Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(73)

“I think,” Hero said, “that I would like it to be my concern. If that would be all right with you.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said. “That would be all right with me.” She took a breath and said in a rush, “It’s just that when he left—when William sailed last—we were not in the concord of mind that we usually were.”

Hero looked down at her tea, remembering the rumors that had swirled last winter about this woman. There were those who had been quite eager to tell her then that it was well known that Mrs. Hollingbrook had sold her virtue to a man called Mickey O’Connor. At the time, she’d decided to disregard the rumors. She trusted both Temperance and Winter Makepeace, and if they had confidence that their sister was fit to run a foundling home, then she was content with their opinion.

Hero had dealt directly with Mrs. Hollingbrook all summer and fall, and in that time she had found no reason to doubt her. She didn’t know the truth of the rumors, whether they were groundless or if Mrs. Hollingbrook had somehow compromised herself. But she no longer had quite the moral authority to judge other women on their failings, did she? And even if she had, Hero would still feel at a soul-deep level that Mrs. Hollingbrook was a good woman. A woman deserving of the epithet “virtuous.”

But whether the rumors were true didn’t really matter at this moment. Trust could be broken over falsehoods as easily as lies.

“I’m sorry,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say.

Mrs. Hollingbrook didn’t seem to need an eloquent speech. “I wish I could have but one more chance to speak to him. To tell him…” Her voice faded away, and she shook her head before drawing in a shaky breath. “I just wish we had not parted on such unfriendly terms.”

Hero hesitantly reached out a hand toward the other woman. She didn’t know her well—they were of different classes—but grief was universal.

Mrs. Hollingbrook clutched her hand convulsively. “It’s selfish, I know, but I keep thinking ‘it’s over now.’ ”

“What is?” Hero asked gently.

Mrs. Hollingbrook shook her head again, and tears suddenly ran down her cheeks. “My life, everything I… I thought I’d have. This was my love; this was my marriage. William and I were happy once. I’m explaining it badly.” She closed her eyes. “Love—happiness—isn’t so very common, really. Some people never find it in all their lives. I had it. And now it’s gone.” She opened her eyes, staring without hope. “I don’t think love like that comes twice in a lifetime. It’s over. I have to go on without it now.”

Hero looked down, tears misting her own eyes. Love isn’t so very common. She’d known that in an intellectual sort of way, but here was someone who’d had it and then lost it. She had a sudden, near-panicked urge to see Griffin. She had to warn him that Maximus knew of his distillery. She had to touch his hand, to assure herself that he was whole and alive. She had to hear him breathe. Was this love, this longing? Or was it a sly facsimile?

“Pardon me,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said, wiping at her tears. “I’m not usually so maudlin.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hero said firmly. “You have suffered a great shock. It would be strange if you were not melancholy.”

Mrs. Hollingbrook nodded wearily.

Hero stayed a few minutes longer, drinking the tea in companionable silence. But her urge to see Griffin—to feel for herself that he was alive and well—was still strong. She soon excused herself and walked rapidly to the door.

On the tedious carriage ride back to the better parts of the West End, she couldn’t stop herself from dwelling on the most grotesque thoughts: Griffin dragged before a magistrate, condemned and humiliated, and the most horrifying of all—his limp body swinging from a hangman’s knot.

By the time she mounted the step to his town house, she was near hysterical with her own morbid imaginings.

The door was pulled open by Griffin himself. He didn’t seem to employ very many servants. He scowled down at her, the stubble thick on his jaw, his shirt open at the throat, and his bare head tousled. Deep shadows circled his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

Her relief at seeing him well, albeit surly, brought contrary irritation to her chest. “Will you let me in?”

He shrugged and stepped back, his grudging movement ungracious.

She entered anyway, following when he turned his back and led the way into his library. She took a moment to look about. Last time she’d come here, their argument had flared so fast and intense she hadn’t had time to notice his house.

Now she saw that his library was expensively if carelessly appointed. An exquisite painted globe of the world was draped with a waistcoat. Several small paintings of saints, delicate and fine and looking very old, hung on the wall, but two were crooked and all were dusty. The bookshelves were filled to overflowing, the books crammed against each other in whatever way they’d fit. In just a glance, she saw a large book of maps, a history of Rome, a naturalist’s study, Greek poetry, and a recent edition of Gulliver’s Travels.

“Have you come to critique my reading taste, my lady?” Griffin poured himself a brandy.

“You know I have not.” She turned and looked at him. “I’ve begun the Thucydides, though I’m afraid I’m very slow. My Greek is rusty.”