Notorious Pleasures

Page 43

She lifted her chin. “I’m packing to leave of course.”
She wore a simple gray dress today—not at all her usual style—and against her bright wine-red hair, it gave her a severe look.
He had a savage urge to tear it from her body.
“I thought…” He had to stop and swallow past a sudden swelling in his throat. He had a wrenching, horrifying notion that he might weep. “I thought you would stay with me.”
“Because I let you bed me?”
“Yes, damn you!”
She sighed. “But I told you already that I will not be your mistress while you are married to another woman, Thomas. I never changed my mind.”
She turned back to the bed, but he grabbed her arm roughly. “You love me.”
“Yes, I do.” She raised her eyebrows and looked at him, sadly it seemed. “But you know love has very little to do with it.”
“Damn you,” he whispered, and because he was in despair, he took her mouth.
She let him. She stood silent and complacent, made no move to struggle, as he ground her lips beneath his. She tasted of mint and tea, and he groaned, growing erect. She’d always done this to him, since the very first time he’d seen her, laughing at some other man in a ballroom. She brought out the animal side of him, made him forget he was a peer, a respected member of parliament, and a gentleman who owned vast amounts of land.
She made him into a man, only a man, and in the past he’d hated her for it: reminding him that beneath the ermine robes he was merely blood and bone like any other wretch who scrabbled for a living in London. But here, now, he no longer cared. He was going to lose her, once and for all. She would simply walk away, wine-red hair, maddening laugh, and those plain brown eyes that saw all of his most shameful secrets and loved him anyway.
And in the end, when he finally took his mouth from hers, she simply looked at him and turned away. She picked up a stocking and began carefully rolling it. “Good-bye, Thomas.”
He sank to his knees, there in her room on the carpet that was worn in spots, and said the first thing that popped into his mind. “Please marry me, Lavinia.”
“YOU LOOK LIKE you’ve died, been buried for three days, and then been dug up,” Deedle greeted Griffin cordially that evening in St. Giles. Deedle tilted his head and took a closer look. “And been to ’ell in the meantime, too.”
“Thank you, I have,” Griffin growled as he filled a nosebag for Rambler.
He’d not sufficiently trusted any of the men at the still to put them in charge, so he’d been forced to press Deedle into service. His valet stood, armed like a buccaneer, two pistols in his belt and a sword as well. Griffin looked up at the sky. The day was fleeing fast as night cast long shadows in St. Giles.
Deedle pushed his tongue through the hole in the front of his teeth. “What’s ’appened to you, m’lord?”
Griffin shook his head, then stopped as it throbbed in warning. “Nothing to worry yourself over.”
Deedle snorted. “If you say so.”
“Take it or leave it, I don’t give a damn.” Griffin strode into the dim interior of the still warehouse. He hadn’t the patience to argue semantics with Deedle this evening.
“Then I’ll leave it,” Deedle said, skipping to keep up with him.
“What’s happened since I was here last?” Griffin asked.
Deedle sighed. “We’ve lost two more men overnight. That brings us to five, not including we two.”
“You doubled their pay again?”
Deedle nodded. “Just like you said to. Didn’t keep those two fellows from doin’ a runner.”
“I don’t suppose it matters much anymore anyway,” Griffin said. He watched dispassionately as his remaining men filled oaken barrels with gin. “The whole thing’ll be over after tonight.”
Deedle came around to face him. “Then it’s tonight?”
“Yes.” Griffin gazed at the big copper kettles, the barrels of waiting gin, the fires, and the huge warehouse itself. Everything he and Nick had worked so hard to build. “Yes, tonight.”
“Jesus,” Deedle breathed. “Are you sure? We’ve less than a dozen men and not all the supplies you wanted. M’lord, it’ll be near suicide.”
Griffin stared back at Deedle, his gaze level, his head pounding, his mouth tasting of blood and bile. He’d lost Hero, would lose his mother to London, never had a chance of reconciling with Thomas in the first place, and Nick, his dear friend, was dead and buried. The bloody still was the last thing he had left in London.
“Tonight or never. I’m not waiting any longer. I want this over with.” He turned and picked up one of the wicked-looking swords his men used and then glared back at Deedle. “Are you with me or not?”
Deedle swallowed and gripped his pistol. “Aye, m’lord, I am.”
Chapter Eighteen
Tears filled Queen Ravenhair’s eyes at the simplicity and beauty of the tiny mirror’s message.
She held the bird in the hollow of her palms. “What shall I do?” she whispered into the downy feathers. “Who shall I take as husband?”
She let the bird go and he flew away. But instead of disappearing for the night as usual, it was back again within minutes. It alighted and opened its beak to sing.
Let the heart of the heart decide….
—from Queen Ravenhair
“ ’E’s cornered,” Freddy said with satisfaction that evening. “Reading won’t be getting out of this one alive, I’m thinking. ’E’s lost Nick Barnes and most of ’is men have deserted ’im.”
Charlie nodded, listening with one ear to the click of the dice in his fingers and with the other for any sound overhead. “Our informant has told Wakefield where Reading’s still is?”
“Told ’im and is leading ’im to Reading’s still as we speak,” Freddy said. So great was his glee that he almost looked Charlie full in the face.
Almost, but not quite.
Charlie spilled the dice to the table. Two aces. Deuce. For a moment he stared, mesmerized by the ill omen. Deuce could foretell death, but whose—his enemy’s or his own… or perhaps the woman who lay above?
“We’ll draw him out,” Charlie whispered, still mesmerized by the unlucky dice throw. “Draw him out, kill him, and fire the still.”
THE SKY WAS turning gray as Hero climbed from her carriage at the edge of St. Giles.
“I don’t like this, my lady,” George the footman said. He hoisted a lantern and fingered one of the pistols she’d given him.
A shout rose from the group of men arguing over an overturned cart in the road. Her carriage was stuck behind the accident in a street too narrow to turn around.
“I understand your objections,” Hero murmured. “But I cannot wait for them to clear the road. It could take hours.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but couldn’t we send word back home for another footman or two to join us?”
“I’ve told you. I haven’t the time.” Hero picked up her skirts and began to walk briskly away from her carriage and the accident.
“But after dark,” George fretted. “What if we’re attacked, my lady?”
“You’ve got the pistols,” Hero said soothingly.
George looked unconvinced by this assurance, but he made no more protestations. Instead he fixed a suspicious eye on their surroundings.
Hero bit her lip as she wrapped her cloak about herself. She couldn’t blame George. This expedition was dangerous—very dangerous. Normally she’d never even contemplate going into St. Giles after dark, let alone on foot and with but a single bodyguard. She was quite aware of the dangers St. Giles posed.
But what other choice did she have? She needed to get to Griffin’s still as soon as possible. She hadn’t wanted to risk arousing Cousin Bathilda’s suspicions by taking more than one footman.
Hero glanced about them. The street they were in was darkening and becoming deserted as she watched. Everyone seemed to want to get inside before full dark. She shivered. Dear Lord, what if she was too late and Maximus had already made his raid on the still? The thought of Griffin in chains, of him being thrown into some wretched prison, was almost more than she could bear. He was so proud! Worse, what if he resisted being taken? What if he were shot?
She nearly sobbed at the thought. This was insane. Just last night she’d rejected him as thoroughly as if she’d written it all down on paper. Now she was racing through the St. Giles alleys in fear for his life.
Had she gone insane? Or had she simply made a terrible mistake?
Why had she sent him away in the first place? All the considered arguments she’d given him, all the well-reasoned points, none of them made sense anymore. All she knew was what her innermost heart felt: she wanted Griffin. Despite his wild ways, despite his shady past, despite the fact that her brother was about to arrest him for distilling gin.
She wanted Griffin. She’d die if anything happened to him, and she very much feared that her life would be a long, gray, boring test of endurance without him in it. She wanted him, she needed him, and yes, she loved him—she’d admit it now that it might be too late. She loved him.
And that was all that mattered.
“THIS’S BARMY,” DEEDLE hissed under his breath.
Griffin glanced back at him over his shoulder. Night had fallen, and the alley behind the warehouse still was swallowed by shadows. The blackness was a boon for the predators of the night, hiding any lurking assassin or creeping attacker.
Of course, the shadows also hid those who preyed upon the predators. Tonight that included Griffin and Deedle.
Griffin checked with his fingers that his gun was cocked. “It might be barmy, but it’s our only chance.”
Deedle grunted. “The Vicar and ’is gang won’t be expecting us—that’s for certain. Not sitting out ’ere in the dark.”
Something scraped and Griffin turned his head toward the sound, alert and silent. A low shape darted across the alley.
“Cat,” Deedle whispered. “Think the Vicar will attack tonight?”
“He’s been waiting since they killed Nick,” Griffin murmured. “He’s hoping most of my men have fled—which they have, damn him—and he wants me desperate and afraid. I’d say there’s a good chance that tonight’s the night.”
Deedle gripped Griffin’s shoulder just as Griffin saw the shadow move. Three men were creeping up the alley. One leaped and clawed at the wall of the warehouse. They were going to stop the chimneys again in preparation for the rest of the attack, if Griffin wasn’t mistaken.
Griffin charged low and fast and without sound. He caught the first man by the hair and clubbed him with the butt of his gun. The man went down like a felled tree. The second man shouted, but Deedle shot him. Griffin turned and aimed at the man scaling the wall. He squeezed the trigger and felt his chest expand in savage triumph when the man fell.
Then someone hit him from the side. His pistol flew from his hand as he was thrown violently against the wall. His attacker was a giant with a giant’s fists, pounding at his face, his belly. Griffin gasped, winded, the world spinning. He drew his pistol and shot point-blank into the other man’s face.
He felt the sting of gunpowder against the side of his face, the spray of something wet and sticky. He pushed aside the body and glanced up, his ears strangely muffled. Men were pouring in at the far end of the alley, running toward him and Deedle, at least twenty of them, maybe more.
It was a trap, he thought, oddly composed. The Vicar had been waiting for them to emerge from the walls of the still warehouse. And they had. They had.
Griffin walked to the middle of the alley and turned, drawing his sword to face the oncoming slaughter.