Huff shrugged modestly. “Except for the other murderers.”
But this was too much for Caro. She snorted like an enraged cow. “Nonsense! What would a ghost be doing running about St. Giles in a harlequin’s motley if he isn’t killing people?”
Griffin raised his wineglass solemnly. “Once again you’ve debated us into the ground, Caro. I bow from the field of elocution, bloody and defeated.”
Hero made a small squeaking sound beside him as if stifling a laugh.
“Griffin,” Mater warned.
“In any case, I hope the ghost confines himself to St. Giles,” Megs remarked. “I shouldn’t like to run into him tomorrow night.”
“What’s tomorrow night?” Griffin asked absently. A new dish had been placed before him that seemed to contain jelly with unidentified bits floating in it.
“We’re off to Harte’s Folly,” Megs said. “Caro and Huff, Lady Hero and Thomas, Lord Bollinger and me, and Lady Phoebe and His Grace.”
Wakefield stirred at the other end of the table. “I do apologize, but I’ve found I have a prior appointment tomorrow night. I shan’t be able to attend.”
“Oh, truly, Maximus?” Lady Hero’s voice was softly disappointed. “Who shall escort Phoebe, then? You know she’s been looking forward to this outing.”
The duke frowned, looking nonplussed. No doubt he was rarely chastised.
“Does she need an escort?” Griffin asked. “I mean, with all of you there?”
A look passed between Lady Hero and Wakefield, so fast that Griffin almost thought he’d imagined it.
“Well, perhaps she needn’t come,” Lady Hero murmured.
“Oh, but Griffin can escort her,” Megs piped up. “Can’t you, Griffin?”
Griffin blinked. “I—”
“Naturally we wouldn’t want to put you out.” Lady Hero was staring fixedly at the plate before her. Her expression was serene, but somehow he knew there was distress in her gaze.
Thomas was watching him, his face remote.
“Griffin,” Mater said, and for the life of him he didn’t know if she said his name in encouragement or in warning.
And in any case it hardly mattered. Once again he gave into temptation. “I’d be delighted to accompany you all to Harte’s Folly.”
HIS FACE ITCHED.
Charlie Grady propped one elbow on the plank table he sat at and scratched absently, feeling the bumps and ridges under his fingertips. Freddy, one of his best men, fidgeted in front of him. Freddy was a big bear of a man, all but bald, with a nasty scar running through his lower lip. He’d killed four men in the last month alone, yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to look Charlie in the face. Instead, his gaze dropped to the floor, drifted to the ceiling, and just grazed Charlie’s left ear. If Freddy had been a fly, Charlie would’ve swatted him.
He might still.
“Two old women were taken last week by the Duke of Wakefield’s informers,” Freddy was saying. “Makes the others fearful-like.”
“Have any given up their carts?” Charlie asked gently.
Freddy shrugged, his eyes fixed over Charlie’s shoulder. “Not yet. They’ll sell gin as long as it makes ’em money, but with the informers about, they ’ave to watch their step, move more often.”
“It’s costing us money.”
Freddy shrugged again.
Charlie picked up a pair of carved bone dice from the tabletop, idly rolling them between his fingers. “Then we’ll have to see to the informers, won’t we?”
Freddy nodded, his gaze glancing away.
“What about our plans for St. Giles?”
“MacKay has left London.” Freddy straightened a bit as if glad to be the bearer of good news. “And I ’ad word this morning that Smith was inside ’is still when we blew it. ’E’s alive, but the burns are bad. They say ’e won’t live more ’n another day or so.”
“Good.” Charlie opened his hand to stare at the dice in his palm. “And my lord Reading?”
“ ’E’s put all ’is business into one building.” Freddy scowled. “It’s got an outer wall, and ’e ’as armed guards inside. It’s going to be ’ard as ’ell to attack.”
“Yet attack it we will.” Charlie let the dice fall from his fingers. An ace and a sice—a six. Seven was always a lucky number. He grunted, pleased. “Tonight, I think.”
“WHERE IS LORD Griffin?” Phoebe asked as Mandeville helped her from the carriage.
Hero turned a little to look out on the Thames as she waited for Phoebe. Where is Lord Griffin, indeed?
She, Mandeville, and Phoebe had traveled together to one of the stairs leading down to the Thames. Harte’s Folly lay south of the river, and they’d need to take boats to arrive there. Lady Margaret, Lord Bollinger, Lady Caroline, and Lord Huff, arriving in a separate carriage, had already descended the stairs and were no doubt entering a boat right now.
The carriage lanterns cast pools of light that were reflected on the wet cobblestones. It had rained earlier in the day, but the sky was clear now, a few stars already lighting the night. It was unseasonably warm for October—perfect for visiting a pleasure garden.
Hero tilted her face to look up at the moon flirting with a wispy cloud. “He said he’d meet us by the steps. I should think he’ll be here soon.”
“My brother often has business of his own,” Mandeville said neutrally. “Please don’t be disappointed, Lady Phoebe, if he does not join us.”
“Oh,” Phoebe said, looking downcast despite Mandeville’s admonition.
Hero felt a spurt of anger. How dare Reading disappoint Phoebe? No doubt he was in some woman’s bed even as they stood here waiting for him.
“Come, darling,” Hero said briskly. “Let’s walk down to the river. It’ll take a few minutes to ready the boat, and Reading may yet arrive.”
“A sensible plan.” Mandeville smiled in approval. “The stairs are slippery. Will you take my arm, Lady Hero?”
He proffered his arm, but she backed up a step, frowning. “Please take Phoebe. I’ll follow behind.”
He looked at her quizzically. “As you wish.”
He offered his elbow to Phoebe, and she took it, shooting Hero a smile. Hero breathed a sigh of relief. Mandeville gestured to a footman with a lantern to precede them, and they started down.