Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(26)

Before she could speak, Lady Hero cleared her throat. “Actually, I’ve seen him.”

All heads swung toward her.

“Really?” Megs said with interest. “What does he look like?”

“He wears a harlequin’s motley—all black and red triangles and diamonds—and he has a great floppy hat on his head with a red plume. Oh, and there’s a pantomime half-mask covering his face.” Lady Hero looked around the table and nodded. “He’s called the Ghost of St. Giles, but I don’t think he’s a ghost at all. He seemed corporal enough to me.”

There was a small silence as everyone contemplated her words.

Then Mater asked, “But what were you doing in St. Giles, my dear?”

Griffin set his wineglass down, trying to think of an excuse for Lady Hero to have been wandering about St. Giles.

But the lady did not share his anxiety. “I went to view the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children along with many other members of society. You remember, Maximus, early last spring. The home burned to the ground—that was when I saw the Ghost of St. Giles. We had to put up the children in your town house. You were away for the month.”

Wakefield’s mouth twisted wryly. “Ah, yes. I came home to find a game of shuttlecock going on in the ballroom.”

Lady Hero pinkened. “Yes, well, we moved them out soon enough.”

“You must have been quite frightened,” Megs said softly. “A fire and a ghost.”

“It was very exciting,” Lady Hero said slowly, “but I don’t think I had enough time to become frightened. People were rushing about, trying to put out the fire and rescue all the children from the flames. The ghost merely disappeared into the crowd. He didn’t seem like a murderer—he actually helped.”

“Perhaps he only murders at night,” Griffin said lightly.

“Or when not in a crowd,” Megs added.

“Mondays,” Huff said.

Griffin looked at him. “What about Mondays?”

“Maybe he only murders on Mondays,” Huff said in a burst of verbosity. “Takes the rest of the week on holiday as it were.”

“Huff, you are a genius.” Griffin stared at his brother-in-law with admiration. “A murderer who only kills on Mondays! Why, one would be completely safe from Tuesday to Sunday.”

Huff shrugged modestly. “Except for the other murderers.”

But this was too much for Caro. She snorted like an enraged cow. “Nonsense! What would a ghost be doing running about St. Giles in a harlequin’s motley if he isn’t killing people?”

Griffin raised his wineglass solemnly. “Once again you’ve debated us into the ground, Caro. I bow from the field of elocution, bloody and defeated.”

Hero made a small squeaking sound beside him as if stifling a laugh.

“Griffin,” Mater warned.

“In any case, I hope the ghost confines himself to St. Giles,” Megs remarked. “I shouldn’t like to run into him tomorrow night.”

“What’s tomorrow night?” Griffin asked absently. A new dish had been placed before him that seemed to contain jelly with unidentified bits floating in it.

“We’re off to Harte’s Folly,” Megs said. “Caro and Huff, Lady Hero and Thomas, Lord Bollinger and me, and Lady Phoebe and His Grace.”

Wakefield stirred at the other end of the table. “I do apologize, but I’ve found I have a prior appointment tomorrow night. I shan’t be able to attend.”

“Oh, truly, Maximus?” Lady Hero’s voice was softly disappointed. “Who shall escort Phoebe, then? You know she’s been looking forward to this outing.”

The duke frowned, looking nonplussed. No doubt he was rarely chastised.

“Does she need an escort?” Griffin asked. “I mean, with all of you there?”

A look passed between Lady Hero and Wakefield, so fast that Griffin almost thought he’d imagined it.

“Well, perhaps she needn’t come,” Lady Hero murmured.

“Oh, but Griffin can escort her,” Megs piped up. “Can’t you, Griffin?”

Griffin blinked. “I—”

“Naturally we wouldn’t want to put you out.” Lady Hero was staring fixedly at the plate before her. Her expression was serene, but somehow he knew there was distress in her gaze.

Thomas was watching him, his face remote.

“Griffin,” Mater said, and for the life of him he didn’t know if she said his name in encouragement or in warning.

And in any case it hardly mattered. Once again he gave into temptation. “I’d be delighted to accompany you all to Harte’s Folly.”

HIS FACE ITCHED.

Charlie Grady propped one elbow on the plank table he sat at and scratched absently, feeling the bumps and ridges under his fingertips. Freddy, one of his best men, fidgeted in front of him. Freddy was a big bear of a man, all but bald, with a nasty scar running through his lower lip. He’d killed four men in the last month alone, yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to look Charlie in the face. Instead, his gaze dropped to the floor, drifted to the ceiling, and just grazed Charlie’s left ear. If Freddy had been a fly, Charlie would’ve swatted him.

He might still.

“Two old women were taken last week by the Duke of Wakefield’s informers,” Freddy was saying. “Makes the others fearful-like.”