There was a small silence broken only by the discreet scrape of silverware on plates.
“I saw Lady Beckinhall today,” Cousin Bathilda said at last, “at a quite dreadful tea given by Mrs. Headington. All that was provided for refreshments were some very dry little cakes. I am positive that they were stale—at the very least two days’ old!—and Lady Beckinhall quite agreed with me.”
Lady Beckinhall could hardly do otherwise, Hero thought wryly.
“She informed me that Lady Caire is thinking of extending her stay on the continent through the winter,” Bathilda went on.
Hero looked up. “Oh, no. Really?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, it rather might be,” Hero said.
“Why?” Phoebe asked.
“It’s the work on the new home.” Hero sighed. “I’ve had to hire another architect, because the first one embezzled the funds we’d given him.”
“My dear!” Cousin Bathilda looked horrified.
“Yes. We’ll need more money—quite a bit more money, I’m afraid,” Hero said. “And Lady Caire staying away even longer won’t help matters.”
“What about her son?” Phoebe asked. “Won’t Lord Caire and his new wife be returning to town soon?”
Bathilda snorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he stayed away until spring. He married a brewer’s daughter, after all. He’ll need his mother’s help in getting invitations.”
“I don’t think Temperance or Lord Caire are particularly interested in society events,” Hero began.
Bathilda drew in her breath sharply.
“But you are right,” Hero added hastily. “They may stay away from town for even longer now.”
“What shall you do?” Phoebe asked.
Hero shook her head and was silent a moment as the footmen cleared the supper plates and brought in a pudding for dessert.
She waited until they were each served, then said solemnly, “I shall have to raise the funds myself somehow.”
“You can have some of mine,” Phoebe said promptly. “Mother and Father left me a fair amount, or so Maximus says.”
“But you can’t touch it until you’re of a majority,” Hero said gently. “Thank you anyway, dear.”
Phoebe scrunched her face for a moment. “I’d wager there are other ladies who would like to help the home.”
“Do you?” Hero dabbed at her pudding without really tasting it.
“Yes.” Phoebe was beginning to look excited. “You could form a… a syndicate.”
“Like a gentlemen’s business syndicate?” Cousin Bathilda frowned.
“Quite,” Phoebe said. “Except it would be only ladies—because if you let a gentleman in, he’ll want to run things—and it’s to give money, not make it. You could call it the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, darling,” Hero said, smiling. Phoebe’s enthusiasm was hard to resist. “But what ladies would I approach to give away their money?”
“You might try Lady Beckinhall for one,” Cousin Bathilda said unexpectedly. “I know for a fact that her late husband left her extremely well-off.”
“Yes, but will she want to simply give away her wealth?” Hero shook her head. She didn’t know Lady Beckinhall all that well, but the lady had always struck her as more interested in fashion and the latest gossip than charity.
“I’ll help you make a list,” Phoebe said, “entitled ‘Potentially Charitable Ladies of Means.’ ”
“That will certainly help.” Hero laughed.
“Mmm.” Phoebe ate some of her pudding with evident appreciation. “I say, why did you ask earlier about changing gentlemen?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Hero replied.
“Lord Mandeville seems perfect the way he is,” her younger sister commented. “Does he gamble?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Hero said.
“Well, if he did, I can’t think he’d allow you to confine him to his smallclothes like Lord Pepperman,” Phoebe said.
The younger footman choked, earning himself a severe glance from Panders.
Suddenly an image of Lord Griffin in his smallclothes popped into Hero’s head, making her go hot all over. She took a guilty sip of wine.
“No, indeed,” Cousin Bathilda said, apparently oblivious to the currents around her. “I’m afraid you’ll have to accept Lord Mandeville the way he is, my dear. Fortunately for you, he’s quite perfect as he is.”
Hero nodded, her mind on Lord Reading, which was why she nearly jumped at Cousin Bathilda’s next words.
“Now, Lord Griffin,” the older lady said, “is an entirely different kettle of fish. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he gambled excessively.”
“Why?” Phoebe asked.
“Why, what?”
“Why do you suspect Lord Griffin of such awful things? He was quite lovely to me last night.”
Cousin Bathilda smiled and shook her head in a manner that Hero had found quite maddening at Phoebe’s age. “Those tales aren’t for ears as innocent as yours, my dear.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Well, whatever his unspeakable deeds, I like him. He makes me laugh, and he doesn’t treat me like a child.”
Naturally this bit of rebellion set Cousin Bathilda off on a lecture about decorum and the dangers of judging gentlemen solely upon their ability to make one laugh.
Hero looked down at her cold pudding. She could sympathize with Phoebe—she, too, liked Reading. He was at base, no matter what Cousin Bathilda said, a good man. And because he was a good man, she needed to show him why what he was doing was wrong. Not just for the people who were damaged by drinking gin, but for Reading himself. If he continued distilling gin, at some point he would cease to be a good man.
And that was something Hero was quite sure she couldn’t bear.
Chapter Eight
That night, the suitors assembled in the throne room and presented their answers to the queen. The first was Prince Westmoon. He bowed and set a single, flawless diamond before her. “Wealth is the foundation of your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
Next, Prince Eastsun strode forward. He nodded to the queen and laid a pretty little golden dagger at her feet, all encrusted with gems. “Arms are the foundation of your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
Finally, Prince Northwind presented a velvet bag with five and twenty perfect pearls and said, “Trade, Your Majesty, is the foundation of your kingdom….”
—from Queen Ravenhair
Griffin cursed the Vicar of Whitechapel as he rode home the next morning. After a sleepless night at the distillery, spent constantly tense, listening for the least sign of intruders, Griffin had nothing to show for it but an aching head. There’d been no sign of the Vicar or his men. All Griffin wanted now was a bite to eat and the comfort of his own bed.
In fact, he was so focused on those two things that he almost didn’t notice the carriage lurking discreetly on the cross street down from his town house. Only the glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a familiar coachman alerted him.
Griffin pulled Rambler to a halt with a muttered curse. What the hell was Lady Hero doing on his street at the unfashionable hour of ten of the clock? His house was only feet away, but Griffin sighed and walked Rambler over to the carriage. He rapped on the window.
Slim fingers promptly pulled the curtains back, and Lady Hero motioned him impatiently inside.
Wonderful. Griffin instructed one of the footmen to take Rambler to the mews. Then he climbed in the carriage. She wore a dark green coat over a lighter green skirt, and her red hair seemed to glow in the dimness of the carriage.
“Good morning, Lady Hero.”
“Good morning,” she said briskly. “I’ve an appointment in St. Giles, and since you insist on accompanying me, I thought I’d save you the trouble of tracking down my carriage.”
“How thoughtful.” He slumped onto the carriage seat.
She frowned at him. “Have you had any sleep at all?”
“No, nor breakfast either.”
“Hmm.” She looked adorably disapproving. “Sleep, then.”
And he was so weary that he didn’t even ask what her mission was in St. Giles before laying his head on the squabs and losing consciousness so quickly he might as well have been knocked on the head.
He opened his eyes sometime later to see Lady Hero watching him. Her clear gray gaze was somehow intimate.
“Better?” she asked softly.
He didn’t move, enjoying simply looking back at her. “Much, thank you.”
She looked at him curiously. “For a self-proclaimed rake, you work harder than any gentleman I know.”
He cocked his head. Had anyone else said that, he’d think it a complaint—for an aristocrat to work was no compliment—but Lady Hero’s voice was musing. Did she actually approve of something about him?
He lifted a corner of his mouth. “Don’t tell the guild of rakes, will you?”
She laughed softly, and then opened a cloth on her lap. “I bought you a meat pie while you were sleeping.”
“You are an angel,” Griffin said gratefully. He took the pie—still warm—and bit into it, savoring the gravy on his tongue.
“Making money isn’t the only thing you’re good at,” she said quietly.
He arched his eyebrows, still chewing.
A faint flush crept up her elegant neck. “You make people laugh.”
He swallowed. “So do fools.”
She shook her head, gently admonishing. “You jest, but the ability to laugh is a wonderful thing. Phoebe had a lovely time the other night, largely because of you.”
“I didn’t do anything extraordinary.” He shook his head and took another bite.
“But you did.” She looked at him intently. “Phoebe is… is special and very dear to my heart. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you made her laugh that night. Thank you.”
His eyes narrowed as he remembered how Phoebe had lost sight of the little monkey on stage. “What did—” The carriage shuddered to a halt, distracting him before he could finish the thought. “Have you decided to inspect the construction again?”
“No.” She looked down at her hands. “We’ve stopped at the temporary foundling home. I wanted to show you something.”
“Indeed?” She wasn’t meeting his eyes, so he probably wasn’t going to like whatever she had in store for him. Still, he ate the last of the pastry and brushed off his hands. “After you.”
Perhaps his smile had a bit too much teeth. She glanced at him rather nervously before descending the carriage. Outside, the day was gray and a chill wind blew.
Griffin offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She laid her hand on his sleeve, and he was aware of her touch, light though it was. It was pleasant to be able to guide her down the lane leading to the temporary home. To act the proper gentleman to her lady.
They stopped at the door to the home, and he stepped forward and knocked.
There was no sound from within.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Do they expect you today?”
She cleared her throat, a fine pale pink blush climbing her throat. “I didn’t tell them I was coming.”
He didn’t have time to reply to this news before the door was pulled open. A young girl stood before them, an enormous apron pinned to her bodice.
“Good morning, Mary Whitsun,” Lady Hero said. “Is Mrs. Hollingbrook about?”
The girl curtsied. “Yes, my lady. Please come in.”
Griffin stepped over the sill and noticed immediately the bare boards of the hallway—they were warped. The girl led them into a small sitting room.
