Hero looked down, tears misting her own eyes. Love isn’t so very common. She’d known that in an intellectual sort of way, but here was someone who’d had it and then lost it. She had a sudden, near-panicked urge to see Griffin. She had to warn him that Maximus knew of his distillery. She had to touch his hand, to assure herself that he was whole and alive. She had to hear him breathe. Was this love, this longing? Or was it a sly facsimile?
“Pardon me,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said, wiping at her tears. “I’m not usually so maudlin.”
“Don’t apologize,” Hero said firmly. “You have suffered a great shock. It would be strange if you were not melancholy.”
Mrs. Hollingbrook nodded wearily.
Hero stayed a few minutes longer, drinking the tea in companionable silence. But her urge to see Griffin—to feel for herself that he was alive and well—was still strong. She soon excused herself and walked rapidly to the door.
On the tedious carriage ride back to the better parts of the West End, she couldn’t stop herself from dwelling on the most grotesque thoughts: Griffin dragged before a magistrate, condemned and humiliated, and the most horrifying of all—his limp body swinging from a hangman’s knot.
By the time she mounted the step to his town house, she was near hysterical with her own morbid imaginings.
The door was pulled open by Griffin himself. He didn’t seem to employ very many servants. He scowled down at her, the stubble thick on his jaw, his shirt open at the throat, and his bare head tousled. Deep shadows circled his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he growled.
Her relief at seeing him well, albeit surly, brought contrary irritation to her chest. “Will you let me in?”
He shrugged and stepped back, his grudging movement ungracious.
She entered anyway, following when he turned his back and led the way into his library. She took a moment to look about. Last time she’d come here, their argument had flared so fast and intense she hadn’t had time to notice his house.
Now she saw that his library was expensively if carelessly appointed. An exquisite painted globe of the world was draped with a waistcoat. Several small paintings of saints, delicate and fine and looking very old, hung on the wall, but two were crooked and all were dusty. The bookshelves were filled to overflowing, the books crammed against each other in whatever way they’d fit. In just a glance, she saw a large book of maps, a history of Rome, a naturalist’s study, Greek poetry, and a recent edition of Gulliver’s Travels.
“Have you come to critique my reading taste, my lady?” Griffin poured himself a brandy.
“You know I have not.” She turned and looked at him. “I’ve begun the Thucydides, though I’m afraid I’m very slow. My Greek is rusty.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes,” she said simply, because it was true. The work necessary to understand the Greek script made her feel all the more accomplished when she did finish a paragraph.
She waited for a reply from him.
But he shrugged and tossed back the brandy. “Why have you come?”
“To warn you about my brother.” She removed a stack of books from one end of a settee and sat since he made no move to offer. “He knows that you’re distilling gin in St. Giles.”
He stared at her. “That’s it?”
She frowned, her irritation increasing. Didn’t he care about his own safety?
“Isn’t that enough? You must give up your still at once, before Maximus sends soldiers to arrest you.”
He studied the amber liquid in his glass. “No.”
She felt wild frustration rising within her breast. Maximus may have given his word that he wouldn’t act against Griffin, but as long as Griffin had his still, he was in danger. “Whyever not? You’re more than a man who is good at making money, Griffin. So much more. You’re caring and funny and noble. Can’t you see that—”
He looked up at her, and she caught her breath, cutting off her words. His green eyes shone as if with tears.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Nick is dead,” he said. “Nick Barnes. He started the still with me. You may not remember him—he was with me when you saw the still. The big man with the scarred face.”
“I remember.” She remembered that they had seemed to be friends despite the difference in their station. She looked at him. “What happened?”
“Nick went out this morning to get jellied eels.” Griffin made an odd face, half grimace, half smile. “He loved jellied eels. The Vicar’s men shot him and I found him….”
His voice trailed away as he shook his head.