Lord of Darkness

“No need, Butterman.” Winter Makepeace appeared in a doorway farther down the hall. He wore his usual black, although the cut of his clothes had improved noticeably since his marriage to the former Lady Beckinhall. “Good morning, St. John. Ladies.”



“Oh, Mr. Makepeace.” Lady Margaret caught his hand, smiling brightly, and Godric frowned, feeling a flicker of jealousy—which was completely ridiculous. His wife seemed to smile at everyone brightly. “May I present my sister-in-law and my dear great-aunt?”



Introductions were made. Makepeace inclined his head gravely to each lady rather than making the more usual sweeping bow, but neither Sarah nor Great-Aunt Elvina seemed at all put out.



The manager of the home turned to Godric and the panting pug in his arms, his eyes lit with a gentle amusement. “Who is your companion?”



“Her Grace,” Godric said curtly.



Makepeace blinked. “I beg your pardon?”



Godric began to shake his head when a small white terrier came barreling down the hallway. The animal was making a sound rather like a bumblebee, but on sight of Her Grace, the terrier erupted into hysterical barking.



Her Grace yipped back—very shrilly—while both Lady Margaret and Sarah made futile shushing noises, and if Godric wasn’t mistaken, Great-Aunt Elvina aimed a surreptitious kick at the terrier.



Makepeace stepped to the side, opened a door into the sitting room, and cocked an eyebrow. Godric nodded and in a few brisk movements deposited the pug back in Great-Aunt Elvina’s arms and ushered the three ladies into the sitting room where the meeting was being held.



Makepeace shut the door so swiftly the terrier nearly lost her nose. He glanced at Godric. “This way.”



The home’s manager turned toward the staircase at the back of the hall. “Really, that was most inhospitable of you, Dodo.”



The terrier, trotting adoringly by his side, tilted her head, perking up one ear as if listening attentively.



“You’re quite lucky I don’t lock you up in the root cellar.” Makepeace’s voice was calm and reasoned as he chided the dog.



Godric cleared his throat. “Does, er, Dodo always attack visitors?”



“No.” Makepeace shot Godric a sardonic look. “Only canine visitors receive that welcome.”



“Ah.”



“Two new girls came to our home last night,” Makepeace continued as he mounted the wide marble staircase, his tone bone-dry. “Deposited here by the notorious Ghost of St. Giles.”



“Indeed?”



Makepeace flashed him an intelligent glance. “I thought you might like to meet our newest inmates.”



“Naturally.” At least his trip to the home wasn’t without purpose.



“Here we are,” Makepeace said, holding open a door to one of the classrooms.



A glance inside showed rows of girls sitting on benches, dutifully copying something down on their slates. At the far end of one of the rows sat Moll and her elder sister, their heads together. Godric was glad to see them whispering to one another. Chatting seemed to be a uniquely feminine sign of happiness—Lady Margaret talking with the other ladies in the carriage flashed through his mind—and he hoped it meant the girls would settle happily at the home.



“Moll and Janet McNab,” Makepeace said in a low voice. “Moll is too young for this class, but we thought it best not to separate the sisters in their first few days here.” He closed the door and strolled farther along the deserted hall. All the children appeared to be at lessons behind the closed doors. “The girls are orphans. Janet has told me that their father was a night-soil man who met an unfortunate end when one of the mounds of … er … dirt on the outskirts of London fell and buried him.”



Godric winced. “How awful.”



“Quite.” Makepeace paused at the end of the corridor. There were two chairs here, arranged beneath a window, but he made no move to sit. “It seems the McNab sisters were on the streets for nearly a fortnight before they ran afoul of the lassie snatchers.”



“Lassie snatchers,” Godric repeated softly. “I seem to remember that name being bandied about St. Giles awhile back. You dealt with them, didn’t you?”



Makepeace glanced cautiously down the hall before lowering his voice. “Two years ago, the lassie snatchers kidnapped girls off the streets of St. Giles.”



Godric raised his brows. “Why?”



“To make lace stockings in an illegal workshop,” Makepeace said grimly. “The girls were made to work long hours with very little food and with frequent beatings. And they weren’t paid.”



“But the lassie snatchers were stopped.”



Makepeace nodded his head curtly. “I stopped them. Found the workshop and cut off the head of the snake—an aristocrat by the name of Seymour. I haven’t heard of them since.”



Godric narrowed his eyes. “But?”



“But I’ve heard disturbing rumors in the last few weeks.” Makepeace frowned. “Girls disappearing off the streets of St. Giles. Gossip about a hidden workshop manned by little girls. And worse: my wife has found evidence of the lace silk stockings they make being hawked to the upper crust of aristocratic society.”



Isabel Makepeace was still a formidable force in society, despite her marriage to the manager of an orphanage.



Godric said, “Did you kill the wrong man?”



“No.” Makepeace’s look was grim. “Seymour was quite proud of his crime, believe me. He boasted of it before I ended his life. Either someone else has started up an entirely different operation or—”



“Or Seymour wasn’t the only one in the original business,” Godric murmured.



“Either way, someone must find out who is behind the lassie snatchers and stop them. I’m out of the business since my marriage.” Makepeace paused delicately. “I assume that you’re still operating. Although, with your wife now in town—”



“She won’t be for long,” Godric said crisply.



Makepeace arched an eyebrow but was far too discreet to inquire further.



Godric’s lips thinned. “What about the other?”



Makepeace shook his head. “He hunts only one thing in St. Giles; you know that. He’s been monomaniacal for years now.”



Godric nodded. They were all loners, but the third of their bizarre trilogy was near obsessive. He would be no help in this matter.



“It’s up to you alone, I’m afraid,” Makepeace said.



“Very well.” Godric thought a moment. “If Seymour did have a partner, do you have any idea who it might be?”



“It could be anyone, but were I you, I’d begin with Seymour’s friends: Viscount d’Arque and the Earl of Kershaw. All three were as thick as thieves before Seymour’s death.” Makepeace paused and looked at him intently. “But, St. John?”



Godric raised his brows.



Makepeace’s face was grim. “You also need to find this workshop. Last time, some of the girls nearly didn’t make it out alive.”



Chapter Three



One moonless night, the Hellequin came upon the soul of a young man lying in the crossroads, dying in the arms of his beloved. The woman was lovely, her face both innocent and good, and for a moment the Hellequin paused, staring at her. There are those who whisper that the Hellequin was not always in the Devil’s service. Once, they say, the Hellequin was a man like any other. If this tale is true, perhaps the girl’s face sparked some human memory, wandering lost, deep in the Hellequin’s mind. …



—From The Legend of the Hellequin



Megs perched on a settee in the home’s cozy sitting room and sipped from her dish of tea as she glanced around at the other ladies in the Syndicate. The membership hadn’t changed, it seemed, in her absence. Her sister-in-law, Lady Hero Reading, one of the two founding members, sat beside her on the settee, her hair nearly the same color as the fireplace flames. Next to Hero was her younger sister, Lady Phoebe Batten, a pleasant girl with a plump figure who smiled rather vaguely at nothing in particular.



Megs knit her brows in worry. The girl’s eyesight had been very poor when last she’d seen her—had Phoebe gone entirely blind in the intervening years? Beside Phoebe was Lady Penelope Chadwicke, rumored to be one of the wealthiest heiresses in England—and with her pansy-purple eyes and black hair, certainly one of the most beautiful. Lady Penelope was nearly always accompanied by her lady’s companion, Miss Artemis Greaves, a retiring but pleasant lady. On the far side of Miss Greaves was the other founding patroness, the daunting, silver-haired Lady Caire. Next to Lady Caire sat her daughter-in-law, Temperance Huntington, Lady Caire, and next to Temperance was her brother’s wife, the former Lady Beckinhall—Isabel Makepeace.



The membership may not’ve changed, but there were other differences since last she’d attended a meeting. This room, for instance. When last Megs had seen it, the sitting room had been clean and neat but far from homey. Now, thanks to what she suspected was the new Mrs. Makepeace’s intervention, the room boasted a lovely landscape over the fireplace and a series of amusing knickknacks on the mantel: an odd little green and white Chinese bowl, a gilt clock held aloft by cupids, and a blue statuette of a stork and what appeared to be a salamander.



Megs squinted. Surely it couldn’t be a salamander?



“I’m so glad that you decided to come back to town, sister, dear,” Lady Hero interrupted her thoughts. Hero had acquired the rather sweet habit of calling Megs sister since marrying Megs’s brother Griffin.



“Did you miss me at the meetings?” Megs asked lightly.



“Yes, of course.” Hero gave her a faintly chiding look. “But you know Griffin has missed you, and I have as well. We don’t see you nearly as much as I’d like.”



Megs wrinkled her nose, feeling guilty, and reached for a biscuit from the plate sitting on the table beside her. “I’m sorry. I did mean to come up for Christmas, but the weather was so bad. …” She trailed off. Her excuse sounded weak even to her own ears. It was just that ever since Griffin had intervened on her behalf with Godric—had found a way to save her from her own folly—she hadn’t known how to face him. Wasn’t even sure what she could say.



Hero folded her hands in her lap. “All that matters is that you’re here now. Have you seen Thomas and Lavinia yet?”



“Er …” Megs took a hasty sip of tea.



Hero’s eyes narrowed. “Thomas does know you’re in town?”



Actually, Megs hadn’t informed her eldest brother—otherwise known as the Marquess of Mandeville—of her arrival.



Hero, with her usual quiet perception, seemed to realize that Megs hadn’t told anyone of her trip. But instead of badgering Megs with questions, she merely sighed. “Well, your visit will be a fine excuse to have everyone over for dinner. And perhaps you can come early to see my sweet William. He’s bigger than Annalise now, you know.”



And Hero nodded to one of the other changes in the room.



Petite Annalise Huntington, the daughter of Temperance and Lord Caire, clung to the edge of a low table as she carefully, but very determinedly, tiptoed toward Her Grace. The pug was under Great-Aunt Elvina’s chair and keeping a wary eye out for the toddler. Annalise was a year and a half now and wore a lace-trimmed white gown and sash, her delicate dark hair ornamented by a single blue bow.



She was about the same age Megs’s baby would’ve been—had he lived.



Megs blinked and swallowed down the old, bitter grief. When she’d first miscarried—and lost her last link to Roger—she’d thought she’d not survive. How could a body endure so much pain, so many tears, and live on? But it seemed that grief really couldn’t kill a person. She had lived. Had healed from the physical trauma of the miscarriage. Had risen from her sickbed, had—slowly—taken an interest in the things and people around her. Had, in time, even smiled and laughed.