Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(41)

“Do you?” Hero dabbed at her pudding without really tasting it.

“Yes.” Phoebe was beginning to look excited. “You could form a… a syndicate.”

“Like a gentlemen’s business syndicate?” Cousin Bathilda frowned.

“Quite,” Phoebe said. “Except it would be only ladies—because if you let a gentleman in, he’ll want to run things—and it’s to give money, not make it. You could call it the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, darling,” Hero said, smiling. Phoebe’s enthusiasm was hard to resist. “But what ladies would I approach to give away their money?”

“You might try Lady Beckinhall for one,” Cousin Bathilda said unexpectedly. “I know for a fact that her late husband left her extremely well-off.”

“Yes, but will she want to simply give away her wealth?” Hero shook her head. She didn’t know Lady Beckinhall all that well, but the lady had always struck her as more interested in fashion and the latest gossip than charity.

“I’ll help you make a list,” Phoebe said, “entitled ‘Potentially Charitable Ladies of Means.’ ”

“That will certainly help.” Hero laughed.

“Mmm.” Phoebe ate some of her pudding with evident appreciation. “I say, why did you ask earlier about changing gentlemen?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hero replied.

“Lord Mandeville seems perfect the way he is,” her younger sister commented. “Does he gamble?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Hero said.

“Well, if he did, I can’t think he’d allow you to confine him to his smallclothes like Lord Pepperman,” Phoebe said.

The younger footman choked, earning himself a severe glance from Panders.

Suddenly an image of Lord Griffin in his smallclothes popped into Hero’s head, making her go hot all over. She took a guilty sip of wine.

“No, indeed,” Cousin Bathilda said, apparently oblivious to the currents around her. “I’m afraid you’ll have to accept Lord Mandeville the way he is, my dear. Fortunately for you, he’s quite perfect as he is.”

Hero nodded, her mind on Lord Reading, which was why she nearly jumped at Cousin Bathilda’s next words.

“Now, Lord Griffin,” the older lady said, “is an entirely different kettle of fish. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he gambled excessively.”

“Why?” Phoebe asked.

“Why, what?”

“Why do you suspect Lord Griffin of such awful things? He was quite lovely to me last night.”

Cousin Bathilda smiled and shook her head in a manner that Hero had found quite maddening at Phoebe’s age. “Those tales aren’t for ears as innocent as yours, my dear.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Well, whatever his unspeakable deeds, I like him. He makes me laugh, and he doesn’t treat me like a child.”

Naturally this bit of rebellion set Cousin Bathilda off on a lecture about decorum and the dangers of judging gentlemen solely upon their ability to make one laugh.

Hero looked down at her cold pudding. She could sympathize with Phoebe—she, too, liked Reading. He was at base, no matter what Cousin Bathilda said, a good man. And because he was a good man, she needed to show him why what he was doing was wrong. Not just for the people who were damaged by drinking gin, but for Reading himself. If he continued distilling gin, at some point he would cease to be a good man.

And that was something Hero was quite sure she couldn’t bear.

Chapter Eight

That night, the suitors assembled in the throne room and presented their answers to the queen. The first was Prince Westmoon. He bowed and set a single, flawless diamond before her. “Wealth is the foundation of your kingdom, Your Majesty.”

Next, Prince Eastsun strode forward. He nodded to the queen and laid a pretty little golden dagger at her feet, all encrusted with gems. “Arms are the foundation of your kingdom, Your Majesty.”

Finally, Prince Northwind presented a velvet bag with five and twenty perfect pearls and said, “Trade, Your Majesty, is the foundation of your kingdom….”

—from Queen Ravenhair

Griffin cursed the Vicar of Whitechapel as he rode home the next morning. After a sleepless night at the distillery, spent constantly tense, listening for the least sign of intruders, Griffin had nothing to show for it but an aching head. There’d been no sign of the Vicar or his men. All Griffin wanted now was a bite to eat and the comfort of his own bed.

In fact, he was so focused on those two things that he almost didn’t notice the carriage lurking discreetly on the cross street down from his town house. Only the glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a familiar coachman alerted him.

Griffin pulled Rambler to a halt with a muttered curse. What the hell was Lady Hero doing on his street at the unfashionable hour of ten of the clock? His house was only feet away, but Griffin sighed and walked Rambler over to the carriage. He rapped on the window.

Slim fingers promptly pulled the curtains back, and Lady Hero motioned him impatiently inside.

Wonderful. Griffin instructed one of the footmen to take Rambler to the mews. Then he climbed in the carriage. She wore a dark green coat over a lighter green skirt, and her red hair seemed to glow in the dimness of the carriage.