He stared at her incredulously. “So you’re overseeing the building of the home all by yourself at the moment?”
“Yes.” Her chin tilted proudly, but her pretty mouth trembled.
He raised his eyebrow at her and waited.
“It’s not going very well,” she said after a second’s hesitation. Her voice was a breathless rush, her hands twisted in her lap. “Actually, it’s going terribly. The architect we hired appears to be untrustworthy. That’s why I’m going to visit the site today—to see what he’s accomplished in the last week.”
“Or what he hasn’t accomplished?” How odd that her small show of trust should make his chest expand with warmth.
She inclined her head. “That, too.”
Griffin shook his head. “You must tell Wakefield about your problem. He or his agent can deal with this for you.”
She lifted that damned proud chin again. “I am the patroness, not Maximus. The duty is mine. Besides,” she added a bit less autocratically, “Maximus would probably forbid me from the position of patroness if I told him of my troubles. He was quite unreasonable when he learned of my decision to help the home.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t like his money being spent for him.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “It’s my money, I do assure you, Lord Griffin. An inheritance from my great-aunt quite apart from my dowry. I own it free from any interference from Maximus—or anyone else for that matter. I may do with it as I like, and I like helping the children who live at this home.”
“I beg your pardon for my misassumption.” Griffin held up his hands in surrender. “Why does your brother hate the thought of you helping orphans so much?”
She winced. “It’s not the orphans he hates—it’s where they live. Our parents were killed on the streets of St. Giles. His loathing for this place is quite deep.”
“Ah.” Griffin laid his aching head back against the squabs.
“I was eight when it happened,” she said softly, though he hadn’t inquired. “They’d been to see a play and had taken Maximus—he was just fourteen. Phoebe and I were much too small to go to such adult entertainments, so we stayed at home.”
He frowned, interested despite himself. “What were they doing in St. Giles? There’s no theater here.”
“I don’t know.” She slowly shook her head. “Maximus never told me—if he even knows. I remember waking the next morning to the sound of weeping. Our nanny was quite fond of Mama. All of the servants were terribly distressed.”
“As were you, no doubt,” he said softly.
She shrugged one shoulder, the awkward movement unlike her usual graceful gestures. “Maximus was in his rooms—he wouldn’t talk for days—and there was no one to take charge. I remember that I ate cold porridge in the nursery that morning while the adults tramped about and talked on the floors below. No one paid me any mind at all. After a bit, the family lawyers arrived, but they were strange and cold. It wasn’t until Cousin Bathilda came a fortnight later that I felt safe again. As if someone was there to take care of me. She wore a terribly strong, sweet perfume, and her black skirts were stiff and scratchy, but it was all I could do not to cling to her as Phoebe did.”
She smiled almost apologetically.
The thought of her as a little girl, pale, solemn, and freckled, worrying that there was no one in the world to look after her—to care about her—was almost too much to bear.
He looked out the window and noticed absently that the neighborhood had gotten worse, if that was possible. “Will you come here again?”
“Yes.” She said the word without hesitation.
“Naturally,” he muttered, and scrubbed his hands across his face. The stubble on his jaw scraped his palms. He probably looked like a beast. Christ, just last week a woman had been attacked and left for dead in St. Giles. “Look here, I can’t in good conscience let you wander about the streets of St. Giles alone.”
She stiffened across from him, her lips parting, no doubt in argument.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and met her eyes. “I can’t and that’s final—no matter your reasons or your arguments.”
She closed her mouth and tilted her chin away from him, staring out the window.
He couldn’t help a small grin—she was so regally offended by him. “But I’m willing to make you a bargain.”
Her brows knit suspiciously. “What kind of a bargain?”
“I won’t tell either Wakefield or Thomas about your jaunts to St. Giles, if you allow me to accompany you.”
For a moment she simply stared at him. Then she shook her head firmly. “I cannot accept.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Lord Griffin, I daren’t be seen in your company,” she said as ice formed along his spine. “You see, I know you seduced your brother’s first wife.”
* * *
READING THREW his head back against the squabs and roared with laughter, his strong brown throat working. The sound was merry, but there was an almost imperceptible edge of danger to his laughter that made Hero instinctively tense. She was suddenly aware that they rode in a small, closed space and that she didn’t know Reading all that well.
And what she did know of him wasn’t good.
She watched him warily as his laughter died. He wiped at his eyes with a sleeve, inhaling deeply.
When he looked up again, the rage that lurked in his eyes made her tense further. “Listening to gossip, Lady Perfect?”
She met his savage look with a steady gaze. “Do you deny the accusation?”
“Why bother?” His mouth made an ugly twist. “You and all the other stupid, quacking, tittle-tattling gossipmongers have decided the truth. Protestations of wronged innocence would merely make me look foolish.”
Hero bit her lip at his hurtful words, staring blindly down at her hands. They were laid one on top of the other, and she was vaguely pleased to see that they didn’t mirror her inner turmoil. What did it matter to her if this man thought her “stupid” or “quacking”?
The carriage bumped to a halt. They were at the entrance to Maiden Lane. She looked across the carriage to find Reading watching her broodingly, his pale green eyes hooded.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said.
“What doesn’t?”