Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(55)

“O’ course, o’ course,” Nick murmured.

He didn’t look at all convinced by the reminder.

Griffin wasn’t sure he was convinced himself. He sighed and threw aside the shovel. “Do you remember when we first started this all those years ago?”

Nick chuckled. “That little still on Tipping Lane? You were a right green ’un then, m’lord. Suspicious, too.”

“I wasn’t sure I could trust you.”

Nick grinned. “Nor I you. You was this toff down from that fancy school, all lace and fripperies. Weren’t sure as you’d last a week.”

Griffin snorted. He’d met Nick in a seedy Seven Dials tavern—not the place one usually found business partners. But something about the glaring former boxer had struck him as essentially honest. Nick had been the one to introduce him to the man he’d bought his first still from. The thing had been rickety in the extreme.

“Remember when we thought the still would blow?” he asked.

Nick spat into the straw. “Which time? I’m thinkin’ of more ’n one.”

Griffin grinned and looked around the warehouse. It was a far cry from that small single still on Tipping Lane. It had taken years to build his business to this point, to be where he didn’t have to lie awake at night worrying over money flow and harvests. To where he could tell his mother to plan for Megs’s next season and be fairly sure they’d actually be able to afford it. He only needed a little more time to get entirely financially stable.

“We worked hard to get here, didn’t we?” he said.

“That we did.”

“Damned if I’ll let the Vicar take it from me now.”

“Amen to that.” Nick dug a short clay pipe from his waistcoat. He took a moment to light it with a straw stuck in the still fire. Then he said, “ ’Ave you ever thought of doin’ somethin’ else?”

Griffin looked at him in surprise. “No. I suppose I’ve never had time to think of finding other business. Have you?”

“No.” Nick scratched the back of his head. “Well, not rightly. Me father was a weaver, but I never learned the craft. Seemed a tedious task when I were young, an’ now I’m too old a dog for learnin’ new tricks.”

“Weaving.” Griffin thought of the Mandeville lands in Lancashire. They’d always been too rocky for growing grain. Many of their neighbors had put in sheep for wool and meat.

“Mam and me sisters spun the thread for Pa,” Nick said. “I did, too, when I were a lad.”

Griffin smiled at the thought of Nick spinning thread with his great hamlike hands.

A shout came from behind them. Griffin whirled, snatching a pistol from his belt. Smoke was pouring out from one of the big chimneys that climbed the outer walls. The men were milling, coughing from the rolling black smoke.

Nick swore foully. “They’ve stopped th’ chimney from without!”

“Put out the fire!” Griffin shouted. “I’ll guard the walls.”

He gestured to the men, slapping his hands on the backs of those turned away, and ran to the warehouse entrance. Griffin slammed himself against the wall next to the door and shoved it open a crack with one foot. The guards outside were wrestling with attackers next to the walls. Already three men were past them and into the courtyard.

“They’re coming in,” he told his men. “Make damn sure they don’t get to the warehouse.”

And with that he kicked the door wide and drew his other pistol, firing both straight-armed. One attacker went down, crashing to the cobblestones. More shots exploded from his men’s guns, and the second man went down. But one man still rushed the door while others were overwhelming the courtyard guards. In a corner of the courtyard, Rambler squealed and reared in terror.

“Get them!” Griffin shouted, his words sounding muffled to his own ears.

His men flew past him toward the walls. He threw down one pistol and drew his sword to meet an attacker. The man was short but burly, and he held a huge cutlass in his hand. The attacker swung and Griffin dodged. He was afraid his thinner sword would break under the cutlass. He slid closer while the man was still turned aside from the force of his own blow and stabbed him under the arm through the armpit. The man didn’t even flinch. He struck at Griffin with his other hand, a blow Griffin was just able to duck, taking it on his shoulder instead of his face, his hand still on the sword stuck in the man’s body. The man raised his cutlass again, but then staggered. He crumpled all at once, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Griffin stuck his foot on the man’s chest and pulled his sword from the attacker’s body. He turned toward the wall, sword ready, but there was no need. Four bodies lay on the cobblestones and a man—one of his own—was sitting with his back against the wall, moaning. All the other attackers had retreated.

The skirmish was over—at least for now.

“Get him inside.” Griffin gestured at the moaning man. “You others stay and guard the courtyard from further attack.”

He left eight men guarding the walls and turned back to the warehouse. Rambler still snorted and shook where he was tethered in a corner.

Griffin went to him and placed a hand on the gelding’s sweaty neck. “It’s all right, lad. All right now.”

The horse rolled his eyes at him.