Notorious Pleasures

“M’lord,” Deedle wheezed beside him. “Who the ’ell is that?”

And Griffin looked over his shoulder and realized that a second group of men blocked the other end of the alley, marching in line, coming toward them. Behind them were men on horseback.

“Soldiers.” He spat blood into the dust at his feet. “The Duke of Wakefield is coming to arrest me if I’m not mistaken.”

“Dear God in heaven,” Deedle muttered. “We’re dead, m’lord. Dead!”

And Griffin threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed off the filthy brick walls that enclosed the alley he was about to die in.

SILENCE HURRIED HOME, through the darkened streets of St. Giles.

She’d meant to take only a quick trip to visit one of the home’s wet nurses and her tiny charge. But the moment she’d entered the woman’s apartment, she’d immediately caught the astringent scent of gin. That had led to recriminations, protests, and a rather awful scene before she’d finally walked out with the orphaned infant. No matter how sorry she might feel for the wet nurse—a widow with a child of her own—Silence couldn’t risk the well-being of such a tiny baby. The nursling was only a month or so old—a fragile age for a baby.

She’d known of another possible wet nurse for the baby, but the second woman lived nearly a mile away from the first, and in the opposite direction of the home. She’d hurried there as fast as she could walk with the babe in her arms. And in the end, Silence had been very satisfied with the placement. The new wet nurse, Polly, had been employed in the past by the home and had always given satisfactory service. Although her own children were now weaned, Polly assured Silence that she had enough milk for the orphaned infant.

A good day’s work, but an exhausting one, and the reason she was now caught out after dark.

Silence pulled her light woolen cloak more securely about her shoulders and eyed a dark doorway as she passed it. She was trying very hard not to think of some of the awful tales she heard from Nell—an inveterate teller of horror stories. The woman who’d been strangled by a lover. The woman who’d been dragged into an alley and savagely attacked by three drunken men. The woman who had gone out to buy a meat pie for her four children and simply disappeared, her shoe found the next day in an alley.

Silence shivered. All of Nell’s stories had two common elements: They were all about women out alone.

And they all took place after dark.

A cry came from up ahead, and Silence’s steps faltered. She was in a wide street, but there were no cross streets nearby. Only a single flickering lantern hung over a tiny cobbler’s shop. Voices could be heard and lights, growing stronger, coming nearer.

Silence looked about desperately. A man shouted an angry curse. Then a crowd came tearing around the corner of the street up ahead. There were men holding torches, but also women. They milled and shouted, and in the middle was some kind of wretched thing that they were dragging by a collar.

Someone smashed a window and Silence flinched. She was already backing away, turning to hurry up the street she’d just walked down. But that direction was away from the home. She looked over her shoulder as two men dragged the wretch they’d caught to the middle of the street and began beating him with cudgels.

“ ’Ave mercy!” she heard their victim cry.

There were more curses and amid them a single hoarse shout she could make out: “Informer!”

Dear Lord, they were lynching a gin informer.

Doors opened up ahead, but when she looked there hopefully, more people came out and ran toward the horrible scene behind her. The street was suddenly filled with shouting madmen. Someone jostled her and Silence tripped. She fell against a house wall, pressing herself back.

A drunken man loomed in front of her, hands twitching, ugly mouth leering. Without a word, he snatched the hood from her head, pulling her hair painfully as he did so. Behind him, flames shot up to the sky, framing his black face with orange. What in God’s name were they doing to the poor informer?

But she had worse to think about right in front of her. The ugly man leaned over her menacingly.

Silence darted to the right and for a split second felt a rush of welcome relief because she thought she was free.

Then a heavy hand caught her by the hair, and she knew the night was about to become a nightmare.

Chapter Nineteen

The queen tossed and turned that night on her royal bed, but in the morning she had come to a decision. She dressed with care, wearing her best cloth of gold gown and a diamond and ruby crown. Then she strode into the throne room to meet her suitors. The princes had dressed in their best as well. Prince Eastsun shone in robes of gold and silver, Prince Westmoon wore a doublet sewn with emeralds, and Prince Northwind was fairly encrusted with pearls. All three men stood tall and handsome, perfectly perfect in their splendor.

“Have you made your decision?” Prince Eastsun asked.

Queen Ravenhair tilted her chin. “Yes….”

—from Queen Ravenhair

The first wave of attackers hit like a battering ram. They didn’t seem to have pistols, but they were armed with cudgels, and a few bore swords. Griffin fired his last shot from his remaining pistol, taking down the man leading the charge.

Griffin drew his sword. “For Nick Barnes!”

A shot came from behind him, and then the Vicar’s men from one end and the soldiers from the other converged, and he and Deedle were in the middle of a melee. Griffin swung his sword with one hand, nearly severing a man’s arm. The man howled and fell and was trampled by a horse.

For a moment, through the mass of heaving men, Griffin saw a face—or what might be a face in a nightmare. The man’s flesh looked as if it had turned to wax and melted down the side of his skull before hardening in a grotesque parody of facial features. Griffin blinked and the vision was gone.

Griffin punched another man and was shoved hard in return. Someone swung a cudgel at him, and he took the blow on his left shoulder, his entire arm going numb. He shook his head, trying to clear a trickle of blood from his eyes. He didn’t even remember the wound from which it came. He expected at any moment to be shot or impaled from behind but didn’t bother looking.

Death would find him soon enough.

Beside him Deedle cursed. Griffin turned to see Deedle stagger back from three men. His arm was painted red.

Griffin shouted and charged Deedle’s attackers. He felt his face stretch into a grin as he threw the first man aside. The other two turned tail and ran. Then, suddenly, there was a break and he was face-to-face with a gleaming black boot ornamented with a gold spur. He looked up and saw Wakefield glowering down at him from atop a huge black horse.

“Reading!” Wakefield shouted. “Is this your still?”

“Fuck you,” Griffin replied, and elbowed a short, bandy-legged tough in the face.

Wakefield drew a pistol, aimed it over Griffin’s head, pulled the trigger, and nearly deafened Griffin with the boom! He looked at Griffin again, frowning, and his lips moved, but Griffin couldn’t hear him.

He was jostled from behind and Griffin turned. Deedle was using one of his pistols to beat a man about the head.

Griffin felt a touch on his shoulder and swung his sword.

Wakefield jerked up, then cupped his hand about his mouth, shouting. “Are these your men?”

“Would I be fighting my own men?” Griffin asked in exasperation.

He dodged aside as a man staggered toward him, then kicked the fellow’s feet out from under him before stomping him once viciously in the head. He glanced around. Most of the Vicar’s men were fleeing in disorder, routed by the more experienced fighting of the soldiers.

“It appears you have a business rival, then,” Wakefield observed.

He drew his sword and leaned down to slap the blade against the face of a charging rough. The man spun with the force of the blow and his own momentum, and Griffin finished him off by hitting him across the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. Griffin watched the man slump to the ground and then turned to Wakefield with a sarcastic reply on his lips.

But he saw a movement beyond Wakefield’s giant horse, and Griffin’s shoulders tensed in horror instead.

There at the mouth of the alley, Hero was picking her way delicately toward the fight, the footman beside her armed only with a lantern and a wavering drawn pistol.

“Christ,” Griffin breathed.

Wakefield glanced over his shoulder. “What the hell is my sister doing here, Reading?”

*      *      *

THOMAS HAD NEVER knelt to anyone. He was aware as he looked up at Lavinia how humble the position was, but that was appropriate: He was a petitioner for her hand. Indeed, he was desperate for her hand. If Lavinia left him, he’d have nothing. If she asked him, he’d crawl to her on hands and knees.

Had she any idea the straits she’d left him in?

But her brown eyes had filled with tears that made them glitter. “You know you cannot marry me, Thomas. You’ve told me so many times before.”

She started to turn from him, but he was up and off the rug in a thrice, taking her hand, holding it between his own. “I’ve told you so, but I lied, Lavinia. Both to me and to you. I can marry you.”

“But what about Anne? What about your fears of betrayal?”

He felt ignoble panic rise in his chest. “They don’t matter.”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Yes, they do. Anne horribly betrayed you, and you haven’t trusted a woman since. I can’t live with the constant fear that I’ll do something that you’ll misinterpret.”

“No!” He closed his eyes, trying to control himself so he could make this important plea. “I was a cad, I admit it, to ever doubt you. You never strayed from me when we were together. You weren’t the one who found someone else. I was.”

“But—”

“No, hear me out.” He squeezed her hand. “I know I am the problem. Griffin told me that he’d never seduced Anne, yet I refused to give him the satisfaction of believing him. Please, please, Lavinia, trust me. Let me prove I can change.”

She was shaking her head, trying ineffectually to wipe at the tears. “What of parliament? Or the succession of the marquessate?”

“Don’t you see?” He shook his head, searching for the words, he who was known for his eloquence on the floor of the House of Lords. “None of that matters. Without you, I am a shadow of a man, a mere wisp. Parliament, even the marquessate, can survive without me, but I cannot survive without you.”

She made a sort of gasping sound.

“I love you, Lavinia,” he said, desperate now. “I don’t think that’s ever going to change, because I’ve tried to stop and I can’t. I love you and I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

“Oh, Thomas!” She was half laughing, half crying. Her eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy, and strangely she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

HERO STARTED RUNNING the moment she saw Griffin beside Maximus on his horse. They were lit by flickering torches and in the midst of a desperate battle, but all she could see were the two men. Dear God, was her brother about to kill her lover?

“My lady!” George shouted, and blocked a blow from a man with a large stick. “My lady, please!”

Griffin ducked around Maximus’s horse. He shoved aside a man in his way, stabbed another with his sword, and punched and then kicked a third. In all of this, he never took his eyes from Hero. Even in the dimly lit alley, his pale green eyes seemed to glow with a savage light. He reached her just as George gave a shout and fired his pistol.

Hero flinched and turned to see a man falling, bloody, at George’s feet.

Then her shoulders were grabbed, and she was swung around. Griffin glared down at her. He’d lost his wig and was bleeding from a cut on his forehead. Blackened blood was drying on the right side of his face, his right eye gleaming in the midst of the gore like a demon.