His Wicked Sins (13 page)

her once a week to come home for dinner to Wickham Hall.

Sometimes Isobel refused to come at all. Usually when the weather was foul,

reminiscent of the night—

No, he would not let his thoughts wander that path.

Isobel.
She was the sole fine thing in his blackguard's existence, and he knew not how

to reach her.

What did he expect? She bore witness to his crimes, dark deeds that they were, her

memories reflected in her too-wise and haunted eyes.

With a whispered oath, Griffin returned his attention to the Red Bull and strode

forward. Off to the side of the porch was a separate entrance to the bar, and it was toward

that doorway he headed, wanting a meal and a drink and a moment to gather his thoughts.

Gather them?

Nay, bury them.

He paused to let an elderly man with a black slouch hat and a hunched back pass by. He

was about to walk on when, with a swish of skirts, two women emerged from the fog,

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walking arm in arm.

Griffin started and stared, seeing only the black dress and the glint of fair ringlets

peeking from beneath the bonnet that shadowed the taller woman's face. For a heartbeat he

thought it was the teacher, Elizabeth Canham.

Inexplicably, his mood turned expectant, only to scuttle back to surly when he saw it

was not she. This woman was of middle years, her hair more silver than gold.

With a polite bow, a lift of his hat, and a step to the side, he let them pass.

Elizabeth Canham. She fascinated him, though he could not precisely mark the why of

it. She was pretty, but not beautiful … until she smiled. And then her beauty stabbed him

like a shiv in the gut.

The pure oddity of his thoughts struck him, and he felt a surge of annoyance at himself.

He wondered what he was doing, staring at a stranger, thinking of Miss Canham. He had

exchanged only a handful of words with her, and those in two brief conversations …

though one had been of an oddly intimate nature.

What
had
they spoken of? He frowned. That first day, he had found her waiting on the

road, calm and cool despite the fact that there must have been a seed of fear sprouting in

her heart as she waited and waited for a cart that did not come.

Ah, yes, he recollected … they had discussed fencing and the weather. And the

ridiculous brick columns and iron gates that guarded the road to Burndale Academy.

He recalled the way she had pressed her lips together against a smile, the light of humor

in her eyes, and his own rare huff of laughter. A moment of affinity.

Their meeting of yesterday had only strengthened his feeling that there was a

communion of thought between them. Their discourse had been fraught with a loaded

tension, circling topics of death and personal distress. Yet he had found their interaction

oddly soothing, had felt that she understood him to a depth and richness that was

surprising.

In those strange moments of kinship, Miss Elizabeth Canham had definitely piqued his

interest. She would likely run screaming if she knew it, for he was not a fit companion for

one such as she. He was a man responsible for his ample share of gross deeds, and

villainous ones, deeds that destined him for eternity's fires.

What matter? The things he had done could not be undone, even if he wished it. And in

truth, he did not.

One thing he knew for certain: she harbored a secret. As a man who guarded a goodly

share of his own, he was attuned to the fact in others.

Reaching his destination, he pushed open the door of the Red Bull and stepped inside.

Paltry daylight—a weak gray even under the open sky—grew dimmer still as it leaked

through begrimed front windows to fall across the handful of patrons sitting at tables. The

air was peppered with puffs of smoke and the sounds of conversation. At the bar a lone

man sat straddle-legged upon a chair, a full mug of ale in his hand, his back to the room.

Griffin studied the set of the man's shoulders, the shape of the back of his head, the scar

on the hand that held his ale.

Here was the unexpected, slithering out from his past.

Turning, he made his way to a shadowed nook and the empty table that waited there. He

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chose the chair that would see his back to the wall and his face to the room. Reaching

down to his boot, he slid free the blade he kept there always and laid it flat across his

thigh, ready.

In short order, the barmaid brought him ale and a meal, boiled beef, oat pudding, and

pickled salmon. He sampled the fare and found it adequate. He had eaten far worse in his

time and, often, he had eaten nothing at all. Little effort was required to recall the nuances

of deprivation, the sensation of his belly knotted with hunger. Those memories made this

meal all the more appreciated.

When the serving maid crossed his path again, he sent her a close-lipped smile and a

nod, then flipped her a coin that she caught with a swipe of her hand and a grin. She

preened as though she'd slaved over the preparation of the food herself.

Turning his attention to his plate, Griffin ate, but always he was aware of the

atmosphere in the pub, the ebb and flow of conversation, the play of light and shadow as

the sun peeked out for a moment from behind the heavy clouds. Griffin knew when the

man at the bar rose and moved, sensed him drawing nigh. He looked up as a blunt, scarred

hand slammed a fresh glass of ale before him, sending the amber liquid sloshing over the

sides.

"I woke this morning hike a boar with a sore head," came the gruff statement. "Likely

too much ale drunk in the wee hours. A hair of the dog, hmm? What say you, Griff?"

The voice, rough as a file scraping to and fro on iron links, was recognizable for the

tone and pinch, and for the use of a familiarity than Griffin had not heard in a good long

while.

"Hullo, Richard," he said, gesturing with his right hand to the free chair on the opposite

side of the table, though he felt little inclined to welcome the man. His left hand he slid

beneath the table. "Been a long while since our paths crossed. What? A year now?"

Not a full year. He knew it perfectly well. The frozen ground had been buried beneath a

January snow last he'd seen Richard Parsons.

And they'd both seen the girl's blood that stained the snow dark crimson.

"Richard,
is it? When did you become so formal as that? Were we not boon

companions,
Griff
and
Dick,
the two who could drink any other man under the table and

still weave upright from any pub"—he grinned—"with our pockets heavier from the coin

we lifted to make his lighter."

He grabbed the chair, dragged it from the table, and straddled it. Then he cast a wary

glance toward Griffin's obscured left hand. "Do you greet an old friend with the threat of a

slit throat?"

"A man can never be too careful." Not about his enemies … or his friends.

With a laugh, Richard held his hands out, palms up, and only raised his brows when

Griffin reached out to shove the sleeves up above the wrists and take a look for good

measure.

"No, it's not been a year since last we met, my friend," Richard said, watching with

narrowed eyes as Griffin leaned down and shoved his knife back into the sheath set in his

boot. "Mayhap nine months. Since that girl—a teacher, was she not?—was found at the

edge of the woods, killed by some … beast."

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Griffin gave a small nod. The reference was meant to unsettle, but he'd long ago learned

to show none of the strong emotion that burned in his gut, to hide his temper behind a

bland mask.

The silence dragged. Richard shifted on his chair, toyed with his watch, cleared his

throat. Finally, he spoke.

"Glad I am to find you here, Griff. 'Tis good to meet a friend along the way. Why, I do

remember…" He laughed, and launched into a tale of their shared exploits, though to

Griffin's recollection the telling leaned far across the line between truth and imagination,

and bore little resemblance to actuality.

Taking up his fork and knife, he returned his attention to the remains of his meal. He

murmured appropriate responses to Richard's anecdotes and comments, letting the other

man fill the silence. At length, he pushed the empty plate aside and rocked back in his

chair.

"So what do you do in Northallerton, Richard?" Griffin asked, sipping his ale and

studying his companion over the rim of the glass.

Richard was handsome enough, dark haired, dark eyed, with a touch of arrogance to his

features, and a touch of brutality. He dressed the part of the gentleman he ought to have

been had life and poor choices not set him on a different path, but careful perusal showed

his coat to be threadbare at the cuffs and not quite right in the fit of the shoulder, as though

the garment had been made for another and then poorly altered.

From a distance, or in meager light, he looked of an age with Griffin. Closer

examination proved the fallacy. Richard's jowl was beginning to fall and heavy pouches

sat beneath his eyes, testament in part to the start of middle age, and in part to a life of

debauchery and excess. But his smile was as ever it had been, wide and infectious,

inviting the unwary companion to murmured confidences and shared good humor.

Unless that companion knew a little of Richard Parsons. Of his past. Of the barren place

than might once have been his soul.

Griffin knew. He had such a place at his own core.

"Business drew me to Northallerton, dear boy," Richard said. "Business, and perhaps a

little pleasure."

Griffin nodded. "Honest trade?" he asked, his relaxed posture and tone maintained by

will and not by natural inclination.

Honest trade. He thought not. Which left only the dishonest kind. There had been a time

when they had shared both the enjoyment and the profits of such.

With a wink, Richard laughed. "What would be the fun in honest trade?" He lowered

his voice and leaned his forearm on the table. "A question, dear boy. Do you know of a …

well, no way to be delicate … a woman who might ease a man, lad? I've been here six full

weeks, and though the inn is clean, there's a certain lack." He shifted closer still. "Of the

female persuasion, if you understand me. What I'd not give for a sweet blond whore,

young, mind you, and up for a bit of rough play."

Griffin took a long, slow pull of his ale. Swallowed. Said nothing. Six full weeks.

Parsons had been in Northallerton an inexplicably long while.

Hunting, or hunted?

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"Well, I'll take your silence for a no." Richard waved a hand. "So we'll talk of what's on

every mind in Northallerton, and likely every village for miles around. No doubt you've

heard of the missing maid, a blond girl from the telling of it. Speculation as to her fate is

on every loose tongue."

Griffin heard an undercurrent to the casual none, a challenge. "Do you join in the

speculation, Richard? Do you present your thoughts and suppositions on her

whereabouts?"

"Do
you,
Griff?" Richard's fingers drummed a staccato beat on the table, slid to his

waist to toy with his silver watch, then strayed to the buttons of his waistcoat. "I say she

ran off with her lover." Then he laughed, the sound low and menacing. "Strange how

history repeats and repeats, eh? Wonder what the local constabulary would say to know of

a fifteen-year-old tale from Ratcliffe Highway…"

When Griffin made no reply, Richard laughed again, an ugly sound. He slapped his

knee, relishing the private joke. "And here we are again, the two of us, so many years on,

sinning in a pub, speaking of butchered blond whores."

"The girl was no whore, but a maid at Briar House." Griffin held his neutral tone with

effort. "And the niece of my housekeeper's husband."

"At Briar, you say?" Richard made a tuneless whistle. "Well, that is a thing. Can't

imagine you would find a welcome there." He paused, nodded slowly, watching Griffin

for any hint of reaction.

Griffin said nothing, merely drank his ale. No, he would find no welcome at Briar

House, the home of his dead wife's parents. He had married Amelia Holder, and he had

killed her. Little more to be said on that.

With a pull of his mouth, Richard leaned back in his chair and needled further. "And the

niece of your housekeeper. Hunting a bit close to home, dear boy?"

Still Griffin said nothing, and Richard's expression grew crafty and mean.

"Someone's scratching at an old wound, Griffin. Making inquiries in London about

bodies and ghosts best left buried. You wouldn't know aught about that, would you?"

"Not a thing," Griffin replied, his mask in place, though emotion churned beneath his