Maybe, but Griffin wasn’t counting on it. He rode with his eyes alert, one hand on the loaded gun in his saddle. The Vicar had been known to demonstrate patience when he was after something he wanted. And it appeared he wanted Griffin’s still very much.

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.”