Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(29)

“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?”