Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(49)

Mary Whitsun bobbed a curtsy.

Lady Hero cleared her throat. “How long has Mary Whitsun lived at the home, Mrs. Hollingbrook?”

“Nearly ten years, my lady,” Mary Whitsun answered for herself.

“And how did you come to the home?”

Mary looked quickly at Mrs. Hollingbrook. There was a slight line between that lady’s eyes. “Mary was brought to us by a”—she darted a look at the girls—“er, person of ill repute. She was just three at the time.”

“And her mother?” Lady Hero asked softly.

“We don’t know anything about her parents,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said slowly, “but judging by the person who brought her here, it was thought that her mother was a poor unfortunate who walked the streets.”

Her mother had been a prostitute. Griffin looked at the girl, wondering how she felt to have such intimate matters of her history discussed in front of her.

The girl met his gaze, her expression stony.

Griffin nodded at her and said gently, “Thank you, Mary Whitsun.”

Mrs. Hollingbrook moved to the next small girl in line. “This is Mary Little. She has been with us since she was an infant left on our doorstep.”

Mary Little bobbed a curtsy. “Are you the one that’s to marry Lady Hero?”

Lady Hero gasped softly beside him. Griffin didn’t dare glance at her. “No, it’s my brother who is to wed Lady Hero.”

“Oh,” said the child.

Mrs. Hollingbrook cleared her throat. “And this”—she laid a hand on the third girl in line—“is Mary Compassion. She came to us at the age of two along with her brother, Joseph Compassion. Their parents died within a sennight of each other from cold and ill nutrition.”

“And drink,” Lady Hero murmured.

Griffin stared at her impassively. She lifted her chin, stubbornly staring back.

“Well, yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook looked between him and Lady Hero, a puzzled frown on her face. “Most of the deaths in St. Giles—the ones that are not from old age, that is—are helped along in one way or another by drink.”

“How many die from old age in St. Giles?” Lady Hero asked.

“Few,” Mrs. Hollingbrook replied softly. “Very, very few.”

Griffin fisted his hands, trying to keep his voice level. “And these other young ladies?”

“Oh.” Mrs. Hollingbrook glanced distractedly at her charges. “This is Mary Evening. She has been with us since infancy. She was found on a nearby church step. Next to her is Mary Redribbon, who was brought to us by a local tavern owner.” Mrs. Hollingbrook glanced quickly at Lady Hero. “I’m afraid Mary Redribbon was left at the tavern by her mother, who did not return.”

Griffin forced a smile to his lips as the little girls dipped in curtsy. Damn it. He wanted to shout that it wasn’t his fault if people chose to drink gin. He’d made no woman prostitute herself or abandon her babe in a tavern. If he didn’t distill the gin they drank, someone else would.

“And finally, this is Mary Sweet.” Mrs. Hollingbrook stroked the curls of the smallest child, who couldn’t have been more than three. “Her mother has five other children and attempted to sell Mary when she was but an infant. We persuaded the mother to give her to us instead.”

Griffin inhaled. “How very fortunate for Mary Sweet.” He glanced at the toddler, who promptly hid her face in Mrs. Hollingbrook’s skirts.

“We are fortunate as well,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said affectionately. “Now, if you’ll come with me, I can introduce you to some of our boys.”

“Ah, as to that.” Griffin made a grimace of apology. “I’m afraid Lady Hero overestimated the time available to us. We shall have to save the rest of your tour for another day.”

“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said. “You’re most welcome at any time, my lord.”

He smiled and took Lady Hero’s arm in a firm grip, propelling her to the door even as she breathlessly said her good-byes. He kept his smile pasted to his face until they were outside.

She tried to take her arm from his grasp. “My lord—”

“Not here,” he murmured, trotting her up the lane. He gave instructions to the coachman, helped her into the waiting carriage, and sat.

Then he looked across at her and growled, “What do you think you’re doing?”


READING’S PALE GREEN eyes were hard, his lips pressed together, forming white brackets on either side, and his nostrils flared.

He looked so intimidating, in fact, that Hero had to swallow before she could reply. “I’m trying to get you to understand what your gin distilling is doing to St. Giles and the poor people who live here. As a friend—”