Lord of Darkness (6 page)

“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.”

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.

But she hadn’t forgotten the loss. The almost physical ache to feel a babe in her arms.

Megs inhaled, steadying herself. She hadn’t seen her brother’s son since he was a week old—a visit she’d cut short after only three days. It had simply been too torturous for her.

“Does William still have such bright red hair?” she asked wistfully.

Hero chuckled. William had been born with carrot-red hair. “No, it’s begun to darken. I think Griffin is disappointed. He claims he wanted an heir with hair as red as mine.” She touched a finger to her own fiery locks.

Megs felt her lips curve in a smile. “I’m looking forward to seeing my nephew again.”

And she meant it—she’d lost too much time with William already because of the pain it had caused her to see the happy, healthy baby.

“I’m glad,” Hero said simply, but there was a wealth of understanding in her eyes. She was one of the few people who knew the true reason for Megs’s hasty wedding.

There was a smatter of laughter as Annalise reached Her Grace
only to have the pug get up and flee. Megs was glad of the distraction to look away from her sister-in-law’s too-perceptive eyes.

Her Grace circled the room, panting, before taking refuge under Megs’s chair.

Annalise stared at the dog, her face beginning to crumple. Temperance bent toward her daughter, but the elder Lady Caire was faster. “There, there, darling. Have another biscuit.”

Temperance said nothing, but Megs caught her rolling her eyes as the elegant, silver-haired older lady gave the baby the offering.

Temperance blushed slightly when she saw that Megs was watching and leaned over to whisper, “She spoils her terribly.”

“A grandmama’s prerogative,” Lady Caire said, apparently having heard. “Now, then. I wonder if we might discuss the apprenticeship of the girls of the home.” She glanced at Megs. “The number of children at the home has increased in the last year. Presently we have …”

“Four and fifty children,” Isabel Makepeace supplied the number. “Two new girls were brought in just last night.”

Lady Caire nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Makepeace. We are pleased that the home is able to help so many children now, but it seems that we have had some difficulties in placing the children—particularly the girls—properly.”

“But surely there is no lack of maidservant positions in London,” Lady Penelope said.

“Actually, there is,” Temperance replied. “At least maidservant positions in respectable houses where the girls are treated properly and given some type of training.”

Isabel
leaned forward to pour some more tea in her dish. “Just last week we took back a girl whose position proved to be unfortunate.”

Megs raised her eyebrows. “Unfortunate?”

“The mistress of the house saw fit to beat the girl with a hairbrush,” Lady Caire said grimly.

“Oh.” Megs felt horror sweep through her, and then an idea. “But I’m in need of maidservants.”

The rest of the ladies looked at her.

“Indeed?” Lady Caire asked.

“Oh, yes,” Sarah said, joining the conversation for the first time. “It seems my brother has been reduced to one manservant at Saint House.”

“Good Lord.” Temperance frowned worriedly. “I’m sure Caire has no idea that Mr. St. John was in such straits.”

“Well, the straits weren’t financial.” Sarah sent her an ironic glance. “Godric can certainly afford any number of servants—he simply didn’t bother to hire new ones.”

“Eh?” Great-Aunt Elvina leaned toward Sarah.

Sarah turned toward her and said distinctly, “I doubt it occurred to my brother that he needed more servants.”

“Men are absentminded in such matters.” Great-Aunt Elvina shook her head disapprovingly.

“Quite,” Lady Caire said. “But having been appraised of his—and your—difficulties, Lady Margaret, we will naturally help. I’m sure we have several girls ready to be apprenticed out?” She glanced at Isabel.

“At least four,” Isabel said. “But they are all under the age of twelve and will need strict supervision and tutelage as to their duties.”

“As to that,” Lady Caire said, “I can recommend a housekeeper of very good repute, manners, and intelligence.”

“Thank you.” Megs
had always thought Lady Caire a bit austere, but it seemed she could be kind as well. And Megs
was
very grateful. In one swoop she already had a housekeeper and maids for Saint House.

Lady Caire inclined her head. “I’ll send her around this evening if that suits you?”

“Oh, yes.” Megs felt a touch at her knee and looked down.

Annalise had one hand braced on her lap as she squatted to look under the chair Megs sat on. From beneath came a faint whine.