“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.
Mick had calculated that the best time to make an escape was just before the execution cart reached the gallows tomorrow morning. There would be crowds of people, families out for a holiday, hawkers selling meat pies and fruit, and of course scores of soldiers. But the soldiers would be hampered by the crowds. If his men made a commotion just as the cart neared Tyburn gallows, they would draw the attention of both the soldiers and the crowds. During the confusion a second group of his men might be able to rescue him.
It was a long shot escape plan, but it was his only chance. He’d gambled before on his life and won. Why not now, as well?
On the whole Mick had few, if any, regrets. He didn’t regret pirating, he didn’t regret the men he’d killed in his life, and he sure as bloody hell didn’t regret throwing vitriol into Charlie’s face and saving himself from a buggering at the age of thirteen.
There was one thing he did wish he could change, though. He regretted that he hadn’t found the proper words to make Silence stay with him. He should’ve lied, should’ve told her he’d give up the pirating, give up the palace, give up anything she damned well wanted if she’d only stay with him. Hell, maybe he should’ve really given up the pirating for her. He wanted only to sit at a table with her and feed her exotic foods that made her beautiful hazel eyes widen with wonder. And later he’d make her eyes widen in other ways. He’d caress her creamy skin and tell her—
Tell her what?
Jaysus. He’d tell her that he loved her. That she was the only woman save his poor mam that he’d truly loved.
Mick squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the laughter, the moaning, and the cries that were Newgate Prison. If he had it to do over again he would’ve chained her to his bed and made sweet love to Silence until she admitted that she couldn’t live without him.
Because God knew that he couldn’t live without her.
He’d stay with her always, perhaps even marry her, if she insisted. He chuckled to himself to think of Charming Mickey O’Connor domesticated. And if they someday had a babe—
His eyes suddenly snapped open on that thought.
He’d never considered—because he’d always thought she’d stay, damn it—that she might be with his child.
Jaysus! Mick jumped to his feet, pacing the length of his leg irons, barely six feet. If Silence were with child, she’d be frantic. He didn’t give a damn or not if his child were born a bastard, but she would be deeply ashamed. She’d be an outcast. Her family loved her, but they were very strict. Would they toss her into the street? Where would she find the funds to care for both Mary Darling and a new babe? Dear God.
“Thinkin’ on that noose?” the gaoler, a dirty little man who was puffed with pride that he was guarding the notorious Mickey O’Connor asked. Of course the real guarding was done by the dragoons, but that didn’t bother the gaoler. His ugly face appeared at the barred window on the cell door, fingering his own neck. “The last one we ’ung ’ad ’is neck stretched near a foot.”