult with only one hand.
“Yes, but becoming further injured—or killed—will do us no good.” Winter hesitated. “There’s one more thing.”
Godric cocked his head impatiently.
“Alf left just after he brought you and the girls here,” Winter said. “But he was agitated. Apparently Hannah, the ginger-haired lass he mentioned before, was not among the girls you rescued.”
“Damnation.” Godric glared at his arm. “Will she try to attack the third workshop on her own, do you think?”
“She?”
Godric nodded curtly. “Alf is a girl in disguise. I should never have brought her on tonight’s mission.”
“You—we—had no way of knowing.” Winter looked thoughtful. “Aye, and now she might be off trying to free her ginger-haired friend by herself.”
Godric had never felt so helpless. Well, that wasn’t correct. The last time he’d felt this way was beside Clara’s deathbed. He pushed the ugly memory away.
Winter looked disturbed. “I don’t think Alf will act on her own,” he said slowly. “She seemed quite respectful of the guards kept around the workshops. And remember: even if she did try something so foolish, the workshop has no doubt already moved.”
Godric nodded, though the reminder was but small consolation. Alf might be careful to project a tough and pragmatic exterior, but she’d put herself at risk to inform on the workshops’ whereabouts—and she’d been truly remorseful about delivering the ginger-haired little girl to one of them.
Pray she did nothing stupid.
He needed to heal. To get back to St. Giles and finish this business.
A soft scratch came at the door before it opened.
Megs peeked in. “The carriage is waiting and dawn is beginning to break.”
Godric looked at her, his wife, hovering so hesitantly, not even venturing closer as if she feared rejection. She’d come for him when Winter had sent word, without demure or question. She’d lain beneath him earlier tonight and given him everything he’d demanded. She was so much and he felt so little—too broken, too old, too weary—to give her everything she needed. He should let her go, let her fly free to find a younger lover like her Roger.
He should do all those things, and maybe later, when he was healed and not in pain, he would, but right now he murmured his thanks to Makepeace, threw the cloak about his shoulders, and let her take his good arm. Let her draw it across her slender womanly shoulders. Let her take a small portion of his weight and guide him down the stairs.
His stepmother waited for them in the home’s entry way along with Megs’s footmen. They bracketed him and the women as he