Artemis’s brows drew together. “I wasn’t aware Miss Royle was competing.”

“Don’t be naïve, Cousin,” Penelope said as they made their box again. “Any lady with the possibility of success vies for the Duke of Wakefield’s attention. Fortunately, that group is very small indeed.”

Penelope sank into a red velvet chair just as the curtain rose again, and Artemis took the chair next to her. The first part of the play had been quite diverting—not to mention very risqué—and she was looking forward to watching Miss Goodfellow match wits with the male actors.

Penelope shifted next to her, glancing down at the floor and then to the table between the chairs. “Drat.”

“What is it?” Artemis whispered. The orchestra had launched into a lively tune.

“I’ve misplaced my fan.” She looked up, her brow furrowed. “I must’ve left it in the duke’s box. Too bad, because if the play had not already started, I could go back and spend more time with the duke.” She shrugged. “But you’ll have to get it now.”

“Of course.” Artemis sighed silently.

She placed Bon Bon gently on her seat before leaving the box. No one was in the corridor now, and Artemis gathered her skirts to run lightly down the hall. She paused outside the duke’s box to catch her breath and pat at her hair, and as she did so, she couldn’t help but hear the voices within, for the door was not shut fully.

“… must belong to Lady Penelope. It’s far too expensive to be Artemis’s,” Miss Picklewood was saying.

“Who?” came the duke’s bored drawl.

“Artemis Greaves,” Miss Picklewood said. “Come, Maximus, you must’ve noticed that Lady Penelope has a companion.”

Artemis put her hand up to push the door open.

“You mean that invisible little woman who trails her everywhere like a pale wraith?”

The duke’s deep, masculine voice seemed to cut straight through Artemis. In the back of her mind, she noticed absently that her fingers were trembling on the door. Quietly, she balled her fist and let it drop.

“Maximus!” Miss Picklewood’s tone was shocked.

“You must admit it’s an apt description,” the duke replied impatiently. “And I don’t think I can be faulted for not knowing the woman’s name when she does everything she can to blend into the woodwork.”

“Artemis is my friend,” Phoebe said, her tone very firm for one so young.

Artemis took a deep breath and carefully, silently, backed away from the door. She had a sudden horrific image of the door opening by itself and those within finding her there, listening.

She whirled and ran back the way she came. Phoebe’s kind words should’ve healed any hurt the duke had inflicted so carelessly. He didn’t know her, didn’t care to know her. What a man like him thought of a woman like her should make no difference at all to her.

But no matter how many times she repeated this to herself, the arrow of his words still stuck in her bleeding breast.

And she still quivered with rage.

*   *   *

FOR A MAN who prided himself on his intelligence, it had taken Godric a ridiculously long time to figure out why Megs really wanted to talk to d’Arque. It wasn’t until they were in the duke’s box and she leaned close to d’Arque when she thought Godric wasn’t looking and said, “You must miss Roger Fraser-Burnsby terribly,” that the light had dawned.

D’Arque had been Fraser-Burnsby’s best friend. It was at the viscount’s ball, in fact, that the news had been first brought that Fraser-Burnsby had been murdered. Megs wanted the man as an informant, not as a lover.

And with that realization, all his male jealousy had calmed, letting Godric think again. Not only was d’Arque Fraser-Burnsby’s friend, but he was also one of the men mentioned by Winter Makepeace.

One of the men who might be behind the lassie snatchers.

So, as they’d all left Wakefield’s box, Godric had turned to d’Arque and, ignoring Megs’s expression of apprehension and Reading’s narrowed eyes, invited the man back to their box.

He’d had the pleasure of seeing swiftly masked surprise on the viscount’s face before the man had accepted the invitation.

Which was how Godric came to find himself sitting between the two men he liked least in the world.

The play began again and Megs and Lady Hero, sitting in front of the men, turned rapt faces toward the stage.

D’Arque waited a beat before murmuring under his breath, “Your courtesy astounds me, St. John. Should I beware a dagger ’tween my ribs?”

Godric turned his head very slightly toward the other man, his face expressionless. He might understand that Megs wanted nothing more than information from this fop, but that didn’t forgive the viscount’s flirtation with his wife. “Do you deserve one?”

On his other side, Griffin sighed heavily before muttering 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.”

His eyelids flickered and Godric took note. He knew from Winter Makepeace that d’Arque had known about Seymour’s involvement in the lassie snatchers, had in fact helped cover up the true nature of Seymour’s death for the sake of his widow.

Makepeace seemed to think that d’Arque had not been involved with the illegal workshop and the lassie snatchers. Godric decided to reserve judgment. After all, if d’Arque had been the other partner in the workshop, it would’ve been smart of him to lie low for a bit, convince Makepeace that he had indeed cleared up the entire lassie snatcher evil.

And then when the coast was clear, he could start up operations again.

“Odd,” Godric said softly, “that two of four friends should be killed in St. Giles.”

D’Arque frowned as if considering. “Don’t think that I hadn’t thought of the matter before now, but that’s just it. There was no link between the killings.” He turned to meet Godric’s eyes. “None at all.”

The audience roared and rose to their feet, clapping. Godric’s gaze jerked to his wife, her head together with Lady Hero’s, whispering some feminine secret. The play was obviously over.

The viscount caught his arm.

Godric looked down at the hand on his sleeve.

D’Arque let go of his arm, his face darkening with something that might’ve been embarrassment. “I wish to continue this discussion.”

“Don’t worry.” Godric stood, watching as Megs turned and beamed at him, all glorious, vibrant life. Everything he was not. Everything worth protecting. “We will.”

Chapter Ten

“Hold on tight,” the Hellequin grunted as he guided the great black horse toward the far shore.

“Do you care for my welfare, then?” Faith leaned forward and asked in the Hellequin’s ear.