Griffin stuck his foot on the man’s chest and pulled his sword from the attacker’s body. He turned toward the wall, sword ready, but there was no need. Four bodies lay on the cobblestones and a man—one of his own—was sitting with his back against the wall, moaning. All the other attackers had retreated.
The skirmish was over—at least for now.
“Get him inside.” Griffin gestured at the moaning man. “You others stay and guard the courtyard from further attack.”
He left eight men guarding the walls and turned back to the warehouse. Rambler still snorted and shook where he was tethered in a corner.
Griffin went to him and placed a hand on the gelding’s sweaty neck. “It’s all right, lad. All right now.”
The horse rolled his eyes at him.
Griffin spoke quietly to him for a few more minutes and then filled a nosebag from the saddle with a handful of oats. He left Rambler contentedly munching and strode to the warehouse. Smoke still slipped from the doorway, drifting into the night, but it was thinner now. He picked up the pistol he’d thrown down and ducked inside.
It was dim, the smoke swirling about the ceiling. Griffin squinted against stinging ash.
Nick loomed out of the dark like Satan himself, his face blackened. “We got it out, sure enough, but we can’t work the still on that ’earth now.”
Griffin nodded. “We need guards on the roof.”
Nick cocked an eyebrow, looking positively evil. “And ’ow will we get men for that duty?”
“Pay them triple,” Griffin said grimly.
“At some point you’ll be paying more than you’re makin’,” Nick warned.
“I’m well aware of that fact.”
Nick nodded and turned to look back at the wreckage of the blocked chimney. “Could’ve been worse.”
“How so?”
“They tried to block another of the chimneys, but the wad fell through. Merely made a smokin’ mess on the fire.” He looked back at Griffin. “We got it out well enough.”
Griffin sat on a barrel wearily and began reloading his pistols from a sack of powder and balls. “This time.”
“Aye,” Nick grunted, and turned to the chimneys, his words drifting back over his shoulder. “Just pray our luck ’olds out.”
Chapter Ten
The next day, the queen called for her horse and assembled the princes so they might go hunting with falcons. And as they sat mounted in the stable yard, she turned to her suitors and asked, “What is the strongest thing in my kingdom?” Then she rode out of the stable yard without a backward glance.
Well, the princes wore looks of consternation as they followed the queen to the hunt, but the stable master only nodded his head thoughtfully….
—from Queen Ravenhair
It was midmorning by the time Griffin arrived home from St. Giles. He wearily dismounted Rambler outside his town house and gave the reins to a stable lad.
“See he’s rubbed down well and given some oats,” he instructed the boy.
With a last pat for Rambler, he climbed the front steps of his town house and let himself in. He kept only a small staff at his London residence since he did no entertaining here. A cook, a few maids, a bootblack boy, and Deedle were quite sufficient for his needs. The price for such laxity, however, was that there was often no one to meet him at his own door.
Griffin threw his hat at a hall table and didn’t bother to pick it up when it fell to the floor. He began climbing the stairs. God, he ached like an old man. Another night awake was added to the fight and the ride to and from St. Giles. Now all he wanted was a hot bath and bed. Not necessarily in that order.
But Deedle knew well his master’s ways.
The manservant poked his head out of Griffin’s room as soon as he heard his steps in the upper hall. “I’ve got the water boiling, m’lord. We’ll ’ave a bath ready in two ticks.”
“Bless you, man,” Griffin said. He sat upon his bed and began drawing off his boots as the maids hurried in with steaming kettles.
Twenty minutes later, Griffin winced and then sighed as he lowered himself into a tub of hot water.
Deedle fussed about for a moment, putting clothes away. Then he picked up Griffin’s muddy boots. “I’ll take these down to the boy, shall I?”
Griffin, eyes closed, waved a hand.
The door shut behind the valet.
He’d already soaped the smoke from his head and body, but the rising steam was wonderful. Griffin lay there, soaking, and let his mind drift. He’d left orders for Nick to find more men—if there were some to be had at any price. The Vicar wasn’t just targeting Griffin’s stills. Overnight there’d been news of two different fires destroying other gin makers. At least one man was dead in the flames. Could he keep his business going?