Notorious Pleasures

He’d seen her only hours before, but the clarity of her gray eyes was something of a shock nevertheless. He remembered her stubborn insistence that she help her home for orphan children, even if her brother disapproved of her endeavor. Then there was that moment after they’d visited Jonathan when they’d seemed to find a strange accord. His offer of a loan had been on pure impulse; he’d never done such a thing before in his life.



And it had felt right. He’d wanted to help her, share her burden with her. He didn’t care one whit about the foundling home, but her…



What was it about her? He found himself staring into those diamond-clear eyes, watching as the dark pupils at their center grew larger as she looked at him. He leaned closer as if to catch the exhalation of her breath in his own nostrils.



Oh, this was not good.



Beyond her, Thomas cleared his throat.



Lady Hero blinked. “I’m quite well, thank you, my lord.”



Griffin nodded and let his gaze slide past her. “And you, Thomas?”



“Fine,” Thomas clipped. “I’m quite fine.”



“Oh, good.” Griffin smiled briefly and took another sip of the wine. Maybe if he drank enough, this dinner would be bearable.



“I heard a terrible story yesterday,” Caro said as she took a prim little sip of wine. “An entire family found starved in one of those wretched hovels in the East End.”



“How horrible,” Meg said softly, “to starve for want of a bit of bread.”



Caro snorted. “Bread would’ve done them no good. It seems the entire family, including a suckling babe, supped upon gin and nothing else until they quite withered away.”



Griffin noticed that Lady Hero had set down her fork.



The Duke of Wakefield stirred. “I’m not surprised—I only wish I were. We hear these types of tragedies almost daily, and I fear we will continue to do so until gin is eradicated once and for all from London.”



“Here, here.” Thomas raised his glass at the head of the table.



Griffin’s mouth twisted. “How do you propose to do this, Your Grace, if I might be so bold as to ask? If the people want to drink gin, surely trying to make them stop is a bit like attempting to empty the ocean with a soup spoon.”



Wakefield’s eyes narrowed. “If we can shut down the distillers of this foul beverage, we will have won half the war. Without a supply, the poor will soon find some other healthier thing to drink.”



“If you say so,” Griffin murmured as he sipped from his wineglass. Had the duke ever worried about his family’s money? He thought not.



A plate of boiled beef was set before Griffin just as Megs said from across the table, “Huff was telling us earlier about a ghost that is said to haunt the coffeehouse he attends.”



“Nonsense!” Caro muttered.



Griffin raised his eyebrow at his normally staid brother-in-law. “A ghost, Huff?”



Huff shrugged his shoulders, sawing vigorously at the beef on the plate before him. “Ghost or spirit. Said to bang a drum incessantly at night. At Crackering’s Coffeehouse. Have it on good authority.”



“Inside the coffeehouse?” Lady Hero murmured. “But is anyone there after dark?”



“Must be,” Huff said. “Otherwise who would have heard him?”



Griffin caught Lady Hero’s eye and could’ve sworn the lady was suppressing a smile. He hastily looked to his own plate.



“I’ve heard there is a ghost or phantom in St. Giles,” Caro said somewhat surprisingly.



“Does he bang drums?” Griffin asked gravely.



Caro wrinkled her nose. “No, of course not, silly. He kills people.”



Griffin widened his eyes at his sister.



“With a sword,” Caro said, as if that settled things.



“Where did you hear this?” Mater asked.



“Oh, I don’t know.” Caro stared into space for a moment, a faint frown marring the creamy skin of her brow, then shook her head impatiently. “Everyone has heard of him.”



“I haven’t,” Megs said.



“Nor have I,” Griffin said. “I wonder if Caro is making it up?”



Caro inhaled, her face turning a rather dangerous pink.



Before she could speak, Lady Hero cleared her throat. “Actually, I’ve seen him.”



All heads swung toward her.



“Really?” Megs said with interest. “What does he look like?”



“He wears a harlequin’s motley—all black and red triangles and diamonds—and he has a great floppy hat on his head with a red plume. Oh, and there’s a pantomime half-mask covering his face.” Lady Hero looked around the table and nodded. “He’s called the Ghost of St. Giles, but I don’t think he’s a ghost at all. He seemed corporal enough to me.”



There was a small silence as everyone contemplated her words.



Then Mater asked, “But what were you doing in St. Giles, my dear?”



Griffin set his wineglass down, trying to think of an excuse for Lady Hero to have been wandering about St. Giles.



But the lady did not share his anxiety. “I went to view the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children along with many other members of society. You remember, Maximus, early last spring. The home burned to the ground—that was when I saw the Ghost of St. Giles. We had to put up the children in your town house. You were away for the month.”



Wakefield’s mouth twisted wryly. “Ah, yes. I came home to find a game of shuttlecock going on in the ballroom.”



Lady Hero pinkened. “Yes, well, we moved them out soon enough.”



“You must have been quite frightened,” Megs said softly. “A fire and a ghost.”



“It was very exciting,” Lady Hero said slowly, “but I don’t think I had enough time to become frightened. People were rushing about, trying to put out the fire and rescue all the children from the flames. The ghost merely disappeared into the crowd. He didn’t seem like a murderer—he actually helped.”



“Perhaps he only murders at night,” Griffin said lightly.



“Or when not in a crowd,” Megs added.



“Mondays,” Huff said.



Griffin looked at him. “What about Mondays?”



“Maybe he only murders on Mondays,” Huff said in a burst of verbosity. “Takes the rest of the week on holiday as it were.”



“Huff, you are a genius.” Griffin stared at his brother-in-law with admiration. “A murderer who only kills on Mondays! Why, one would be completely safe from Tuesday to Sunday.”



Huff shrugged modestly. “Except for the other murderers.”



But this was too much for Caro. She snorted like an enraged cow. “Nonsense! What would a ghost be doing running about St. Giles in a harlequin’s motley if he isn’t killing people?”



Griffin raised his wineglass solemnly. “Once again you’ve debated us into the ground, Caro. I bow from the field of elocution, bloody and defeated.”



Hero made a small squeaking sound beside him as if stifling a laugh.



“Griffin,” Mater warned.



“In any case, I hope the ghost confines himself to St. Giles,” Megs remarked. “I shouldn’t like to run into him tomorrow night.”



“What’s tomorrow night?” Griffin asked absently. A new dish had been placed before him that seemed to contain jelly with unidentified bits floating in it.



“We’re off to Harte’s Folly,” Megs said. “Caro and Huff, Lady Hero and Thomas, Lord Bollinger and me, and Lady Phoebe and His Grace.”



Wakefield stirred at the other end of the table. “I do apologize, but I’ve found I have a prior appointment tomorrow night. I shan’t be able to attend.”



“Oh, truly, Maximus?” Lady Hero’s voice was softly disappointed. “Who shall escort Phoebe, then? You know she’s been looking forward to this outing.”



The duke frowned, looking nonplussed. No doubt he was rarely chastised.



“Does she need an escort?” Griffin asked. “I mean, with all of you there?”



A look passed between Lady Hero and Wakefield, so fast that Griffin almost thought he’d imagined it.



“Well, perhaps she needn’t come,” Lady Hero murmured.



“Oh, but Griffin can escort her,” Megs piped up. “Can’t you, Griffin?”



Griffin blinked. “I—”



“Naturally we wouldn’t want to put you out.” Lady Hero was staring fixedly at the plate before her. Her expression was serene, but somehow he knew there was distress in her gaze.



Thomas was watching him, his face remote.



“Griffin,” Mater said, and for the life of him he didn’t know if she said his name in encouragement or in warning.



And in any case it hardly mattered. Once again he gave into temptation. “I’d be delighted to accompany you all to Harte’s Folly.”



HIS FACE ITCHED.



Charlie Grady propped one elbow on the plank table he sat at and scratched absently, feeling the bumps and ridges under his fingertips. Freddy, one of his best men, fidgeted in front of him. Freddy was a big bear of a man, all but bald, with a nasty scar running through his lower lip. He’d killed four men in the last month alone, yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to look Charlie in the face. Instead, his gaze dropped to the floor, drifted to the ceiling, and just grazed Charlie’s left ear. If Freddy had been a fly, Charlie would’ve swatted him.



He might still.



“Two old women were taken last week by the Duke of Wakefield’s informers,” Freddy was saying. “Makes the others fearful-like.”



“Have any given up their carts?” Charlie asked gently.



Freddy shrugged, his eyes fixed over Charlie’s shoulder. “Not yet. They’ll sell gin as long as it makes ’em money, but with the informers about, they ’ave to watch their step, move more often.”



“It’s costing us money.”



Freddy shrugged again.



Charlie picked up a pair of carved bone dice from the tabletop, idly rolling them between his fingers. “Then we’ll have to see to the informers, won’t we?”



Freddy nodded, his gaze glancing away.



“What about our plans for St. Giles?”



“MacKay has left London.” Freddy straightened a bit as if glad to be the bearer of good news. “And I ’ad word this morning that Smith was inside ’is still when we blew it. ’E’s alive, but the burns are bad. They say ’e won’t live more ’n another day or so.”



“Good.” Charlie opened his hand to stare at the dice in his palm. “And my lord Reading?”



“ ’E’s put all ’is business into one building.” Freddy scowled. “It’s got an outer wall, and ’e ’as armed guards inside. It’s going to be ’ard as ’ell to attack.”



“Yet attack it we will.” Charlie let the dice fall from his fingers. An ace and a sice—a six. Seven was always a lucky number. He grunted, pleased. “Tonight, I think.”



“WHERE IS LORD Griffin?” Phoebe asked as Mandeville helped her from the carriage.



Hero turned a little to look out on the Thames as she waited for Phoebe. Where is Lord Griffin, indeed?



She, Mandeville, and Phoebe had traveled together to one of the stairs leading down to the Thames. Harte’s Folly lay south of the river, and they’d need to take boats to arrive there. Lady Margaret, Lord Bollinger, Lady Caroline, and Lord Huff, arriving in a separate carriage, had already descended the stairs and were no doubt entering a boat right now.



The carriage lanterns cast pools of light that were reflected on the wet cobblestones. It had rained earlier in the day, but the sky was clear now, a few stars already lighting the night. It was unseasonably warm for October—perfect for visiting a pleasure garden.