“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.