Penelope’s heart was a bubble, rising eagerly up through the water to bob on a sunlit surface. “What about all your work?”
Griffin’s long mouth crooked in a devious smile. She looked evil and stern and Penelope shivered to see it. Anticipation ripened Griffin’s tone into something rich and alluring. “Oh, I think we can find someone to take care of the work.”
She marched through the doorway, eyes seeking out and finding her apprentice. The girl shot up from the bench, and Penelope wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she’d saluted.
Griffin took this obedience in stride: “Eliza, when Crompton is done with the Thisburton prints, you start the color work and have him begin printing the Egerton plate.”
The girl straightened her shoulders. “Of course. Is the Egerton finished?”
“It’s drying in the yard; should be ready when you need it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Griffin cast Penelope a smile over her shoulder. “That’s the bulk of it sorted.” She settled a bonnet like a helm on her head, then tugged her gloves tight over her hands like a general arming for battle. A lovely, sinister kind of mirth came over her. “Just one more thing to do...” She marched back into the storefront, Penelope trailing irresistibly after.
Sydney looked up from the counter, then blinked at his mother’s attire. Griffin strode for the exit without a moment’s pause. “I’m going out, my dear,” she announced blithely. “Make sure everything’s closed up properly, and don’t bother to wait up—we won’t be back ’til quite late.”
Penelope caught one glimpse of Sydney gaping like a hooked fish before she scurried out the door to keep up with the longer-legged Griffin. The engraver strode purposefully around the corner until the shop windows were out of sight—then spun on her heel and put her hands against her mouth. “Oh dear,” Griffin said, shoulders shaking. “Ohdear, that felt far too good. I almost didn’t make it through with a straight face.”
Griffin, Penelope realized with delight, waslaughing.She couldn’t help grinning back. “What have you done to your son, you awful woman?”
“Nothing he hasn’t well earned, I promise you.” Griffin pushed away from the wall, brushed her hands together, and cocked a head. “Well, Flood? Which shall we start with: fun, or food?”
“Food,” Penelope replied. “Definitely food.”
Griffin led her through crowded streets, weaving around slower walkers and darting down convenient shortcuts. Penelope was used to walking, but the press of people and the endless, ever-shifting, and indescribable smells made her breathless as she hurried to keep up with the printer’s sure strides.
Finally, Griffin led her to a tavern whose door was set several steps lower than the street; even from outside, the smell of roasting meat and bread and sauces made Penelope’s mouth begin to water.
Inside, everything smelled so tasty that Penelope in her hunger was hard put not to start gnawing on the back of a spare chair. The place was unimpressive to look at but spotlessly clean, and quieter than the usual tavern; everyone seemed engrossed in their meals. Griffin ordered for them both: turtle soup and fish to start, followed by partridge pie in mushroom gravy. To drink they poured a cider that fizzed tart and sharp to keep Penelope’s palate clear as she tucked in, and later, to pair with the pudding, a sweet port that went right to Penelope’s head. She sat back with a sigh and set her fork down with a wistful regret that she had no room for more.
Griffin was at her ease, canted sideways, one elbow up on the back of her chair. The other hand spun the stem of the port glass on the table in front of her. Her eyes were liquid as wine in the low light. “Well?”
Penelope didn’t hold back. “That may be the single greatest meal I have ever had.”
Griffin grinned. “I thought you’d approve. Walcott’s is one of the best-kept secrets in London.”
Penelope leaned forward. “What other secrets can you show me?”
Griffin froze for an instant, her eyes flashing gold in the candlelight. “That depends,” she said, raising her glass to her lips. The port shimmered like rubies. “Would you prefer something edifying, or something decadent?”
Penelope watched Griffin’s throat work as she swallowed the last droplets of rich, heady liquor. “Decadent. Definitely decadent.”
Griffin’s answering smile was a wicked, wordless promise.
Penelope’s pulse leaped, and she wondered what she’d let herself in for.
In the eyes of most decent folk, Agatha knew, Vauxhall was the absolute pinnacle of public London depravity. It could be the ruin of any high-born debutante who dared wander down its shadowed lanes and elude her chaperone in search of the sultry, sordid pleasures of the flesh.
But Agatha and Flood were two middle-aged women free from the rules of high birth and fortune. They had no peerless pearl of reputation to safeguard.
Even if they had, Agatha thought it might be worth a little ruin to see the brilliant lights reflected in the sparkle of Penelope Flood’s blue eyes. They shone almost silver in the darkness, pools of liquid light as she tipped her face back to watch the fireworks bloom and burst against the night sky above.
A lithe woman in a dazzling costume, crowned in feathers, danced down an endless tightrope above them as colored stars popped around her. Penelope gasped as the rope dancer twirled on one foot, seemingly unconnected from earthly gravity. She looked liable to fall at any moment and yet she danced on, the spangles on her costume flashing in defiance as she drew gasps and cheers from the riveted crowd below. Beautiful and untouchable.
Agatha looked away from the rope dancer as Penelope Flood laughed in sheer joy.
Beautiful. Untouchable.
