“We need money, ma’am,” he said without a hint of humor. “Everything else is extraneous.”
“Oh, but couldn’t we have little jackets made for the children? At least the boys?” Lady Penelope cried.
Mr. Makepeace looked at her. “Jackets, ma’am?”
Lady Penelope waved a vague hand. “Oh, yes! Scarlet ones—they’d look like little soldiers. Or perhaps lemon? Lemon is such an elegant color, I find.”
She smiled brilliantly at the home’s manager.
Mr. Makepeace cleared his throat. “Yellow also becomes dirty very easily. In my experience, children, especially boys, tend to run about and make a mess of themselves.”
“Oh, pooh!” Lady Penelope pouted. “Can’t you just keep them inside?”
Everyone looked at Lady Penelope. It was hard to credit, but she seemed quite serious.
Isabel felt a grin tug at her lips. She widened her eyes at the manager. “Yes, Mr. Makepeace, tell us why you can’t simply lock the little dears in their rooms?”
He shot her a quick, dark look that made her catch her breath.
“I’m sure Lady Penelope understands the impossibility of keeping small boys immobile and clean at all times,” Amelia murmured. “If that is all, Mr. Makepeace, we will not keep you further from your duties.”
“Ma’am. Ladies.” He bowed.
He was almost at the door when Lady Hero suddenly seemed to remember something. “But where is Mrs. Hollingbrook? I thought to see her today.”
Mr. Makepeace didn’t change expression, his body didn’t jerk or stiffen, but somehow Isabel understood that the comment had given him pause.
He glanced over his shoulder. “My sister is no longer residing at the home,” he said coolly and left the room before Lady Hero could make further comment.
Lady Penelope’s high, silly voice broke the silence. “Goodness! Surely he isn’t thinking of running the home all by himself? A woman’s touch is so important with children, I think, especially since Mr. Makepeace is a bachelor gentleman.”
Several other ladies offered their opinions, but Isabel let the conversation flow about her as she bent her head in thought. Mr. Makepeace’s gaze had met Isabel’s in the second before he turned away, and she’d realized something in that instant: Mr. Makepeace might not show it, but there were strong emotions churning under that cold exterior.
His eyes had been black with anger.
SILENCE SQUARED HER shoulders that night outside the dining room door. She’d left Mary Darling happily playing with Moll, the maid from the kitchen, with Bert as guard, and now she was about to join Mickey O’Connor for dinner. After all, he’d asked this time instead of ordered. There was still that small part of her that was convinced she was making a mistake. But then she reminded herself that it had been he who had made the first move, had held out the hand of peace.
Surely that counted for something?
She pushed open the door before she wasted another five minutes pacing and dithering. The room within was long and, not surprisingly, gaudily decorated. Watered silks lined the walls in purple, deep blue, and green. Silence snorted under her breath. How appropriate: Charming Mickey had covered the walls of his dining room with the colors of a peacock.
Down the middle of the room several long tables had been set end-to-end, almost like what she supposed a medieval dining hall might have looked like. Mickey O’Connor himself lounged at the far end of the table in a crimson velvet chair. He hadn’t looked up at her entrance, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking he hadn’t noticed her.
Silence began making her way down the line of tables. This end of the room seemed to be comprised of Mickey’s crew, quite a rough-looking lot. She’d gingerly passed the first couple of seated men when some type of signal was given. Suddenly all the pirates rose rather alarmingly, some so hastily their chairs crashed to the floor.
Silence blinked. “Ah… good evening.”
“Good evenin’, ma’am,” the closest man said gruffly. Belatedly, he snatched the greasy tricorne from his head.
Each man greeted her in turn as she walked past them, and even though they were all rather murderous looking, Silence smiled shyly at them. She found a seat just past the pirates. It was across from Harry and next to a little man with spectacles who she’d seen before in Mr. O’Connor’s throne room.
As she drew out the chair, the little man stood. “Not here, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry?” she asked, confused.
“He’ll want you with him,” the little man said nervously.
“That’s yer place,” Harry said and nodded his chin toward the head of the table.
Silence looked at the head of the table and of course Mickey O’Connor was watching her. They were all watching her.
Silence lifted her chin and made her way up the table, conscious that all eyes were upon her, until she stood beside the empty place at the right hand side of Mickey O’Connor. For an awful moment she thought he would ignore her, but then he uncoiled his long limbs and stood, pulling out her chair for her.
“Mrs. Hollingbrook,” he murmured. “I’m that pleased ye’ve come down.”
She nodded nervously and accepted the chair. She could feel his heat behind her as his hands took the sides of the chair and moved it forward to properly seat her. The scent of frankincense and lemons floated in the air, sensuous and somehow alarming. She thought she felt the brush of his fingers on her shoulder, but when she looked around he was already back in his seat.
He made a gesture and Tess and two other maidservants came in laden with trays of food. Incredibly—decadently—rich food. There were platters of thinly sliced pheasant, roasted rabbits, fish in wine, pigeon pie, fresh hothouse fruit, and enormous serving dishes heaped with oysters.
Mickey O’Connor seemed to sense her faint disapproval as one of the serving maids placed a bowl of oysters before them. He cocked a black eyebrow at her. “I’m proud of me table, Mrs. Hollingbrook. I like good food and me men work better for it.”
She pursed her lips. “The price of those oysters could feed a St. Giles family for weeks, maybe months.”
He smiled lazily. “Would ye rather I dined upon bread and water?”
“No, but—”
“Come,” he said in his deep, black velvet voice, “the oysters are already cooked and they don’t keep at all well. ’Twould be a pity to let them go to waste.” He picked up a shell and pulled the pearly, succulent flesh free with his fingers, holding it out temptingly.