Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(61)

Good God. Griffin looked up but caught no sight of the Ghost of St. Giles—for it must be he. The apparition had been wearing black and red motley. Was the ghost a footpad? But if so, the man had made no move to try and rob him. What exactly was the purpose of the ghost’s wanderings? Griffin shook his head and kneed Rambler into motion again. Too bad he couldn’t tell Megs of his sighting—she’d be all agog.

It was full dark by the time Griffin arrived at the distillery. He pounded on the gate and waited for what seemed like an overlong time for an answer, his back crawling all the time at the knowledge of how exposed he was. When Nick Barnes finally opened the door, Griffin felt his nerves tighten. Nick’s face was grim.

“What is it?” Griffin asked as he dismounted inside the courtyard wall. He took the two loaded pistols from the saddle and shoved them in a wide leather belt he had strapped over his coat.

“Another man gone just this morn,” Nick growled. “Don’t know if ’e was taken by th’ Vicar or if ’e plain ran away.”

“Damn.” Griffin pulled off his coat and picked up a shovel to stoke the fires beneath one of the big copper caldrons. This day just kept getting worse and worse. He still saw little Phoebe in his mind’s eye, her face drawn tight by pain, the knowledge that she was losing her sight making him feel helpless. Damn it, a young girl like her shouldn’t have to go blind. God shouldn’t let it happen.

When Griffin looked up again, he saw Nick was staring at him thoughtfully. “Bad business.”

Griffin grunted and pushed a shovelful of coal into the fire.

“We’ll not last long like this,” Nick said quietly.

Griffin looked around, but none of the men were close enough to overhear. “I’m aware of that fact. All the Vicar needs to do is pick us off a bit at a time and sit back and wait until I can no longer pay enough to keep the men here.”

Nick scratched his chin. “Is it worth it, is what I’m a-wondering? You’s got a bit put by, I knows. Per’aps it’s time to quit. Give up the stills and find some other way to make a shillin’.”

Griffin turned and glared at him.

Nick shrugged imperturbably. “Then maybe we should do something a bit more activelike.”

“Jesus.” Griffin bent and shoveled more coal.

He knew what Nick was getting at: an attack of their own. This had started as a simple business—never respectable, of course, but a business nevertheless. When had it descended into warfare? Maybe it was time to give up this illicit means of making money, but what else did he have? Land that his farmers labored to get a stingy crop from. How else could he turn his grain to money?

Nick watched him shovel coal silently for a moment.

“I seen that lady what came with you th’ other day,” Nick said chattily after a bit.

Griffin straightened and propped an elbow on his shovel, raising an eyebrow. Nick didn’t chat.

Nick pursed his lips—not a pleasant sight. “Seemed a mite put out, she did. Something you said, maybe, m’lord?”

“She doesn’t approve of gin distilling,” Griffin said flatly.

“Ah.” Nick rocked back on his heels. “Not a proper occupation for toffs, I’m thinking?”

“That’s right.” Griffin winced and rubbed the nape of his neck. “No, that’s not entirely correct. She champions a foundling home in St. Giles. She thinks gin is the reason there’s so many orphans. It’s the root of every evil in London as far as she’s concerned.”

“The ’Ome for Unfortunate Infants and Foundlin’ Childr’n.”

Griffin glanced at him, surprised. “You know of it?”

“ ’Ard not to, livin’ in these parts.” Nick tipped back his head to stare at the shadowed ceiling of the warehouse. “A good place, is what I ’ear. Not like those what sell the mites into bad apprenticeships. Pity the ’ouse burned last winter.”

Griffin grunted. “She’s having it rebuilt. Bigger and grander.”

“Sounds like a right angel of good will, she does.”

Griffin stared at him, suspicious of mockery.

Nick looked innocent. “Makes one wonder what she was doin’ wi’ you, don’t it, m’lord?”

“She’s affianced to my brother.” Griffin shoveled in more coal, though the fire was well enough stoked now.

“Oh, then she ’as but a sisterly interest in you.”

“Nick,” Griffin growled in warning.

But Nick was never the type to be cowed.

“It’s the saintly ones, I find, that needs watchin’,” he mused. “Now, whores, they be simple—fuck ’em an’ pay ’em. No problems, everything nice an’ tidy an’ never a thought afterward. But with a respectable woman, why there’s talk an’ feelings an’ suchlike. Trouble, the lot of them. Not, mind you, that it’s not worth it in the end, just that there’s a bit of worry up front. A man best be warned.”