He nearly turned back, but then he heard the groan.
He found Nick slumped inside a doorway only feet from the warehouse entrance.
Griffin swore and bent over his friend. Blood and jellied eels were splashed upon the cobblestones. Nick was trying to stand, but something was wrong with the big man’s legs.
“Spilled me eels,” Nick wheezed. “Buggers spilled me jellied eels.”
“Forget about your damned eels,” Griffin growled. “Where are you hit?”
Nick looked up and the sun suddenly rose, lighting every ugly cranny in his face. His eyes were sliding to the side, his mouth lax. Griffin inhaled and then found he couldn’t breathe properly.
“Best eels in St. Giles,” Nick whispered.
“Goddamn you, Nick Barnes,” Griffin hissed. “Don’t you die.”
He grabbed Nick’s arm and bent, hauling the other man’s weight over his shoulder, staggering as he stood. Nick was solid muscle and heavy as a horse. Griffin made it back through the gate to the warehouse and locked it before setting Nick down on the cold, damp cobblestones of the courtyard.
“Get some cloths!” he roared to the guards. The blood was everywhere, soaking into Nick’s breeches, splattering Griffin’s jacket. Griffin turned back to Nick, holding his head in his hands. “Nick!”
Nick opened his eyes and smiled sweetly up at him. “They were awaitin’ for me. Vicar’s men. Fuckin’ jellied eels.”
Nick’s eyes closed and no matter how Griffin swore at him, they did not open again.
HERO KNOCKED FOR the second time at the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children that afternoon. She stood back and glanced at the upper-story windows, puzzled. Every one was shuttered.
“Perhaps no one’s here, my lady,” George, the footman, offered.
Hero frowned. “Someone is always about—it’s a home for children, after all.”
She sighed and glanced up the street nervously. She still half expected Griffin to discover that she’d journeyed into St. Giles without his escort. He’d seemed to have an uncanny ability to know when she was planning to go into St. Giles. Yet today there’d been no sign of him.
The door opened and Hero turned in relief, but her smile soon faltered when she saw the grave little figure in the doorway. “Why, Mary Evening, whatever is the matter?”
The child ducked her head, opening the door wider to let her in. Hero instructed George to wait by the door. She crossed the threshold and was immediately struck by how silent the house was. Instead of letting her into the sitting room, Mary Evening led her back to the kitchen. The child darted out of the room, leaving her alone.
Hero looked around. A kettle was simmering on the fireplace, and clean dishes were stacked to dry on a sideboard, the obvious debris from luncheon. She wandered to a cabinet and opened a door curiously, finding tea, flour, sugar, and salt.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Silence Hollingbrook entered. For a moment Hero couldn’t figure out the difference in the woman’s appearance. Then she realized that instead of her usual brown or gray costume, Mrs. Hollingbrook was clad entirely in flat black.
There could be only one reason.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said distractedly. “I don’t know why Mary Evening put you in the kitchen.”
“You’re in mourning,” Hero said.
“Yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook smoothed a hand down her black skirts. “Mr. Hollingbrook… my husband, I mean.”
She inhaled on a broken gasp.
“Sit down.” Hero hurried over, pulling out one of the kitchen benches.
“No, I’m sorry, I just… I…”
“Sit,” Hero repeated, pushing gently on Mrs. Hollingbrook’s shoulder. “Please.”
Mrs. Hollingbrook sank onto the bench, her expression dazed.
“When did you find out?” Hero went back to the cabinet and took down the tin of tea leaves. A brown pottery teapot was drying with the other dishes. She righted it and began spooning in tea leaves.
“Yesterday. I… Yes, it was only yesterday,” Mrs. Hollingbrook murmured wonderingly. “It seems so long ago.”
Hero went to the hearth and, catching up a cloth, picked up the kettle and poured boiling water into the teapot. Fragrant steam rolled up from the teapot before she replaced the lid. She’d come to inform Mrs. Hollingbrook about the new architect and the further delays in building the new home, but that information would obviously have to wait. This was more important.
She brought the full teapot to the table. “He was lost at sea?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook fingered her skirt. “His ship went down. One and fifty men aboard, and all lost at sea.”