Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(48)

She was frowning, her eyes darting between him and his brother, but at his words she smiled tentatively. “Well, we shall have to be sure to see that you are properly entertained when you are in London, won’t we, Hero?”

Lady Hero pressed her lips together. “Phoebe…”

“What?” Lady Phoebe looked confused.

Lady Hero’s expression was wooden. Even Miss Picklewood’s face looked more welcoming.

At that moment, Griffin felt tiny paws on his knee. They tapped quite imperiously.

“I’d be delighted to go anywhere you have a mind, Lady Phoebe.” He smiled and broke off a piece of pastry, feeding it to Mignon beneath the table.

“Our time is largely taken up by wedding arrangements,” Hero said repressively.

“But you must shop.” He picked up the knife again, idly twirling it between his fingers. “And eat and go to fairs and the like.”

Lady Phoebe giggled nervously.

Hero’s eyes dropped to her plate. Her cheeks had gone pale, her mouth crimped in a straight line.

He shrugged easily, though his heart had shriveled. “Or perhaps not.”

Thomas stirred in his seat. “I wouldn’t think you’d be inclined to go to any more fairs.”

Lady Phoebe perked up. “Why do you say that?”

Griffin arched an eyebrow at his brother, a sudden memory lightening his mood.

“Because Griffin nearly got himself killed by a pack of traveling tinkers at the last fair he attended,” Thomas drawled.

“Really?” Phoebe leaned forward.

“Indeed. He was in the act of stealing—”

“Merely examining,” Griffin interjected.

“Stealing,” Thomas rolled over him with his parliamentary voice, “a trinket of some kind.”

“A penknife,” Griffin murmured to Phoebe. “It had a ruby on the hilt.”

Thomas snorted. “Paste, most likely. In any event, one of the tinkers, a man of at least six feet tall, caught him by the scruff of the neck, and had I not intervened, I would be one brother shorter today.”

Griffin smiled wryly, putting down the knife and taking a sip of wine. “Even then Thomas was rather renown for his oratory.”

Thomas grinned and Griffin remembered that long-ago day. The sudden fear, the complete relief and gratitude when his bigger, older brother had come to his rescue. He looked down at his plate, nudging the knife with his fingertip. That time seemed centuries ago now.

“How old were you?” Hero asked softly.

He inhaled and looked up, meeting her far-too perceptive eyes. “Nearly twelve.”

She nodded and the conversation moved on to a piece of gossip Miss Picklewood had heard.

But Griffin was silent, contemplating that past when he and Thomas had been so close.

And the present when they were so very far apart.

Chapter Nine

Queen Ravenhair looked at the offerings of her three suitors and nodded regally. “Thank you,” she said, and led them into the dining room where she turned the conversation to other matters.

But that night as Queen Ravenhair stood upon her balcony, the little brown bird flew to the railing. She took the bird into her cupped palms and saw that he had a string about his neck, and at the end of the string was a small iron nail.

And then she smiled. For her people used nails to build their houses, and that—her people and their homes—was the foundation of her kingdom….

—from Queen Ravenhair

Hero stared at herself in her dressing room mirror the next afternoon and wondered what sort of woman let her fiancé’s brother make love to her. The woman in the mirror looked the same as she remembered—widely set gray eyes, neatly coiffed red hair, steady, serene gaze—everything in place, in fact. But somehow she was different than the person she’d thought herself just a week before. That woman—that Hero—would never have sinned, would’ve scoffed at the mere suggestion that she might.

And yet she had.

Hero lightly touched a curl at her temple.

“It’s quite lovely, my dear.” Lady Mandeville’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Hero glanced down at herself. Yards of shimmering pale silk apricot swathed her form, pulled back in front to reveal a cream underskirt embroidered with green, blue, and pink posies. The embroidery continued along the seams of the dress and framed the deep, round neckline. It was indeed a lovely dress.

Why, then, did she feel like weeping?

“You do like it, don’t you?” Lady Mandeville inquired. “We can have it remade or have an entirely new one made if you don’t. There’s still time before the wedding.”

“No, no,” Hero said quickly. “It’s a lovely dress. The seamstresses have done a wonderful job.”

The little woman kneeling at her feet flashed her a grateful smile before bending again to the hem.

She’d always known who she was, Hero reflected. A lady of principles. A woman with compassion and a few ideals, but one who had a level head on her shoulders. She’d always prided herself on her common sense. Yesterday had been a very sad blow to both common sense and the image she’d had of herself. She was four and twenty—a mature number of years. One would think by now that she’d have a firm grasp of who she was.

Apparently not.