Lord of Darkness (26 page)

“You learn anything more and I want to know about it.” Godric flipped a coin at the man and turned away to duck into an alley, swiftly gliding away.

The moon was a mocking oval above, her light pale and sickly. Behind him, he could hear wild laughter and the crash of barrels being knocked down. He didn’t turn.

He could sense someone following him and his heart
sang with gladness. Suddenly the rage from earlier tonight was back, as fresh and raw as ever.

How dare she?

He’d given up his home, his solitude, his peace of mind, and his goddamned
body
for her, and
this
was how she repaid him? By imagining he was another man while he had his cock in her? He’d been suspicious the first time but dismissed the notion. But tonight, there’d been something—the way she’d held herself, the refusal to meet his eyes, the very fact that she wouldn’t let him
make love
to her properly, damn it—that had roused all of his doubts. And then it had hit him: He wasn’t the man she was fucking at all. He didn’t know if she dreamed of Fraser-Burnsby or d’Arque or some man he’d never met, but it hardly mattered.

He wasn’t going to be used as a blasted proxy.

They came from around the corner up ahead, riding two abreast, and he was so distracted that he didn’t realize they were even there until they were almost on him.

Godric didn’t know who was more surprised: him or the dragoons.

The man on the right recovered first, drawing his saber and kicking his horse into a charge. He couldn’t outrun a galloping horse and the alley was narrow. Godric flattened himself against the grimy bricks at his back. The first dragoon charged past, the horse nearly brushing Godric’s tunic, but the second, slower dragoon was smarter. The soldier kneed his horse until the great beast was hemming him in, threatening to either crush him against the bricks or, more likely, run him through with the sharp point of a saber. There was no room to dodge around the sweating, snorting horse. He looked up and saw the sagging wooden balcony, tacked on
the building he was pressed against like an afterthought. It might not hold his weight, but he had no choice now.

Godric stretched his arms overhead and jumped, grasping one of the supporting rails of the balcony. He curled his legs up, his left shoulder aching as he felt the stitches pop from the wound. His legs were suddenly near the horse’s head and the animal was startled at his movement. The dragoon pulled hard on the reins, trying to control the beast, and the horse reared.

Godric swung and dropped in back of the horse, rolling away as he hit the hard cobblestones and rising with his long sword out and up.

But the first dragoon had wheeled his horse around by now, trapping Godric between the two mounted men. The only thing he could be glad of was that the dragoons seemed to be by themselves, a mounted patrol of two.

“Surrender!” the second dragoon shouted, his hand reaching for the pistol holstered in his saddle.

Damn it! Godric leaped for the man, catching his arm before he could lay hand on the pistol, and yanked hard. The dragoon half fell over the side of the saddle. His horse shied violently at the shift in weight, and the man tumbled to the ground.

Godric turned to the first dragoon in time to parry a sword thrust aimed at his head. He was at a disadvantage on the ground, but he was in no mood to retreat. He swung at the mounted man, missed, and only just in time saw the flicker of the other man’s eyes.

Or perhaps it wasn’t
quite
in time.

The blow from behind knocked him to his knees. His head spun dizzily, but his mood was foul. Godric twisted and embraced
his attacker’s legs, toppling the dragoon. He swarmed up the other man’s supine form, straddling him, and—

God
fucking
damn!

The dragoon really shouldn’t have kneed him in the bollocks.

Godric sucked in a pained breath, reared over the soldier, and slammed his fist into the man’s face. Over and over again. The
smack
of bare flesh on flesh savagely satisfying in the dark alley. Behind him, the other dragoon was shouting something and the horse’s hooves were clattering dangerously close to where they were sprawled, but Godric just didn’t give a damn.

Only the sound of more horses nearing made Godric stop. He stared at the man beneath him. The dragoon’s eyes were swollen and his lips split and bleeding, but he was alive and still struggling.

Thank God.

He was up and running in less than a second, the horses close behind him. A barrel at the corner of a house gave him a leg up and then he was climbing the side of the house, toes and fingertips straining for holds before he reached the rooftop.

A shout came from below, but he didn’t take the time to look back, simply fleeing over the roof, loose tiles sliding and crashing to the street below. He ran, the blood pumping in his chest, and didn’t stop until he was nearly a half-mile away.

Only then, as he leaned panting against a chimney, did he realize he was still being followed.

Godric drew his short sword, watching as the slim shape cautiously made the ridge of the roof and nimbly began climbing
down. He waited until the lad came abreast of him. Godric grabbed him by the collar, arching his head back, laying the short sword on the bared neck.

“Why are you following me?”

Quick, intelligent eyes flashed to his, but the boy made no move to free himself. “Digger Jack said as ’ow you’d be wantin’ information ’bout the lassie snatchers.”

“And?”

The wide mouth curved without mirth. “I’m one o’ ’em.”

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
Godric watched as the boy stuffed his face with tea and lavishly buttered bread. He’d revised his estimation of the former lassie snatcher’s age downward. When he’d first seen the boy, Godric had thought him a young man, but that was because he had the height of a grown man. Now, sitting in the kitchens of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, he saw the boy’s soft cheeks, the slim neck, and gentle lines of his jaw. He couldn’t be older than fifteen at the most.

His brown hair was clubbed back with a ragged bit of string, strands falling out and around his oval face. He wore a greasy waistcoat and a coat several sizes too big for him and a floppy hat pulled low over his brow, which he hadn’t bothered removing even when inside. His wrists were thin and rather delicate and the nails on both hands were rimmed with grime.

The boy caught him staring and jerked his chin up defiantly, the corners of his mouth wet with milky tea. “Wha’?”

Winter Makepeace, sitting beside Godric, stirred. “What is your name?”

The boy
shrugged and, apparently sensing no immediate threat, turned his attention to the plate of bread before him. “Alf.”

He spooned out a huge blob of strawberry jam from an earthen jar, plopping it on a slice of already buttered bread, and folded the bread around the gooey middle. Then he shoved half of the bread into his mouth.

Godric exchanged glances with Winter. It had taken quite a bit of persuasion—as well as a threat or two—before he’d been able to get Alf into the home. Godric daren’t remain outside in St. Giles while the dragoons were abroad, and he certainly wasn’t about to take a strange lad back to his own house.

Especially when the lad was an admitted lassie snatcher.

“How long have you been employed by the lassie snatchers?” Winter asked in his deep, calm voice.

Alf gulped and washed down his bread with a long drag of tea. “’Bout a month, but I don’ work for them arse’oles no more.”

Winter refilled his teacup without comment, but Godric was less forbearing. “You led me to believe you were a lassie snatcher
now
.”

Alf stopped chewing and looked up, his eyes narrowed. “An’ I’m the best yer gonna get. Ain’t none o’ them ’oo’s lassie snatchers
now
gonna talk to yer. Best settle for me.”

Winter caught Godric’s eye and shook his head slightly.

Godric sighed. He was finding it difficult to quiz this youth while keeping his own voice to a whisper so it might not be recognized in the future. Besides, Winter had far more experience with boys.

Even difficult ones.

“How did you
become a lassie snatcher?” Winter asked now. He reached for the loaf of bread and sawed off two more slices.

Godric raised his eyebrows. Alf had already eaten half the loaf.

“Word gets ’round,” Alf said as he started smearing large lumps of butter on his bread. “They like to work in teams, like, a bloke an’ a lad. Knew one o’ their snatcher lads ’oo got run over by a dray cart. Busted ’is ’ead an’ were dead in a day. So there were an openin’ like. Pay was good.” He paused to take a slurping gulp of tea before covering the bread with jam. “Job was fine.”

“Then why are you no longer employed as a lassie snatcher?” Winter asked neutrally.

Alf’s bread was all ready, jam running out of the pinched sides, but he just stared at it. “It were one o’ the young ones, name o’ Hannah. ’Ad ginger ’air, she did. Not more’n five or so. Chattered a lot, like, wasn’t afraid o’ me or nothin’, even though ’er auntie ’ad sold ’er to us. Me an’ Sam took ’er to the workshop and she seemed fine enough. …”

“Fine?” Godric growled low. “They
work
those girls, beat them, and hardly feed them.”

“There’re worse.” Alf’s words were defiant, but he wouldn’t meet Godric’s eyes. “Bawdy ’ouses, beggars what’ll blind a babe to make ’er more pathetic.”

Winter shot Godric a quelling look. “What happened to Hannah, Alf?”

“Just it, innit?” Alf dug his dirty fingers into the folded bread until red jam oozed out. “She weren’t there next time I come by. They wouldn’t tell me what ’ad ’appened to ’er. She were just … gone.” Alf looked up then, his eyes angry and
wet. “Stopped it then, didn’t I? Ain’t gonna be part o’ ’urting wee little lassies.”

“That was very brave of you,” Winter said softly. “I would think the lassie snatchers would not be pleased by a defection.”

Alf snorted, finally picking up his messy bread and jam. “Don’t know ’xactly what
defection
is, but they’d be glad enough to see me put to bed wif a shovel.”

“Tell us where they are,
who
they are, and we’ll solve the problem for you,” Godric growled.

“Ain’t just one place,” Alf said, speaking seriously. “There’s
three
workshops I knows of, and prolly more’n that.”

“Three?” Winter breathed. “How could we not have known?”

“Sly ones, ain’t they?” Alf shoved the bread into his mouth and for a moment was mute as he chewed. Then he swallowed. “Best do it at night. They’ve guards, but everyone’s sleepier at night. I can show you.”

“We’ll have to move fast,” Godric said, looking at Winter and receiving a nod. “Can you show me tomorrow night?”

“Aye.” Alf took the rest of the cut bread and shoved it into a pocket of his coat. “Best be off, then, ’adn’t I, afore ’tis light out.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay here,” Winter offered.

Alf shook his head. “Kind o’ you, but I don’t like staying in such a big place.”

Godric frowned. “Will you be safe?”

Alf cocked his head, smiling cynically. “Worried I won’t be back tomorrow? Nah, no one’s can catch me if’n I don’t want. Ta for the tea.”

And he was
gone out the kitchen door.

“Damn it, I should follow him,” Godric muttered.

But Winter shook his head. “We don’t want to scare him off. Besides, I saw the dragoons in the back alley earlier.”

Godric swore. “They followed me.” That would make getting home more difficult than usual. He looked at Winter. “Do you really think the boy’s safe until tomorrow?”

Winter shrugged as he put away the bread. “It’s out of our hands now.”

And Godric supposed he’d have to be content with that knowledge until tomorrow night.

T
HE SOUND OF
male voices outside her window woke Megs from a restless slumber. She blinked sleepily, glancing about her bedroom. It was light, but so early Daniels hadn’t yet come to wake her and help dress her.

Megs rose and wandered to the window, parting the curtains to look down on the courtyard. Godric stood, wrapped in a cloak, talking to a man in a tricorne. Megs stared. There was something about the other man, something about the way Godric stood so stiffly that made her uneasy.

Then the man in the tricorne looked up at the house and Megs gasped.

It was Captain Trevillion.

As she watched, his hand shot out suddenly, wrenching Godric’s cloak open.

She whirled and found her wrapper, pulling it on as she ran from the room and down the stairs, her heart in her throat. Would Godric’s costume be enough for the dragoon captain to arrest him?

But when she
tumbled breathlessly into the entry hall, her husband was closing the door behind him as serenely as if he’d just returned from a chat with the king.

“Godric!” she hissed.

He looked up and she froze.

It was subtle, but she could read the signs now—his mouth thin and tense, his eyes a little narrowed. He wasn’t serene, not really. He looked both tired and angry.

She didn’t remember descending the rest of the stairs, only her hands rising toward his face, wanting to give comfort.

His own hands blocked hers.

She blinked, focusing on his eyes, and saw that he stared at her blankly.

He hadn’t forgiven her for the night before, then.

“What happened in St. Giles?” she asked in a small voice. She wanted so badly to touch him, to make sure he was whole and well. “Why did Captain Trevillion let you go?”

“Godric.” Mrs. St. John’s surprised voice came from the stairs and Megs turned to see that both she and all three of Godric’s sisters stood there.

Moulder appeared from somewhere. “Sir?”

“Why is everyone up so early?” Godric muttered.

“Have you been out?” Sarah asked quietly.

“None of your business,” her brother said flatly, walking toward the back of the house.

“But—” his stepmother started.

“Don’t question me,” he growled without looking back, and disappeared down the hall.