“I would retreat, sir, as I did the other times you ordered me from this room,” Pepper said precisely, “but I feel I should tell you that your men are worried.”
Mick laid his head in his hand. “What the fuck do they have to be worried about?”
Pepper cleared his throat again. “They wish to know when you’ll go raiding again and if you’ll be returning to the dining room for supper in the near future.”
Mick felt a headache start in his right temple, dull and throbbing. “Tell them it’s none o’ their damned business when I want to raid and where I take me supper.”
“Ah,” Pepper said. He sounded nervous. Mick couldn’t remember Pepper ever sounding nervous. “Then might we discuss your various investments? The price of gold has tripled in the last five months. I thought if we were to sell some of your gold and reinvest the money in, say, jewels or silver plate, we would see a tidy profit, perhaps of—”
“Damn the money,” Mick muttered.
Pepper paused, cocking his head inquisitively. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said damn the money!” Mick roared, rising from his throne. “Fuck the gold! Bugger the silver plate, damn the jewels, the furs and silks, the china, the books, the spices and tea, and the furniture!”
“But… but…,” Pepper stuttered.
“Fuck all me money!” Mick bellowed. “It don’t bloody matter anymore!”
He kicked a barrel, tipping it over and sending cloves spilling across the floor. Lad whimpered from behind the Roman matron.
“Sir,” Pepper began.
The door to the throne room opened and Bob thrust his head around it, looking wary. “Letter.”
He ducked back, holding the paper out from behind the door.
Pepper hurried over and took it, breaking the seal. Something fluttered to the floor.
Mick casually knocked over a China vase, watching with bitter satisfaction as it shattered to pieces in the cloves.
“Sir, you need to look at this.” Pepper was suddenly by his side, trembling, but proffering the missive bravely.
Mick took it and glanced down.
I have them. Meet me where your mother lies.
He was still staring down when Pepper shoved something into his hand. Mick looked at it and froze. It was a tiny lock of hair, as inky black as his own.
The guards he’d sent, Harry and Bert, all of them, they’d all failed.
“Saddle a horse for me,” Mick whispered. His chest had constricted with dread.
Pepper ran from the room.
Mick strode to his bedroom, splashed water on his face and neck and made sure he carried his knives on him. He took up a pistol, loaded it, and wrapped a wide belt about his waist to stick it in. Then he ran down the stairs. He couldn’t let fear rule him. They were alive and well.
And if they weren’t, he’d rain bloody retribution down on the Vicar.
The horse was out front and he took the reins without word to the boy waiting there.
Pepper stood anxiously by. “Won’t you take some of the men with you, sir?”
“No,” Mick said and wheeled the horse around. “This’s between me and the fuckin’ Vicar.”
He urged the horse into a canter, weaving in and out of the late afternoon bustle. He made it to St. Giles-in-the-Fields church in under five minutes, dismounted, and tied the nag to the fence.
Inside, the churchyard was quiet. He turned a corner of the graveyard path and saw the Vicar standing by Mam’s grave. No one else was in sight. Which didn’t mean his usual guards weren’t about.
Mick was on him in another two strides. He grabbed the older man’s neck cloth. “Where are they?”
The Vicar stared up at him with his ruined face and laughed. “Oh, Mickey boy, how should I know?”
Mick took the lock of hair from his pocket and thrust it into the Vicar’s face. “Whose is this then?”
“Your mother’s,” Charlie Grady said softly. “She gave me a lock of her hair when we were courting and naturally I kept it all these years. Your mother had that same black curly hair as you and the little lassie.” He winked. “You ought to’ve introduced me to my granddaughter, Mickey. Now I’m afraid I’ll have to be doing it myself.”
“I’ll see ye in hell first,” Mick breathed, shoving the other man away.
Gravel crunched beneath a booted foot behind him.
Mickey whirled, but the Vicar had succeeded in distracting him just long enough. He was a fraction too slow. A split second too late. The knife was knocked from his hand and his arms were seized. Suddenly there were soldiers everywhere in the graveyard.
Charlie tutted. “Oh, I have no doubt we’re both destined for hell, son, but I fancy you’ll see it afore me.”
“Fuck ye,” Mick spat.
An officer in a white wig limped up to Mick. “Mickey O’Connor I arrest you on the charge of piracy.”
“ARRESTED!” SILENCE LAID down the knife she’d been using to butter a piece of bread for Mary Darling’s tea. They were in the lesser sitting room of Caire’s town house, the sun shining brightly on the silver tea set in front of Silence. She stared dazedly at Bert and Harry, both men solemn and standing shoulder-to-shoulder in solidarity as they brought her the horrible news. “But how? Michael’s been an outlaw for most of his life. How was he captured?”
Harry looked uneasily at Bert and then squared his shoulders. “ ’Twere a trap, ma’am, laid by the Vicar ’imself. Word is, the Vicar said ’e ’ad ye and the babe.”
“Dear God.” Michael had rushed to save them and in doing so had walked into a trap. She swallowed and stared at the bread on a pretty china plate. The sight made her stomach roil.
“You must leave as soon as possible,” Temperance said from the doorway. She was out of breath as if she’d run from wherever in the town house that she’d heard the news. “If the Vicar has Mickey O’Connor, he’ll come after you next. I’ve ordered the carriage made ready. We can have you out of London before dark.”
“No!” Silence stood. “I’m not leaving London.”
Harry looked uneasy. “The Vicar’ll still be lookin’ for ye and the babe, ma’am.”
“I realize that,” Silence said. “And I’ll take all possible precautions, but I’ll not leave while Michael is in prison.”
“But dearest,” Temperance protested, her sherry-brown eyes wide and distressed.
“No. You can’t ask it of me.” Silence looked at her sister and drew a quavering breath. “You know full well what the likely outcome of a trial will be.”
Temperance closed her eyes, but didn’t reply. She didn’t have to.
The punishment for piracy was hanging.
“TO THE COMPLETION of the brand-new Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children!” Lady Hero raised her small glass of sherry high.
“Here! Here!” Around the cramped meeting room the members of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children obediently raised their wineglasses in toast.
Isabel Beckinhall smiled and sipped her wine. Who’d have thought over a month ago when she’d attended her first meeting that the Ladies’ Syndicate would turn out to be so much fun?
She selected a scone from the tray Mary Whitsun was carefully holding and looked at Lady Hero. “When are the children due to move into the new home?”
“Next week, we hope,” Lady Hero said, still flushing prettily from the triumph of her toast. “Lady Caire and I examined the new home just yesterday, before she left town, but I think Mr. Makepeace will have to do a final inspection as well with one of us.”
“Can’t you go, my lady?” Lady Penelope asked, her pretty face creased into a confused frown.
“I’m leaving tomorrow with Lord Griffin,” Lady Hero said. The color which had begun to recede from her face rushed back. “He’s to show me the ruins at his country estates to the north.”
Lady Margaret, who was Lord Griffin’s sister and thus Lady Hero’s sister-in-law, snorted delicately. “That’s not the only thing he’ll show you at his estate, I’ll wager.”
“Megs!” Lady Hero’s shocked gasp was rather ruined by a giggle. “How much of that sherry have you drunk?”
Lady Margaret squinted at her glass. “This’s only my second glass.”
“The wine is very good,” Miss Greaves broke in tactfully. “Simply perfect to toast our success with.”
Lady Hero shot her a grateful look.
“Hmm,” Isabel murmured as she took another scone—really it was the orphan girls’ best pastry. “The sherry is delicious, but it’s a pity you were forced to smuggle it past Mr. Makepeace.”
“I didn’t exactly smuggle it,” Lady Hero said with dignity.
“But you did have it packaged in a box with no markings,” Lady Margaret pointed out.
Lady Hero wrinkled her nose. “It’s just that Mr. Makepeace is so…”
“Dour,” Isabel said.
“Stern,” Lady Phoebe piped up from where she sat next to her sister.
“Religious.” Lady Penelope shuddered.
“And rather lacking in a sense of humor,” Isabel added to round the whole thing off. She bit into her tender scone.
“But he is quite handsome nevertheless,” Miss Greaves said judiciously.
Lady Penelope tossed her head. “Handsome if you like severe, unyielding gentlemen.” The faint curl of her lip indicated that she, at least, did not. “I do think that the home is sadly lacking in a female influence now that Mrs. Hollingbrook has abandoned her brother.”
“We’re a female influence!” Lady Margaret said somewhat indignantly.
“But we’re not here all the time,” Lady Penelope pointed out. “ ’Tisn’t the same.”
“What about the female servants?” Lady Isabel asked, amused. She herself did not subscribe to the idea that Mr. Makepeace needed female help—or any help, for that matter—to run the home, but she was fascinated by Lady Penelope’s prejudiced and somewhat convoluted thought process.
“Servants,” Lady Penelope sniffed and that seemed to be her entire argument.
Isabel hid a smile and popped the last bite of her scone into her mouth.
“In any case,” Lady Hero said hastily, “we need someone to meet Mr. Makepeace at the new home the day after tomorrow. Someone tactful, charming, and able to deal with Mr. Makepeace’s er… sternness.” Her eyes met Isabel’s and Lady Hero smiled sweetly—and rather craftily. “You’d be quite perfect, Lady Beckinhall.”
Chapter Eighteen
The years went by and Clever John grew old. His once black hair turned snowy white, his broad shoulders stooped, and his strong hand shook. And in all those years he never again saw Tamara. Finally the day came when he knew his time on earth was drawing to a close. He sat on his grand golden throne in his wonderful castle, with his treasure chest beside him overflowing with jewels but he had eyes for none of that. Instead he examined five brightly colored feathers upon his lap….
—from Clever John
Mick O’Connor lay on a bed of straw in Newgate Prison’s castle—the strongest cell in the prison—and contemplated his life.
The life that very well might end on the morn tomorrow.
After a month of prison he had an escape plan, of course, for he was a man who’d spent a lifetime planning. The castle was near break-proof, and a dozen of Captain Trevillion’s dragoons had been assigned to guard him. They were immune to bribes, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see visitors. Pepper had made several calls, helping Mick to set his affairs in order, and it’d been child’s play to smuggle out an escape plan to the rest of his men.