Notorious Pleasures (18 page)

Hero started to open her mouth to ask what she’d never guess, but Phoebe continued in a rush. “Lord Griffin and Lady Margaret have called and asked to take us shopping!”

For a split second, Hero’s heart leaped at the thought of him. But then her practical side asserted itself.

“Oh, my dear.” Hero winced at the excited look on Phoebe’s face. Her entire countenance seemed to glow. “You know that Bathilda doesn’t want me to be seen with Reading. And after bringing him back to luncheon the other day…”

The light went out in Phoebe’s face. “But I cannot go alone with them.”

No, she certainly couldn’t, and Reading was well aware of the fact, Hero thought grimly.

“Please, Hero?”

Hero closed her eyes.

But that didn’t shut out Phoebe’s voice. “Pleeease?”

Hero’s eyes snapped open. “Fine. But only for an hour or so, no more.”

She needn’t have bothered with caveats—Phoebe was already hopping up and down with excitement.

Hero sighed, knowing already that this was a very bad idea. Still, she had to struggle to contain a smile as she descended the stairs after Phoebe.

Reading waited below, looking quite respectable in a dark blue coat and breeches. He smiled as Phoebe bounced up to him, but his eyes were on Hero.

She fought not to blush.

“I’m glad you could join us, Lady Hero,” he said as he escorted them out the door.

She shot him a sharp glance, watching for irony, but he seemed perfectly serious. “Where is your sister?”

His eyes widened mockingly at her. “In the carriage.”

And indeed when they entered the carriage, there was Lady Margaret already waiting.

“Oh, I’m so glad you could come on such short notice!” she exclaimed as they settled on the cushions. “I feel we ought to get to know one another since you’re marrying my brother.”

“Of course,” Hero murmured. “We’ll soon be sisters, won’t we?”

Reading’s face went blank as he turned to the window.

“I hope so,” Lady Margaret said. “I almost feel as if I know your brother, the duke, better. Thomas talks about him so much, and then they spent all that time last summer drawing up their gin bill. Wakefield’s quite passionate on the subject, isn’t he?”

“He believes that St. Giles is crime-riddled because of gin,” Phoebe said soberly. “So by extension he blames our parents’ death on gin.”

Hero glanced at her sister, a little surprised that she’d gleaned this information from the censored things that Maximus said in front of her.

Lady Margaret nodded. “Then I suppose you both are also passionate on the subject.”

Reading turned to look at Hero, and she tilted her chin up as she answered. “Yes.”

“We ladies can’t make bills in parliament,” Phoebe said, “but Hero has recently become the patroness of a home for foundling children in St. Giles.”

“Really?” Lady Margaret asked. “How I admire you, Lady Hero. I’ve never done anything so selfless.”

“But you could.” Phoebe leaned forward in her eagerness. “Hero has decided to let other ladies help with the home by donating their money.”

“Indeed?” Reading drawled. “And are gentlemen allowed to help, too? Perhaps I shall make a donation.”

Hero couldn’t quite meet his gaze. He was jesting, of course, but he’d already offered to help her once….

But before she could say anything, Phoebe leaped in. “It’s for ladies only, I’m afraid.”

“Such discrimination,” Reading murmured.

“Gentlemen always want to run things,” Hero shot back.

Reading’s mouth quirked in amusement.

“That’s very true,” Lady Margaret said. “I think it’s quite smart of you to limit your, er…”

“Syndicate,” Phoebe supplied. “It’s to be called the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children.”

“Splendid!” Lady Margaret enthused. “I think that a ladies-only syndicate is quite a wonderful idea. May I join?”

“Naturally,” Hero replied as Reading rolled his eyes.

“Except…” Lady Margaret looked suddenly abashed. “I’ve only a bit of pin money to donate. Perhaps it won’t be enough to join?”

“We have no lower limit,” Hero said firmly, even as she realized that her syndicate might have to be larger than she’d first envisioned. “Any lady of means who is sincere in her wish to help the orphan children of St. Giles is welcome to join.”

“Oh, lovely.”

Reading smiled and shook his head. “We’re at Bond Street, ladies. Will you come and shop now?”

Phoebe and Lady Margaret eagerly descended the carriage, and somehow Hero found herself with Reading.

He bent over her as their sisters walked ahead. “So you have found a solution to your dilemma over the funds for the home all by yourself.”

“Phoebe came up with the idea, but yes, I think it a good solution,” she replied.

“As do I,” he said unexpectedly.
“
Brava.
”

His approval sent a warm feeling through her, as if she’d just drunk hot tea on a cold day. Why she should care one way or the other about his feelings on the matter, she did not know, but there it was—she did care.

“Have you told Thomas yet about your involvement with the home?” he asked.

“No.” She glanced down guiltily. “I will soon, of course.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “I just hope Thomas is as liberal as your brother.”

“That’s an awful thing to say.”

He shrugged. “But true nonetheless. Your activities will reflect upon Thomas, and he has a damnably narrow view of what it means to be the Marquess of Mandeville.”

She felt a twinge of irritation, though she knew that Reading was but speaking the truth. Mandeville did need to worry about his name—he was a prominent member of parliament. And as his wife, she would be under scrutiny. Still…“I can’t think being the patroness of a home for foundling children can be considered so very risqué.”

“No, but gallivanting about St. Giles is.” He escorted her around a group of ladies gathered about a window display. “He’ll want you to stop once you’re married.”

“You don’t know that,” she insisted stubbornly. “Besides, I can’t think what business it is of yours.”

“Can’t you?” He turned and suddenly his green eyes met hers. The street, the crowds, seemed to fall away, and she could hear the echo of her heartbeat in her ears.

Hero inhaled, tearing her gaze from his. “No, I can’t. Besides, it’s natural for Mandeville to want to protect his wife. You must understand that.”

“Must I?” He shook his head, his mouth twisting. “I only understand that I prefer birdsong from the meadow instead of a cage.”

“Do you? Have you ever thought of the bird?” she asked too quietly, too intensely. Suddenly they were no longer speaking of birds. “Perhaps she feels safer knowing that someone is looking after her in her cage. Perhaps she fears the wide-open space with no one to guard her.”

For a moment he was silent; then Reading said low, “How does the bird know she hates the freedom of the meadow if she’s never felt it?”

His green eyes were locked with hers, and she couldn’t look away. Her breath was caught in her chest, and she longed to simply do as he suggested, to fly free, but she couldn’t… she simply couldn’t.

“Here we are!” Lady Margaret called ahead of them, gesturing to a pretty little shop.

The shop turned out to be a milliner’s where Phoebe found a lovely length of Belgian lace. Afterward, Reading bought them all buns and tea and then insisted they visit a bookstore. Phoebe and Lady Margaret made for a display of beautifully illustrated books on botany while Reading drew Hero aside toward a small shelf of books in Greek and Latin.

“They have some interesting books here,” he said, taking down a tome of plays. “Have you read Aristophanes?”

“I shouldn’t,” she murmured, even as she took the book from his hands. She fingered the leather spine.

“Why not?” he asked softly. “It’s merely a book of plays, a bit scandalous in parts, granted, but nothing to tempt you into sin.”

“But it’s a book of
plays
,” she said, still holding the book. “Not history like Thucydides and Herodotus.”

“So?” His eyebrows rose up his forehead.

“So it isn’t serious.” She placed the book carefully back on the shelf. “It’s my duty to occupy my mind with more important matters than comedic plays.”

“Duty to whom?” he began rather heatedly, but suddenly there was a cry and a thump from behind him.

Hero looked and saw Phoebe crumpled in a heap at the bottom of a short series of steps. “Oh, dear God!”

She hurried over with Reading.

Phoebe’s face was chalk-white, and Lady Margaret, though standing by her, did not look much better.

“What happened?” Reading barked.

“I don’t know,” Lady Margaret said. “She must’ve tripped on the stairs.”

“I didn’t see them,” Phoebe said through pale lips. “I was walking to another bookshelf, and the stairs just came up in front of me.”

Reading glanced at her sharply before bending and asking, “Can you stand?”

“I… I think so.”

“Reading, her forehead,” Hero said. There was a line of blood dripping down the side of Phoebe’s face.

“She must’ve bumped it.” Reading touched Phoebe’s hair gently.

“Ow.” Phoebe began to raise her right arm and then inhaled sharply, her face turning a ghastly green. “Oh!”

“What is it?” Hero asked.

“I think she’s broken her arm,” Reading said. “No, don’t touch it. Let me.” With one athletic movement, he gathered Phoebe into his arms and rose. “I’ll carry her back to the carriage, and once we’ve got her home, we’ll send for a doctor.”

“Very well,” Hero began, but Reading was already striding out the shop door.

She and Lady Margaret trotted to keep up, and they were soon at the carriage. The ride home was an awful journey, each bump causing Phoebe pain. Reading sat beside her, trying to brace her against the worst jostling, his mouth white-rimmed. As soon as they were at the house, Bathilda came out and began efficiently ordering maids and footmen about. Phoebe was carried into the house, and Hero was about to follow her when a restraining hand was laid upon her arm.

She turned and looked up into Reading’s angry face. “Why doesn’t she have better spectacles? It’s obvious she can’t see with the ones she has—she didn’t see the steps! You need to consult an expert.”

Hero closed her eyes, waiting for self-righteous anger to meet his, but all she felt was a deep, despairing sorrow.

“Hero?” he asked, squeezing her arm.

“We have consulted the experts,” Hero said wearily. “Some from as far away as Prussia. Ever since a year ago when we realized her eyesight was poor, she’s been prodded and poked and any number of ‘cures’ tried upon her.”

He frowned. “And?”

She blinked back tears, trying to smile and failing miserably. “And none of them has worked. Phoebe is going blind.”

A shadow moved to his right, slipping from a doorway, and Griffin pulled one of the pistols from the saddle. He turned, raising the pistol, and then he blinked at what he saw. A man in some sort of close-fitting costume, wearing a short cape and an extravagantly plumed hat. The apparition bowed slightly, flourishing his hat, and then leaped and swarmed straight up a house wall, disappearing onto the roof.

Good God.
Griffin looked up but caught no sight of the Ghost of St. Giles—for it must be he. The apparition had been wearing black and red motley. Was the ghost a footpad? But if so, the man had made no move to try and rob him. What exactly was the purpose of the ghost’s wanderings? Griffin shook his head and kneed Rambler into motion again. Too bad he couldn’t tell Megs of his sighting—she’d be all agog.

It was full dark by the time Griffin arrived at the distillery. He pounded on the gate and waited for what seemed like an overlong time for an answer, his back crawling all the time at the knowledge of how exposed he was. When Nick Barnes finally opened the door, Griffin felt his nerves tighten. Nick’s face was grim.

“What is it?” Griffin asked as he dismounted inside the courtyard wall. He took the two loaded pistols from the saddle and shoved them in a wide leather belt he had strapped over his coat.

“Another man gone just this morn,” Nick growled. “Don’t know if ’e was taken by th’ Vicar or if ’e plain ran away.”

“Damn.” Griffin pulled off his coat and picked up a shovel to stoke the fires beneath one of the big copper caldrons. This day just kept getting worse and worse. He still saw little Phoebe in his mind’s eye, her face drawn tight by pain, the knowledge that she was losing her sight making him feel helpless. Damn it, a young girl like her shouldn’t have to go blind. God shouldn’t let it happen.

When Griffin looked up again, he saw Nick was staring at him thoughtfully. “Bad business.”

Griffin grunted and pushed a shovelful of coal into the fire.

“We’ll not last long like this,” Nick said quietly.

Griffin looked around, but none of the men were close enough to overhear. “I’m aware of that fact. All the Vicar needs to do is pick us off a bit at a time and sit back and wait until I can no longer pay enough to keep the men here.”

Nick scratched his chin. “Is it worth it, is what I’m a-wondering? You’s got a bit put by, I knows. Per’aps it’s time to quit. Give up the stills and find some other way to make a shillin’.”

Griffin turned and glared at him.

Nick shrugged imperturbably. “Then maybe we should do something a bit more activelike.”

“Jesus.” Griffin bent and shoveled more coal.

He knew what Nick was getting at: an attack of their own. This had started as a simple business—never respectable, of course, but a business nevertheless. When had it descended into warfare? Maybe it was time to give up this illicit means of making money, but what else did he have? Land that his farmers labored to get a stingy crop from. How else could he turn his grain to money?

Nick watched him shovel coal silently for a moment.

“I seen that lady what came with you th’ other day,” Nick said chattily after a bit.

Griffin straightened and propped an elbow on his shovel, raising an eyebrow. Nick didn’t chat.

Nick pursed his lips—not a pleasant sight. “Seemed a mite put out, she did. Something you said, maybe, m’lord?”

“She doesn’t approve of gin distilling,” Griffin said flatly.

“Ah.” Nick rocked back on his heels. “Not a proper occupation for toffs, I’m thinking?”

“That’s right.” Griffin winced and rubbed the nape of his neck. “No, that’s not entirely correct. She champions a foundling home in St. Giles. She thinks gin is the reason there’s so many orphans. It’s the root of every evil in London as far as she’s concerned.”

“The ’Ome for Unfortunate Infants and Foundlin’ Childr’n.”

Griffin glanced at him, surprised. “You know of it?”

“ ’Ard not to, livin’ in these parts.” Nick tipped back his head to stare at the shadowed ceiling of the warehouse. “A good place, is what I ’ear. Not like those what sell the mites into bad apprenticeships. Pity the ’ouse burned last winter.”

Griffin grunted. “She’s having it rebuilt. Bigger and grander.”

“Sounds like a right angel of good will, she does.”

Griffin stared at him, suspicious of mockery.

Nick looked innocent. “Makes one wonder what she was doin’ wi’ you, don’t it, m’lord?”

“She’s affianced to my brother.” Griffin shoveled in more coal, though the fire was well enough stoked now.

“Oh, then she ’as but a sisterly interest in you.”

“Nick,” Griffin growled in warning.

But Nick was never the type to be cowed.

“It’s the saintly ones, I find, that needs watchin’,” he mused. “Now, whores, they be simple—fuck ’em an’ pay ’em. No problems, everything nice an’ tidy an’ never a thought afterward. But with a respectable woman, why there’s talk an’ feelings an’ suchlike. Trouble, the lot of them. Not, mind you, that it’s not worth it in the end, just that there’s a bit of worry up front. A man best be warned.”

“Nick,” Griffin said slowly, “are you giving me romantic advice?”

Nick pushed his hat to the back of his head so he could scratch his scalp. “Wouldn’t dream of it, m’lord.”

Griffin grunted. “She’s soon to be my sister-in-law anyway.”

“O’ course, o’ course,” Nick murmured.

He didn’t look at all convinced by the reminder.

Griffin wasn’t sure he was convinced himself. He sighed and threw aside the shovel. “Do you remember when we first started this all those years ago?”

Nick chuckled. “That little still on Tipping Lane? You were a right green ’un then, m’lord. Suspicious, too.”

“I wasn’t sure I could trust you.”

Nick grinned. “Nor I you. You was this toff down from that fancy school, all lace and fripperies. Weren’t sure as you’d last a week.”

Griffin snorted. He’d met Nick in a seedy Seven Dials tavern—not the place one usually found business partners. But something about the glaring former boxer had struck him as essentially honest. Nick had been the one to introduce him to the man he’d bought his first still from. The thing had been rickety in the extreme.

“Remember when we thought the still would blow?” he asked.

Nick spat into the straw. “Which time? I’m thinkin’ of more ’n one.”

Griffin grinned and looked around the warehouse. It was a far cry from that small single still on Tipping Lane. It had taken years to build his business to this point, to be where he didn’t have to lie awake at night worrying over money flow and harvests. To where he could tell his mother to plan for Megs’s next season and be fairly sure they’d actually be able to afford it. He only needed a little more time to get entirely financially stable.

“We worked hard to get here, didn’t we?” he said.

“That we did.”

“Damned if I’ll let the Vicar take it from me now.”

“Amen to that.” Nick dug a short clay pipe from his waistcoat. He took a moment to light it with a straw stuck in the still fire. Then he said, “ ’Ave you ever thought of doin’ somethin’ else?”

Griffin looked at him in surprise. “No. I suppose I’ve never had time to think of finding other business. Have you?”

“No.” Nick scratched the back of his head. “Well, not rightly. Me father was a weaver, but I never learned the craft. Seemed a tedious task when I were young, an’ now I’m too old a dog for learnin’ new tricks.”

“Weaving.” Griffin thought of the Mandeville lands in Lancashire. They’d always been too rocky for growing grain. Many of their neighbors had put in sheep for wool and meat.

“Mam and me sisters spun the thread for Pa,” Nick said. “I did, too, when I were a lad.”

Griffin smiled at the thought of Nick spinning thread with his great hamlike hands.

A shout came from behind them. Griffin whirled, snatching a pistol from his belt. Smoke was pouring out from one of the big chimneys that climbed the outer walls. The men were milling, coughing from the rolling black smoke.

Nick swore foully. “They’ve stopped th’ chimney from without!”

“Put out the fire!” Griffin shouted. “I’ll guard the walls.”

He gestured to the men, slapping his hands on the backs of those turned away, and ran to the warehouse entrance. Griffin slammed himself against the wall next to the door and shoved it open a crack with one foot. The guards outside were wrestling with attackers next to the walls. Already three men were past them and into the courtyard.

“They’re coming in,” he told his men. “Make damn sure they don’t get to the warehouse.”

And with that he kicked the door wide and drew his other pistol, firing both straight-armed. One attacker went down, crashing to the cobblestones. More shots exploded from his men’s guns, and the second man went down. But one man still rushed the door while others were overwhelming the courtyard guards. In a corner of the courtyard, Rambler squealed and reared in terror.

“Get them!” Griffin shouted, his words sounding muffled to his own ears.

His men flew past him toward the walls. He threw down one pistol and drew his sword to meet an attacker. The man was short but burly, and he held a huge cutlass in his hand. The attacker swung and Griffin dodged. He was afraid his thinner sword would break under the cutlass. He slid closer while the man was still turned aside from the force of his own blow and stabbed him under the arm through the armpit. The man didn’t even flinch. He struck at Griffin with his other hand, a blow Griffin was just able to duck, taking it on his shoulder instead of his face, his hand still on the sword stuck in the man’s body. The man raised his cutlass again, but then staggered. He crumpled all at once, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Griffin stuck his foot on the man’s chest and pulled his sword from the attacker’s body. He turned toward the wall, sword ready, but there was no need. Four bodies lay on the cobblestones and a man—one of his own—was sitting with his back against the wall, moaning. All the other attackers had retreated.

The skirmish was over—at least for now.

“Get him inside.” Griffin gestured at the moaning man. “You others stay and guard the courtyard from further attack.”

He left eight men guarding the walls and turned back to the warehouse. Rambler still snorted and shook where he was tethered in a corner.

Griffin went to him and placed a hand on the gelding’s sweaty neck. “It’s all right, lad. All right now.”

The horse rolled his eyes at him.

Griffin spoke quietly to him for a few more minutes and then filled a nosebag from the saddle with a handful of oats. He left Rambler contentedly munching and strode to the warehouse. Smoke still slipped from the doorway, drifting into the night, but it was thinner now. He picked up the pistol he’d thrown down and ducked inside.

It was dim, the smoke swirling about the ceiling. Griffin squinted against stinging ash.

Nick loomed out of the dark like Satan himself, his face blackened. “We got it out, sure enough, but we can’t work the still on that ’earth now.”

Griffin nodded. “We need guards on the roof.”

Nick cocked an eyebrow, looking positively evil. “And ’ow will we get men for that duty?”

“Pay them triple,” Griffin said grimly.

“At some point you’ll be paying more than you’re makin’,” Nick warned.

“I’m well aware of that fact.”

Nick nodded and turned to look back at the wreckage of the blocked chimney. “Could’ve been worse.”

“How so?”

“They tried to block another of the chimneys, but the wad fell through. Merely made a smokin’ mess on the fire.” He looked back at Griffin. “We got it out well enough.”

Griffin sat on a barrel wearily and began reloading his pistols from a sack of powder and balls. “This time.”

“Aye,” Nick grunted, and turned to the chimneys, his words drifting back over his shoulder. “Just pray our luck ’olds out.”