Notorious Pleasures by Elizabeth Hoyt

connected to oaken barrels. The smells of smoke, fermentation, juniper berries, and turpentine were heavy in the humid air. A dozen more men were in the warehouse, a few tending the fires or the contents of the kettles, but most stood about, hired merely for their muscle.
    “I’ve brought in all the other operations,” Nick said, gesturing to the copper kettles. “All but the one that the Vicar’s boys blew up on Abbott Street.”
    Griffin nodded. “You’ve done well, Nick. One position is more easily guarded than many.”
    Nick spat at the stone floor. “Aye, that it is, but we’ll ’ave another problem when the ’arvest grain comes in.”
    “What’s that?”
    Nick tilted his head in the direction of the courtyard. “The outer door. It’s too small to bring in a wagon full of grain. We’ll have to toss the bags over the wall, and while we do, the cart, the boys, and the blasted grain’ll be sitting like pullets awaitin’ pluckin’ for Sunday supper.”
    Griffin grimaced, not bothering to reply to Nick’s succinct analysis of their position. He watched the men stoking the fires beneath the huge copper kettles. Most of his— their— capital was sunk into this operation, and the bloody Vicar was set to destroy it all. For the Vicar had declared that he would smash all other gin distillers and make himself king of gin in London.
    And as it happened, Griffin was the biggest gin distiller in St. Giles.
    S ILENCE HOLLINGBROOK WOKE to little baby fingers poking at her eyelids. She groaned and opened her eyes. Big brown eyes framed by an extravagance of lashes met her own. Mary Darling—the owner of the eyes and the baby in question—sat up and clapped pudgy hands, crowing her delight in having woken Silence.
    “Mamoo!”
    Silence grinned back at her tiny bedmate—it was quite impossible not to, really. “How many times have I told you not to poke at Mamoo’s eyes, you little imp?”
    Mary Darling giggled. At little over a year old, she had but three words to her vocabulary: “Mamoo,” an emphatic “no!” and “Soo” for Soot the cat—who was not nearly as fond of Mary Darling as she was of him.
    Silence glanced at the tiny window to their attic bedroom and sat up in horror. The sun was shining brightly. “Oh, no. You should’ve poked me in the eye earlier. I’ve overslept again.”
    Hurriedly she did her morning ablutions, feeling a vague sense that she was forgetting something important. She changed Mary Darling’s diaper and dressed them both—and only just in time. A firm knock came at the door. Silence pulled it open breathlessly and looked into the worn face of her elder brother, Winter.
    “Good morning, sister,” Winter said gravely. He rarely smiled, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he looked at the baby in Silence’s arms. “And to you, too, Miss Mary Darling.”
    The baby chortled and made a grab for Winter’s plain black hat.
    “I’m so sorry,” Silence said breathlessly as she gently plucked Mary Darling’s fingers from Winter’s flat hat brim. “I did mean to be down earlier, but, well, I overslept.”
    “Ah,” Winter said, and somehow his very lack of condemnation only made Silence feel worse.
    She’d started working at the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children over six months ago, but she still felt like she was learning. Running a foundling home that housed nine and twenty children and infants was no small task, even with the aid of Winter and three servants.
    Her self-doubts were not helped by the fact that her predecessor had been her elder sister, Temperance. Silence loved Temperance dearly, but sometimes she wondered darkly if Temperance had to be such a paragon. In all the years that Silence had visited the home when Temperance had been in charge, she’d found her sister busy, flurried, and sometimes tired beyond bearing, but Temperance had always been in control .
    Lately Silence had begun to wonder if she’d ever feel in control—of