Charlie cocked his head, feeling the pull of old scars on the left side of his face and neck. “Ah, but that is news. Charming Mickey don’t like the respectable ones much, now does he?”
Freddy knew better than to answer, so Charlie took a sip of his beer, the tart taste of hops washing down his throat.
He set his tankard back on the table and picked up the dice with his left hand—the one with the thumb and forefinger turned to claws. He’d had the dice for long years now and they were worn smooth, the paint gone from the carved pips, the edges rounded. They were old friends in his palm and when he threw them gently, they rolled with barely a sound on the bare plank table.
Deuce and trey. A five. Ah, now, five could be good or very good, depending. Depending.
Last fall he’d had plans to move into St. Giles. Take over the gin distilling there and become king of gin in all of London. Those plans had stumbled because of an aristocrat not afraid of blowing up his own still—and taking half of Charlie’s men with it. But Charlie’d had time to regroup since then.
And besides, he had another focus now.
“My Gracie’s dead and buried. What she wanted, what she kept me from doin’… now that’s dead, as well.” Charlie stared with fascination at the greasy bits of bone. They seemed to wink up at him slyly. “All bets are off and Charming Mickey O’Connor would do well to look after his females.”
He looked up in time to catch Freddy’s horrified gaze directly.
“Best have our spy find out how much the lady means to Mickey, hadn’t ye?”
Chapter Two
The king had a palace, naturally, and beside the palace was a large and lovely garden. Every morning it was the king’s habit to stroll about his garden and inspect the fruit trees, which were his pride and joy. Imagine then, the king’s shock when one morning he came upon his favorite cherry tree and found the ground underneath littered with cherry pits….
—from Clever John
It was dusk by the time Silence, Harry, and Bert made it back to Mickey O’Connor’s gaudily opulent “palace.” The moment they stepped inside Silence heard the screams.
She knew that angry shriek.
Silence took the stairs two at a time, not even slowing at Harry’s worried, “Oi!” from behind her. The screams were growing louder the nearer she got to Mr. O’Connor’s throne room. She pushed open the great double doors and swept right past Bob, the skinny guard, and marched to where Mickey O’Connor stood in the middle of the room with a bawling Mary Darling in his hands.
No wonder the little girl was crying! The pirate held his screaming daughter out at arm’s length as if she were a stinking chamber pot.
“What have you done?” Silence demanded and snatched the baby from his hands.
Mary Darling had stopped shrieking at the sight of Silence, but she still cried, her little face red and swollen, her shoulders shuddering with uncontrollable sobs. Silence recognized this state of affairs: Mary had been wailing for quite some time.
She kissed the baby’s damp cheek, murmuring soothing nonsense and then turned an accusing eye on Mickey O’Connor.
He threw up his hands. “Don’t be lookin’ at me like that. I didn’t touch the brat and no one could get her to stop wailin’!”
Silence covered Mary’s ears. “How dare you?”
Mickey O’Connor scowled, for once looking less than charming. “She started bawlin’ the moment ye left. Like a great, barmy banshee, she was. Near to deafened me, I tell ye.”
“Well, perhaps she doesn’t like it here.” Silence tucked Mary’s still shaking head under her chin and cuddled the baby. “Perhaps she doesn’t like you.”
Mr. O’Connor snorted. “I don’t like her, and that’s a fact, no perhaps about it.”
Silence gasped. “But she’s your daughter!”
“And what does that have to do with the matter?” Mickey asked with a sardonic twist to his lips. “Her dam was a whore I kept for less than a sennight. The first I was hearin’ o’ the babe was when the wench died and left a note that I was the father. An old bawd came and dumped the babe on me, but not afore demandin’ a guinea for the pleasure. For ought I know her mam lied and the babe is none o’ me flesh at all.”
Silence stroked a hand over Mary’s soft curls, truly shocked. Had he no feelings at all? “Is that what you truly think?”
“Matters not at all, does it?” He turned away, one wide shoulder shrugging elegantly. “Daughter or not, flesh or not, like her or not, she’s me own now, so don’t be a-gettin’ any ideas to the contrary. Now follow me like a good lass and I’ll be showin’ ye to yer room.”
He strode away as if he did indeed expect her to follow like “a good lass.” Had Silence any choice she would’ve remained where she was. But since Mary was already half-asleep on her shoulder, she tramped after the awful man with Harry and Bert bringing up the rear.
He led her out through the double doors—Bob ran to open them as Mickey O’Connor approached so he didn’t have to stop. Mr. O’Connor didn’t acknowledge the courtesy, merely striding past like a king, but Silence nodded her thanks to the skinny guard as she hurried after.
Mickey O’Connor stalked down a short hallway and then through another door that led to the back of the house. A big man stood guard here as well. The gold walls and marble floor stopped at the door, but that didn’t mean this area of the house was any less richly appointed. The carved wood panels of the walls shone richly with beeswax and the floor beneath their feet was thickly carpeted. Mr. O’Connor mounted a set of stairs, Silence panting behind, trying to tamp down the frisson of dread remembrance. Mickey O’Connor had taken her this way once before, and she hadn’t emerged again entirely whole.
The sound of the pirate’s heels as he led her and the smell of fresh beeswax on the panels suddenly made the memory of that night rise up, overwhelming her like water closing over her head.
William, her dear husband, had been accused of stealing the cargo from his ship—the cargo that Mickey O’Connor had taken.
So Silence had come to St. Giles, wrapping herself in foolish bravery, love for William, and a fatal naïveté. She’d pleaded with Mickey O’Connor for William. She’d thrown herself on the mercy of a wolf, forgetting that wolves didn’t understand even the idea of mercy.
Mr. O’Connor had told her that he would replace the cargo—but that in return she’d have to spend the night with him. He’d stood up from his throne and led her from the throne room and through these very hallways.