Lord of Darkness
Authors: Elizabeth Hoyt
| Lord of Darkness |
| Maiden Lane [5] |
| Elizabeth Hoyt |
| Little, Brown Book Group (2013) |
WHEN STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT
He lives in the shadows. As the mysterious masked avenger known as the Ghost of St. Giles, Godric St. John's only goal is to protect the innocent of London. Until the night he confronts a fearless young lady pointing a pistol at his head-and realizes she is his wife . . .
BECOME LOVERS . . .
Lady Margaret Reading has vowed to kill the Ghost of St. Giles-the man who murdered her one true love. Returning to London, and to the man she hasn't seen since their wedding day, Margaret does not recognize the man behind the mask. Fierce, commanding, and dangerous, the notorious Ghost of St. Giles is everything she feared he would be-and so much more . . .
DESIRE IS THE ULTIMATE DANGER
When passion flares, these two intimate strangers can't keep from revealing more of themselves than they had ever planned. But when Margaret learns the truth-that the Ghost is her husband-the game is up and the players must surrender . . . to the temptation that could destroy them both.
Elizabeth Hoyt is the New York Times, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of historical romance. Elizabeth's books have finaled four times in Romance Writers of America's prestigious RITA award contest, have won two Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Awards, and were nominated for a third. All of her books have received Top Pick reviews from Romantic Times BookReviews magazine. Both Wicked Intentions, Notorious Pleasures, and Scandalous Desires received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly. Four of her books were voted into All About Romance's (AAR's) Top 100 Romances of All Time list and six were Desert Isle Keepers at AAR. Elizabeth's books have been translated into twelve languages.
Elizabeth lives in central Illinois with a bevy of untrained canines and a garden in constant need of weeding. You can write to her at [email protected] or PO Box 17134, Urbana, IL 61803. Please visit her website, ElizabethHoyt.com, for contests, book excerpts, news, and Sidetracked Research Articles. You can also follow her on Twitter @ElizabethHoyt and find her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/ElizabethHoytBooks
Elizabeth Hoyt
is a
New York Times
bestselling author of historical romance. She lives in central Illinois with her husband, two children and three dogs. Elizabeth is always more than happy to receive missives from her readers. You can write to her at: P.O. Box 17134, Urbana, IL 61873.
Visit Elizabeth Hoyt online:
www.facebook.com/ElizabethHoytBooks
:
‘Hoyt uses her gift for reimagining classic fairy tale themes to create a magnificently rendered story that not only enchants but enthrals. With its mesmerising plot and unforgettable characters,
Wicked Intentions
will make readers eager for the next Maiden Lane novel’
Romantic Times
‘With its lush sensuality, lusciously wrought prose and luxuriously dark plot,
Scandalous Desires
… is a romance to treasure’
Booklist
‘Hoyt brings steamy sensuality to the slums of early 18th-century London in this engaging seriess … enhanced by earthy, richly detailed characterisations and deft historical touches’
Publishers Weekly
Maiden Lane series
:
Wicked Intentions
Notorious Pleasures
Scandalous Desires
Thief of Shadows
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-1-4055-1552-8
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Nancy M. Finney
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
For my darling eldest, Emma.
I am so proud of you.
Once again I must thank the team of professionals who helped to put this book into your hands: my wonderful agent, Susannah Taylor; my incredibly patient editor, Amy Pierpont; and my most excellent copy editor, Carrie Andrews (all mistakes—particularly those involving
eye color
—are my own). In addition, Amy’s assistant (and editor in her own right!), Lauren Plude, always knows what’s going on, Diane Luger from the GCP Art Department has put together a gorgeous cover, and Nick Small and Joan Schulhafer from publicity have worked tirelessly to make sure my books are actually read.
Thank you all.
Chapter One
Have you ever heard tell of the Hellequin? …
—From
The Legend of the Hellequin
L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND
M
ARCH
1740
The night
Godric St. John saw his wife for the first time since their marriage two years previously, she was aiming a pistol at his head. Lady Margaret stood beside her carriage in the filthy St. Giles street, her glossy, dark curls tumbling from the velvet hood of her cloak. Her shoulders were square, both hands firmly grasped the pistol, and a murderous gleam shone in her pretty eyes. For a split second, Godric caught his breath in admiration.
In the next moment, Lady Margaret pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The report was deafening but fortunately not fatal, as his wife was apparently an execrable shot. This did not reassure Godric as much as it should have, because Lady Margaret immediately turned and pulled a
second
pistol from her carriage.
Even the worst shots could get lucky on occasion.
But Godric
hadn’t the time to meditate on the odds of his wife actually murdering him tonight. He was too busy saving her ungrateful hide from the half-dozen footpads who had stopped her carriage here, in the most dangerous part of London.
Godric ducked the enormous fist coming at his head and kicked the footpad in the stomach. The man grunted but didn’t go down, probably because he was as big as a draft horse. Instead, the robber began a counterclockwise circle of Godric as his compatriots—four of them, and every one quite as well fed—closed in on him.
Godric narrowed his eyes and raised his swords, a long one in his right hand, a short one in his left for defense and close fighting, and—
God’s
balls
—Lady Margaret fired her second pistol at him.
The gunshot shattered the night, echoing off the decrepit buildings lining the narrow street. Godric felt a tug on his short cape as the lead ball went through the wool.
Lady Margaret swore with a startling breadth of vocabulary.
The footpad nearest Godric grinned, revealing teeth the color of week-old piss. “Don’t like ’e much, now, do she?”
Not
precisely
true. Lady Margaret was trying to kill the Ghost of St. Giles. Unfortunately, she had no way of knowing that the Ghost of St. Giles happened to be her husband. The black leather mask on Godric’s face hid his identity quite effectively.
For a moment, all of St. Giles seemed to hold its breath. The sixth robber still stood, both of his pistols aimed at
Lady Margaret’s coachman and two footmen. A female spoke in low, urgent tones from inside the carriage, no doubt trying to lure Lady Margaret back to safety. The lady herself glared from her stance beside the carriage, apparently oblivious to the fact that she might be murdered—or worse—if Godric failed to save her from the robbers. High overhead, the wan moon looked down dispassionately on the crumbling brick buildings, the broken cobblestones underfoot, and a single chandler’s shop sign creaking wearily in the wind.
Godric leaped at the still-grinning footpad.
Lady Margaret might be a foolish chit for being here, and the footpad might be merely following the instincts of any feral predator who runs down the careless prey that ventures into his path, but it mattered not. Godric was the Ghost of St. Giles, protector of the weak, a predator to be feared himself, lord of St. Giles and the night, and,
damn it
, Lady Margaret’s
husband
.
So Godric stabbed fast and low, impaling the footpad before his grin had time to disappear. The man grunted and began to fall as Godric elbowed another footpad advancing behind him. The man’s nose shattered with a crunching sound.
Godric pulled his sword free in a splatter of scarlet and whirled, slashing at a third man. His sword opened a swath of blood diagonally across the man’s cheek, and the footpad stumbled back, screaming, his hands to his face.
The remaining two attackers hesitated, which in a street fight was nearly always fatal.
Godric charged them, the sword in his right hand whistling as it swept toward one of the footpads. His strike missed, but he stabbed the short sword in his left hand deep into
the thigh of the fifth footpad. The man shrieked. Both robbers backed away and then turned to flee.
Godric straightened, his chest heaving as he caught his breath and looked around. The only robber still standing was the one with the pistols.
The coachman—a thickset man of middling years with a tough, reddened face—narrowed his eyes at the robber and pulled a pistol out from under his seat.
The last footpad turned and fled without a sound.
“Shoot him,” Lady Margaret snapped. Her voice trembled, but Godric had the feeling it was from rage rather than fear.
“M’lady?” The coachman looked at his mistress, confused, since the footpads were now out of sight.
But Godric knew quite well that she wasn’t ordering the murder of a footpad, and suddenly something inside of him—something he’d thought dead for years—woke.
His nostrils flared as he stepped over the body of the man he’d killed for her. “No need to thank me.”
He spoke in a whisper to disguise his voice, but she seemed to have no trouble hearing him.
The bloodthirsty wench actually clenched her teeth, hissing, “I wasn’t about to.”
“No?” He cocked his head, his smile grim. “Not even a kiss for good luck?”
Her eyes dropped to his mouth, left uncovered by the half-mask, and her upper lip curled in disgust. “I’d rather embrace an adder.”
Oh, that’s lovely.
His smile widened. “Frightened of me, sweeting?”
