Clever John

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Afterward, he’d bid her lay in his big bed, stripped the shirt from his body… and then he’d ignored her, reading papers by the fire, half unclothed. When she couldn’t stand it any longer she’d sat up. “What do you mean to do with me?”

  He’d glanced up in feigned surprise, the shadows the firelight had cast across his face making him look nearly demonic. “Why, nothin’, Mrs. Hollingbrook. What did ye think I’d do with ye?”

  “Then why did you bring me here?”

  He’d smiled—not a nice smile. No, this was a smile such as a wolf would give just before he tore into the doe’s throat. “What will ye tell yer husband when ye return to his arms tomorrow?”

  “Tell him? I’ll tell him the truth: that we dined together, but that nothing else happened.”

  “And he’ll believe ye?”

  “Of course!” She’d been outraged. “William loves me.”

  He’d nodded. “If he loves ye, he’ll believe ye.”

  His words had been like a curse. Even then—sitting on that ridiculously lush bed, just beginning to feel the relief that she wouldn’t have to sacrifice her pride to this man—even then, she’d shivered with foreboding.

  The next morning Mickey O’Connor had made her undo the front of her dress until her breasts were nearly revealed. He’d had her take down her hair and tousle it about her face. And then he’d made her promise to walk up the street like that.

  As if she were a common whore leaving his bed.

  It had been hard—until then the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life—but she’d walked up that street, past the catcalls of the whores returning home for the night. She’d found her sister, Temperance, waiting for her at the end of the street, worried sick about what had happened to Silence over the night. Silence had collapsed in her sister’s arms, hoping that the terrible spell was over.

  But that walk up the street in disarray had not been the worst—not by a long shot. For after that night she’d found that no one believed her. Not Winter, not Temperance, not the butcher on the corner, not her neighbors in Wapping.

  No one.

  Not even her darling husband, William. They all had thought Charming Mickey O’Connor had raped her. William had hardly been able to look at her before he left on that last voyage. He’d turned his head aside as if the sight of her shamed him—or as if she repelled him. And as she had watched her love leave, that last time on a ship that in six months’ time would be lost at sea, Mickey O’Connor’s words had echoed in her mind:

  If he loves ye, he’ll believe ye.

  Silence blinked and saw that they were climbing past a wide landing. She caught sight of familiar gilded double doors and glanced hastily away. Mickey O’Connor led her to the next floor up and then to the first door in the hallway there. He opened it with a flourish to reveal a neat bedroom with pink walls and white trim. Silence stopped short in astonishment. A bed with embroidered flowered hangings stood in one corner. Beside it was a cot with spindled rails all around the outside—obviously a child’s bed. There was even a small sitting area with a settee before the fireplace. Harry was already placing her trunk at the foot of the bed while Bert took a chair outside the door.

  All in all the room was very nice—and terribly out of place in this den of iniquity.

  Silence turned to Mr. O’Connor with a frown. “Who usually resides in this room?”

  He’d leaned a broad shoulder against the fireplace mantel as he watched her examine the room. “Why, no one, darlin’. Did ye think I kept a passel o’ virgins here to sacrifice to me wicked lust?”

  She could feel herself color at his mocking words. “I merely wondered.”

  “Ah, well, wonder no longer. This room is for ye and ye alone.” He arched one satanic eyebrow. “Have ye any other questions?”

  “Um… no.”

  “Then I’ll leave ye to make yerself at home. Supper’s at eight o’clock. Sharp, mind. Harry’ll show ye the way.” He’d straightened from the mantel as he spoke, and now he strode out the door without so much as a backward glance.

  Silence stared, rather stunned, as the door closed softly behind the river pirate. “Wretched man!”

  There was a soft gasp from near the bed and Silence noticed for the first time that a girl sat by the cot. It was the same maidservant who had brought Mary Darling into the throne room.

  Behind Silence, Harry cleared his throat with a sound like boulders rubbing together. “This ’ere’s Fionnula, ’oo’s been set to carin’ for the babe.”

  “Ma’am.” Fionnula dipped in an awkward curtsy, abandoned halfway down. She was a pretty girl, perhaps no more than eighteen, her fair skin freckled, her hair a lovely reddish blond, springing out from its pins in a cloud of curls about her face.

  “Mrs. ’Ollingbrook is goin’ to stay ’ere with the little lassie, Fionnula,” Harry said. “Orders o’ ’Imself, so mind what she says, ’ear?”

  Fionnula nodded, apparently struck mute by Harry’s instructions.

  “Well, then,” Harry said after an awkward pause. “Ah… I’ll jus’ push along. ’Imself ’as given orders that me and Bert’ll be watchin’ after ye while yer ’ere, Mrs. ’Ollingbrook, so if’n ye need anythin’, jus’ give us a ’oller. We’ll be outside the door.”

  And Harry left, as well.

  Silence scowled at the door through which the men had disappeared. “Sometimes I suspect that men are great idiots.”

  Fionnula gave a surprised giggle, hurriedly muffled.

  Silence smiled sheepishly at the girl. It was hardly Fionnula’s fault that Mr. O’Connor was such an autocratic pirate.

  “The babe’s fair worn out,” Fionnula said, nodding at Mary still in Silence’s arms. Her Irish burr was pronounced.

  “She is, isn’t she?” Silence whispered. She carried Mary to the cot and gently laid her down, hovering a moment to see if the toddler would wake.

  But Mary was exhausted from her crying bout and slept deeply.

  Silence straightened and moved to the fireplace, motioning Fionnula to follow. “So you were looking after Mary today?”

  “Aye,” the maid said shyly. “She was fair mad to’ve been taken from her home. She’s a handsome lass, though. The spittin’ image of Himself.”

  “That she is,” Silence murmured as she sank into the settee. She hadn’t had a moment to rest since she’d discovered Mary missing and weariness was making her limbs liquid. “Is this your room now, too?”

  Fionnula’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, ma’am. ’Tisn’t anyone’s as far as I know, savin’ yerself. I have a cot in the attic, same as the other maids, but Himself has said I’m to sleep through there now.” She gestured to a small door on the wall.

  “Oh, yes?” Silence got up to peek into Fionnula’s room. It was barely big enough to hold a cot and a row of pegs on the wall. Certainly it was far more Spartan than Silence’s and Mary’s room. She came back and flung herself down on the settee again and looked at the maid curiously. “When did you come to work for Mr. O’Connor?”

  “A bit more’n a month ago.” Fionnula’s fair face suddenly flamed. “I… I have a friend who lives here.”

  By the blush on the maid’s face, Silence thought the “friend” must be a man. “Surely not Harry?”

  Fionnula giggled. “Oh, no, ma’am!”

  “Or Mr. O’Connor?” Silence asked with a strangely heavy heart. Had he sent his kept woman to watch over her?

  “Goodness, no,” Fionnula said. “The ladies that Himself entertains are fancy pieces, quite lovely like. I’m not nearly as beautiful or as high in the instep as they.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Silence got up to unpack her meager trunk.

  The reality of her situation swept over her. She’d placed herself entirely in the power of an evil man—a man whose only use for women was to have them “entertain” him. This wasn’t what she wanted for Mary Darling—or herself. Once again she’d let Mickey O’Connor get the upper hand. For a moment panic rose in her chest, ne
arly suffocating her.

  “Are ye all right, ma’am?” Fionnula asked hesitantly.

  Silence glanced up and saw the little maid watching her worriedly. “Oh, yes. Just a little tired.”

  She rose to put away a pile of stockings, but as she did she came to a decision: she might be in Mickey O’Connor’s palace again, but that didn’t mean this time had to end like the last. This time the pirate would find that Silence Hollingbrook had a mind and a spirit of her own.

  And she would never blindly obey him again.

  THE LITTLE WIDOW’S presence in his palace gave him an odd itch ’tween the shoulder blades, Mick mused later that evening as he spread out a great map upon a table. ’Twas a crawling feeling, two parts curiosity, one of lust, with a dram of uneasy wariness stirred in.

  Strange, that, since he’d spent the last year slyly planning to get Silence Hollingbrook exactly where she was—under his power and under his roof. It’d been a whim in the beginning. He’d eyed the squalling babe held in the greedy old bawd’s arms, and known at once that the babe would have to be hidden from the Vicar. And why not her? he’d thought. Why not the righteous Mrs. Hollingbrook? Perhaps it was a way to claim some of that pure virtue she’d blazed at him in his own throne room. To steal by proxy what he could never earn. It had given him a bittersweet satisfaction: to hide the flesh of his flesh with the woman he’d harmed most in the world. To tie Silence to him with bonds of her own maternal love.

  Aye, and now at last he’d brought her back to his palace and by rights he ought to be feeling a triumphant bit of glee, hadn’t he?

  Not an odd, crawling sensation instead.

  “She seems content enough.” Harry’s broad, ugly face wrinkled as if he were thinking on whether “content” was really the word he wanted. “I left ’er with Fionnula.”

  Mick shot him a sardonic glance before returning his gaze to the map spread upon a great gilded table before him. Rumor had it that the table had been meant for a royal palace. But that was before Mick had demanded it in tithe from a captain who’d tried to wriggle out from his just obligations to Mick and his crew. Made it all the sweeter to have it in his own planning room, then.

  “Left her alone?” Mick asked with an edge to his voice. Silence was in his palace now—a treasure he’d protect like any other.

  “Naw,” Harry said hastily. “Bert’s guardin’ ’er.”

  “Good,” Mick grunted. “I’d be best pleased if’n she and the babe were within eyesight o’ one o’ ye at all times. She’s to be guarded well, mind.” He spread the map, leaning on it with both arms outstretched and studied it. “Where’s this dock yer contemplatin’?” he asked the third man in the room.

  “Down here,” Bran Kavanagh said, waving his hand over the lower Thames. “It’s rumored that the owners are in debt. They’ll sell cheap.”

  The lad leaned forward eagerly, forgetting that he liked to pretend an air of sophistication. Bran had been with Mick for the last six years or more. He was a pretty lad of twenty or so, all light blue eyes and red-brown hair pulled back into a queue. Made the girls quite swoon over him—much to Bran’s discomfort, for the lad was a solemn one.

  Except as now when he had a scheme brewing in his brain.

  Mick examined the area Bran had indicated. “What’re ye thinkin’ we can do with it?”

  “We can buy the docks and charge for the use of them,” Bran said at once. He’d been contemplating his plan for a while, it seemed. “Or sell them again at a higher price in the future. It’s a bit of insurance against lean times.”

  “Mmm,” Mick murmured. He hadn’t told Bran, but he already had “insurance.” “I do like the idea o’ insurance.”

  Bran grinned, quick and hopeful. “Then you’ll buy the docks?”

  Mick sighed, hating to disappoint the lad, but business was business. “If I go a-buyin’ docks and such, then I’ll be havin’ to hire secretaries and managers and the like to run the damn things. Might be more expense than profit.”

  The corners of Bran’s mouth turned down—the boy hadn’t yet learned to hide his emotions properly. “If you wait, they’ll sell to someone else. We’ll have lost the docks and another mayn’t come up for sale for years.”

  “And if I jump too soon, I’ll lose me money,” Mick said. “It’s an interestin’ idea, Bran, me lad, but I’ll have to think on it a bit.”

  “But—”

  Mick shook his head once, staring at the boy sternly. “And besides, I’ve other matters to settle first—ones involvin’ the Vicar.”

  Bran looked away. “As you like.”

  “I do like,” Mick said mildly as he rolled up the map. “What have ye found out for me?”

  Bran sighed. “I saw his men lurking around the orphans’ home this afternoon after Mrs. Hollingbrook left. You got the babe out just in time, I’m thinking.”

  “Lurkin’ in plain sight?”

  “Aye,” Bran replied. “The Vicar’s men have become quite bold. They tramp about St. Giles in packs of four or five without a care in the world.”

  “Fuck ’em,” Mick growled. “St. Giles is mine and I’ll see those bloody whoresons run out.” He stretched his neck. “And how did the Vicar find out about the babe in the first place is what I’m wonderin’.”

  “You did have men watching her,” Bran pointed out.

  Mick looked up, eyes narrowed, only to find Harry nodding thoughtfully.

  “Might’ve led the Vicar straight to the babe,” Harry said.

  Mick grunted. He didn’t like the thought that ’twas his own error that had led the Vicar’s men to the orphanage and the babe. There was another possibility, too: Had one of his men betrayed his secret to the Vicar?

  “Then he knows that I have the babe within me palace,” Mick said slowly.

  Bran nodded grimly.

  Mick sighed. “Well, ’twas never me plan to hide the fact that I had her safe. He knows he must attack me palace to get to her—and that, I’m thinkin’, he’ll be loath to do.” He looked at Bran. “What have ye found out about the Vicar himself?”

  “The Vicar’s got dozens of men around him at all times,” Bran replied. “He guards himself better than you, come to that. It’ll be a right job to get to him.”

  “Ah, but get to him we must,” Mick said. “ ’Tis near the end o’ winter and he’ll be runnin’ low on grain for his damned gin stills. Have some o’ me men find out who’s supplyin’ him. I’ll offer the suppliers an incentive to quit doin’ business with the Vicar.”

  “Very well.” Bran hesitated, then blurted out, “But I don’t see why you two are at war. He has his gin distilling and you have the river. How do your interests cross?”

  Sad brown eyes rose up in his inner mind, the lilt of an Irish voice, Me darlin’ Mickey.

  Mick grimaced, pushing the memories aside. “It’s a personal matter. One ye needn’t worry about.”

  Bran frowned as Mick put away the map. “That’s your own affair, but we’re spending time on the Vicar and getting no money in return.”

  “Aye, and I’m aware o’ it,” Mick said. “If I could end this, I would. But I’m afraid the Vicar isn’t such a reasonable gent as m’self.”

  “Then you’ll have to kill him.” Bran’s light blue eyes were young—and utterly ruthless.

  “I would, but as ye’ve pointed out, the man guards himself well.” Mick tapped the table for a moment in thought, then came to a decision. “We’re better off takin’ the round-about way. Cut off his grain, starve him, and run him out o’ St. Giles for good. In the meantime, send some o’ me men about to roust any o’ his crew they find in St. Giles.”

  Bran nodded. “As you wish.”

  Mick arched an eyebrow. The boy was still lingering though he’d been given his orders. “Somethin’ else on yer mind?”

  “What about this Mrs. Hollingbrook?” Bran’s upper lip curled. “I can see keeping the child—if you think she’s truly yours—but why insist the wench stay, as well? She’s a
distraction.”

  Mick’s jaw tightened. “Pardon me, but I wasn’t aware I need explain m’self to ye, lad.”

  Bran’s face went a fiery scarlet. A muscle beneath his right eye jumped and then he turned and left the room abruptly.

  Harry had been leaning on the wall in the corner, but he stirred now. “The boy’s impatient.”

  “That he is,” Mick muttered.

  “ ’E’s clever, is our Bran,” Harry said with an air of consideration. “But a bit rash.”

  Mick cocked a sardonic eyebrow at Harry, waiting.

  Harry straightened. “ ’Emay not like Mrs. ’Ollingbrook, but Bran does ’ave a bit o’ a point. Are ye sure ’tis best to keep ’er ’ere?”

  Mick’s reaction was immediate and gut-deep. Silence was his and he would hold her. No one was going to change that.

  “Second-guessin’ me, Harry?” Mick asked with silky menace.

  The big man flinched, but didn’t back down. “Now, ye know I’d never do such, Mick. But, see, she’s a soft thing, is Mrs. ’Ollingbrook, though she ’ides it be’ind a sharp tongue. She’s a lady, through and through, and easily ’urt. Ye ’ad yer way with ’er once afore. Is it necessary like to play with ’er again?”

  Mick glanced down at the papers he’d picked up. They’d crumpled beneath the force of his grip. Hazel eyes weeping in the night. “I find m’self in a strangely good mood this evenin’, Harry, otherwise ye know I’d not be allowin’ such questionin’.”

  “I know that, I do,” Harry said earnestly.

  “Then ye know also that I’ll be answerin’ yer damned questions jus’ this once,” Mick said, his eyes pinning Harry. “I trust ye remember the girl found upon me doorstep jus’ last week?”

  “I do.”

  “She’d been in me palace only nights afore, though I didn’t take her to me bed,” Mick rasped, remembering the body of the girl. Her face had looked like it had melted off her head. Jaysus. That wouldn’t happen to Silence Hollingbrook, not while he still lived. “Can ye imagine what the Vicar would do to someone I might… care about?”