Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(60)

“Here we are!” Lady Margaret called ahead of them, gesturing to a pretty little shop.

The shop turned out to be a milliner’s where Phoebe found a lovely length of Belgian lace. Afterward, Reading bought them all buns and tea and then insisted they visit a bookstore. Phoebe and Lady Margaret made for a display of beautifully illustrated books on botany while Reading drew Hero aside toward a small shelf of books in Greek and Latin.

“They have some interesting books here,” he said, taking down a tome of plays. “Have you read Aristophanes?”

“I shouldn’t,” she murmured, even as she took the book from his hands. She fingered the leather spine.

“Why not?” he asked softly. “It’s merely a book of plays, a bit scandalous in parts, granted, but nothing to tempt you into sin.”

“But it’s a book of plays,” she said, still holding the book. “Not history like Thucydides and Herodotus.”

“So?” His eyebrows rose up his forehead.

“So it isn’t serious.” She placed the book carefully back on the shelf. “It’s my duty to occupy my mind with more important matters than comedic plays.”

“Duty to whom?” he began rather heatedly, but suddenly there was a cry and a thump from behind him.

Hero looked and saw Phoebe crumpled in a heap at the bottom of a short series of steps. “Oh, dear God!”

She hurried over with Reading.

Phoebe’s face was chalk-white, and Lady Margaret, though standing by her, did not look much better.

“What happened?” Reading barked.

“I don’t know,” Lady Margaret said. “She must’ve tripped on the stairs.”

“I didn’t see them,” Phoebe said through pale lips. “I was walking to another bookshelf, and the stairs just came up in front of me.”

Reading glanced at her sharply before bending and asking, “Can you stand?”

“I… I think so.”

“Reading, her forehead,” Hero said. There was a line of blood dripping down the side of Phoebe’s face.

“She must’ve bumped it.” Reading touched Phoebe’s hair gently.

“Ow.” Phoebe began to raise her right arm and then inhaled sharply, her face turning a ghastly green. “Oh!”

“What is it?” Hero asked.

“I think she’s broken her arm,” Reading said. “No, don’t touch it. Let me.” With one athletic movement, he gathered Phoebe into his arms and rose. “I’ll carry her back to the carriage, and once we’ve got her home, we’ll send for a doctor.”

“Very well,” Hero began, but Reading was already striding out the shop door.

She and Lady Margaret trotted to keep up, and they were soon at the carriage. The ride home was an awful journey, each bump causing Phoebe pain. Reading sat beside her, trying to brace her against the worst jostling, his mouth white-rimmed. As soon as they were at the house, Bathilda came out and began efficiently ordering maids and footmen about. Phoebe was carried into the house, and Hero was about to follow her when a restraining hand was laid upon her arm.

She turned and looked up into Reading’s angry face. “Why doesn’t she have better spectacles? It’s obvious she can’t see with the ones she has—she didn’t see the steps! You need to consult an expert.”

Hero closed her eyes, waiting for self-righteous anger to meet his, but all she felt was a deep, despairing sorrow.

“Hero?” he asked, squeezing her arm.

“We have consulted the experts,” Hero said wearily. “Some from as far away as Prussia. Ever since a year ago when we realized her eyesight was poor, she’s been prodded and poked and any number of ‘cures’ tried upon her.”

He frowned. “And?”

She blinked back tears, trying to smile and failing miserably. “And none of them has worked. Phoebe is going blind.”

* * *

IT WAS PAST midnight by the time Griffin entered St. Giles that night, and those who were easy prey were already scurrying to ground. He’d not seen hide nor hair of the Vicar’s men in the nights since Reese’s body had been thrown over the wall. Maybe the man had lost interest in this part of London. Maybe the talk that the Vicar was going to attack again was simply rumors. Maybe the man was dead.

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.