Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(59)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Naw.” Nick sounded offended. “But wool, there’s money to be made in that.”

“How so?”

“Yer get some sheep up north, see? You’ve said before that the land’s bad for crops. What’s no good for grain is often fine enough for animals to graze.”

“That’s true enough,” Griffin said slowly. He was surprised that Nick seemed to have put some thought into the matter.

Nick’s raspy voice was eager. “You send the wool t’ London, an’ it’s spun and woven. I still know some weavers, used to be friends of me da. Might start a shop. I could oversee th’ operation here.”

“You want to become a weaver?”

“It’s an ’onest trade,” Nick said with dignity and a hint of hurt. “One that’d make us both money, too.”

Griffin frowned. “Who would spin the wool?”

Nick’s big shoulders moved in a shrug. “Children or women can spin.”

“Huh.” There was a growing demand for woolen cloth in London, both for export and to clothe its population. And as for children to spin the wool, there might be a ready source nearby.

Nick slapped his knee. “Forgot to tell you—the chandler shop on the corner makes a fine dish of jellied eels. ’Ad some just yesterday. Right tasty they are. Half a tick and I’ll have you a bowl.”

“Uh—”

Nick whirled and was off out of the warehouse before Griffin could finish demurring to the offer. Griffin sighed. Nick had a particular fondness for jellied eels, which he didn’t share.

But then between the Vicar and Hero, the prospect of having to consume a full bowl of jellied eels was the least of his worries.

Griffin strolled out of the warehouse to wait for his disgusting breakfast. The sky above the courtyard wall was turning a pearly gray as the sun began to rise. Nick was already thinking ahead to what they might do instead of distill gin, and if there was one thing that Griffin had always trusted, it was Nick’s head for business. If Nick thought they could make money off of sheep, well then—

The shot was loud in the still morning air.

Griffin ran to the gate, and only as he flung it open did he realize that he was unarmed. If this was a trap to draw him out… But, no, the narrow alley outside the warehouse was deserted.

Griffin frowned. “Nick! Where are you, Nick?”

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.”