Wicked Intentions

Harry shrugged his big shoulders as if to say he washed his hands of the matter. He turned without further ado and led her through the fabulous hall. There was a curving staircase at the back, carved from the same multicolored marble as the floors, like something from an emperor’s dream. Harry mounted the staircase ahead of her—there wasn’t really room for two abreast—and led her to the upper hall. Here, two great double doors stood directly opposite the head of the stairs.

  Harry knocked on one.

  A tiny square window opened in one of the panels of the doors and an eye blinked out at them. “Aye?”

  “Lady to see ’imself,” Harry said.

  The eye swiveled to stare at Silence. “’Ave you searched the wench?”

  Harry sighed. “Does she look like an assassin to you, Bob?”

  Bob blinked. “Might. Best kind o’ assassin would be the kind you didn’t think were one, if you get my meaning.”

  Harry merely looked at the eye.

  “All right, then,” Bob the Eye said after an awkward pause. “But it’s on yer ’ead should she try anything.”

  Harry looked at Silence. “Don’t try anything, ’ear?”

  She nodded mutely. The realization of what she was about to do had closed her throat tight.

  The great golden doors were opened by Bob, who turned out to be a skeletally thin man wearing a badly fitting white wig. He had a brace of pistols stuck in a broad, worn belt over his coat. But Silence hardly noticed the doorkeeper.

  The room within was magnificent.

  The glorious colored marble floor continued inside the large square room, but the golden walls were replaced with walls of sparkling white marble. Silence looked closer and gasped. The white marble was inlaid with jewels. Above, the ceiling was gold and a multitude of crystal lights hung from it, shining as bright as morning sunshine. And every corner, every inch of the room was jammed with riches. Bolts of bright silks were stacked on marble-topped tables. Inlaid secretaries were shoved against carved mahogany sideboards. Crates spilled straw, revealing china dishes and thinly carved jade. Exotic spices in oriental chests perfumed the air, and graceful marble statues stared dispassionately on the scene. At the far end of the fabulous treasure room stood a dais with a huge, tall-backed chair. It was overstuffed with red velvet, the arms carved and gilded; really, it could only be called a throne.

  Which would make the man who sat upon it a king—Pirate King.

  He lounged, one leg thrown over a chair arm. His black hair was unclubbed, inky curls tumbling about his shoulders and brow. He wore a linen shirt, unbuttoned, fine lace framing the bare olive skin of his chest. His breeches were black velvet, and he finished his costume with polished jackboots that came to midthigh.

  She might have laughed at such a ridiculously flamboyant figure, if it weren’t for the fact that the men about him obviously took him very seriously. To his right stood a thin little man, wigless, his bare head nearly bald, and wearing small, round spectacles. To his left were a half dozen or so rough men, lounging about, every one of them armed to the teeth. At his elbow was a small boy holding a silver tray of sweets. And directly in front of Charming Mickey, a hulking man kneeled before the throne, looking as if he feared for his life.

  “I’m sorry!” The man clenched fists as big as hams on his thighs. “As God is my witness, I’m so sorry, sir!”

  The thin little man to Charming Mickey’s right bent and whispered something in the river pirate’s ear.

  He nodded and looked at the supplicant before him. “An’ you’ll be understanding me, Dick, if I don’t quite find your apology worth as much as a pile of dog shit.”

  The big man, Dick, actually shivered.

  Charming Mickey regarded him for a moment, his right elbow propped on the chair’s arm, lazily rubbing his thumb and middle finger together. Jeweled rings sparkled on his fingers.

  Then he flicked his fingers at two of his men.

  Immediately they came forward, even as the kneeling man began to howl.

  “No! God, no! Please, I have children. My wife is expectin’ our third!”

  The man screamed as he was dragged through a far door. The door closed and his scream was abruptly cut off. The sudden quiet echoed in the great hall.

  Silence felt the breath she’d held escape her lungs. Dear God, what had she let herself in for?

  Harry took her elbow and they began to walk to the throne. As they neared, he hissed out of the corner of his mouth, “Don’t show fear. ’E ’ates a coward.”

  And then she stood in front of Charming Mickey O’Connor, in the exact same spot where the unfortunate Dick had kneeled just seconds before.

  Charming Mickey gestured to the boy holding the tray of sweets. The boy brought it forward, offering him some. Charming Mickey’s ringed hand hovered over the tray as he made his selection—a pink iced bonbon.

  He held the sweet up between his elegant, ringed fingers and examined it. “Who is she?”

  Harry nodded his head, unperturbed by the abrupt question. “Lady who wants to talk to you.”

  Charming Mickey’s eyes flicked up, and Silence saw that they were a brown so dark that they might as well be black. “That I can see, Harry, luv. What I’m a-askin’ is more along the lines of why she’s in me throne room.”

  Silence glanced at Harry, who was looking uneasy for the first time, and decided to intervene for her champion. “I’m here about my husband, Captain William Hollingbrook, and the cargo you stole from his ship, the Finch.”

  Beside her, Harry drew in his breath sharply. The boy holding the tray of sweetmeats flinched, and the thin man by Charming Mickey’s side looked at her inquiringly over his round spectacles.

  It occurred to Silence that perhaps she should’ve spoken with better tact. But it was too late now. Charming Mickey’s dark eyes were upon her, examining her in minute detail. He popped the pink sweet into his mouth and chewed slowly, the muscles of his jaw flexing and relaxing as his eyelids half lowered in enjoyment.

  He swallowed and smiled, and suddenly Silence understood where he’d gotten the epitaph of “charming.” When he smiled, Mickey was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. He couldn’t be more than thirty years old, his skin smooth and olive-toned, his black brows tilted up at the outer corners. His nose was long and almost aristocratic, his lips full and curved and elegant. A dimple played about his cheek, near his mouth. When he smiled, Charming Mickey looked almost innocent.

  Except Silence knew she couldn’t fall into that trap. No matter what his smile said, this man was no innocent.

  “Stole is such an ugly word, I find,” Charming Mickey drawled. His Irish brogue made the words almost a caress. “I must warn you, Mistress Hollingbrook, that I don’t let many utter it in me presence.”

  Silence bit back the urge to apologize. This man’s actions had imperiled her husband.

  Mickey cocked his head, a long silky curl of ebony hair sliding across his shoulder. “What might you be wantin’ from me, darlin’?”

  She lifted her chin. “I want you to return the cargo.”

  Mickey blinked as if bemused. “An’ why on earth would I do such a foolish thing?”

  Her heart was beating so loudly she feared he must hear it, but she said steadily, “Because returning the cargo is the right thing to do. The Christian thing to do. If you don’t, my husband will be sent to prison.”

  Mickey raised one black eyebrow, looking quite satanic. “Does your husband know you’re here, luv?”

  Silence bit her lip. “No.”

  “Ah.” He beckoned the sweetmeats boy over again and selected another.

  Silence began to open her mouth, but Harry nudged her, so she took his warning and shut it again.

  Mickey ate the sweet slowly while those in the throne room waited. Silence noticed that a black marble statue of some Roman goddess stood slightly behind him. She wore a tiara, and long strands of pearls were draped over her naked bosom.

  “Well, this is the way of it, luv,” Mickey
said so suddenly that Silence jumped. He smiled that innocent smile again. “The owner of the ship your husband captains and I have had a bit of a falling out, see. He thinks it well and good to not be payin’ me my proper tithe from his cargos, and I… well, I can’t agree with that tack. Shows a lack of respect, in me own humble opinion. So I’ve taken the liberty of confiscatin’ the Finch’s cargo, sort of to get the man’s attention, like. You might call it a drastic move, and I’d have to agree, but there it is, all the same. The man made his bed and now he must lay upon it.”

  And Charming Mickey shrugged gracefully as if to say the matter was out of his hands.

  That was it, then. Her audience was at an end. Harry had laid his hand on her arm to lead her away, and Charming Mickey was already tilting his head to hear something the thin little man was whispering to him. But she couldn’t give up. She had to at least try one more time. For William.

  Silence took a deep breath, and even as she did so, she felt Harry’s hand tighten on her arm in warning. “Please, Mr. O’Connor. You have said yourself that your grievance is with the ship’s owner, not my husband. Can you not return the cargo for his sake? For my sake?”

  Mickey slowly turned his head to look at her, no longer smiling now. His dark eyes were oddly dispassionate, and without his smile, his lips had a cruel edge. “’Ware, darlin’. I’ve let you play about me claws once and run away unharmed. If you skip back into them again, you’ll have naught to blame but yourself.”

  Silence swallowed. His whispered warning made the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and for the first time she realized that she was truly in mortal danger. She wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run.

  But she didn’t. “Please. I beg of you. If you will not do it for my husband’s sake or mine, then do it for yours. For the sake of your immortal soul. Do me this favor and I promise you, you will never regret it.”

  Charming Mickey stared at her, cold, remote, and expressionless. The room was so silent that each breath Silence took sounded in her ears. Beside her, Harry seemed to have stopped breathing altogether.

  Then Mickey slowly smiled. “You must love him very much, this Captain Hollingbrook, this wonderful husband of yours.”

  “Yes,” Silence said with pride. “Yes, I do.”

  “And does he love you in return, me darlin’?”

  Silence’s eyes widened in surprise. “Of course.”

  “Ah,” Charming Mickey murmured, “then there might be another way for us to work this matter out to our mutual benefit, yours and mine.”

  Beside her, Harry stiffened.

  She knew. She knew that whatever Charming Mickey proposed, it would be very bad. She knew that she might not escape this room, this wild, gorgeous house, with her soul entirely intact.

  “That is, of course,” Mickey murmured like the devil himself, “if you truly love your husband.”

  William was everything in the world to her. There was nothing she would not do to save him.

  Silence looked the devil in the eye and lifted her chin. “I do.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Meg spent the rest of the day contentedly washing her person so that when she went to sleep that evening, she felt considerably neater. The next morning she was brought before King Lockedheart. He looked a bit surprised when he saw her—perhaps he did not recognize her without her layer of soot?—but his habitual scowl soon returned. In front of him stood a great company of courtiers, clad in rich furs, velvet, and jewels.

  He asked the assembled dignitaries, “Do you love me?”

  Well, the courtiers did not speak in one voice as the trained guards had the day before, but their answers were the same: yes!

  The king sneered at Meg. “There! Confess now your foolishness.”…

  —from King Lockedheart

  “Then you mean to see him again?” Winter asked quietly that night.

  “Yes, I do.” Temperance finished braiding Mary Little’s fine flaxen hair and smiled down at the girl. “There, all done. Now off to bed with you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Mary Little curtsied as she’d been taught and skipped out of the kitchen. Later, when all the children were settled in their beds, Winter would come up to hear their prayers.

  “Now you, Mary Church.” The girl turned her back and Temperance took up the brush, concentrating on taming the thick, brown curls without pulling too much.

  The remaining three Marys sat before the fire in their chemises, their hair drying as they bent their heads over their samplers. Bath day was always quite a chore, but Temperance enjoyed it nonetheless. There was something wonderfully soothing about all the children being clean and neat at once.

  Or at least this time should be soothing.

  She sighed. “I need to go tonight.”

  All the girls could hear their argument, even though both she and Winter took pains to keep their voices even and polite, but the main child she worried over was Mary Whitsun. That Mary sat beside her, combing out the curls of two-year-old Mary Sweet. Mary Whitsun kept her eyes on her task, but she had a frown between her brows.

  Temperance sighed. Pity she couldn’t have this discussion in private, but if she was going to attend the ball Caire had promised to take her to tonight, she would have to get the children safely to bed and then rush to dress in Nell’s lent gown. She wished it were merely for the home that she looked forward to the evening. Already her heartbeat had quickened at the thought of seeing Caire again. She glanced worriedly at the old clock on the mantel. She’d be cutting things perilously close as it was.

  “I’m sorry, but I hope to see a certain gentleman tonight.”

  Winter turned from staring into the fireplace. “Who?”

  Temperance frowned over a tangle in Mary Church’s hair. “He’s a gentleman Caire introduced me to at the musicale, Sir Henry Easton. He seemed quite interested in our home—he asked me about apprenticing out the boys and the clothing we provide. Things like that. I’m hoping to convince him to help the home.”

  Winter glanced at the girls, all avidly listening. “Indeed? And what assurance do you have that he’ll do as you hope?”

  “None.” Temperance pulled overhard on Mary Church’s hair and the girl yelped. “I’m sorry, Mary Church.”

  “Temperance—” Winter began.

  But she spoke, quick and low. “I have no assurances, but I must go nonetheless. Can’t you see that, brother? I must at least grasp at possibilities, even if they prove to be false hopes.”

  Winter’s thin lips compressed. “Very well. But be sure to stay by Lord Caire’s side. I dislike the thought of you at one of these aristocratic balls. I’ve heard”—he glanced at the girls and appeared to modify his words—“about events that can take place at such balls. Be careful, please.”

  “Of course.” Temperance smiled at Winter and then transferred the smile to Mary Church. “All done.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Mary Church took Mary Sweet’s hand, for the toddler was properly braided as well, and led her from the kitchen.

  “Well, then, only three little heads and six little braids to go.” Winter smiled at the remaining girls by the fire.

  They giggled at him. While Winter was always gentle, he didn’t often speak in such light tones.

  “I’ll go up and begin reading the Psalm for the night,” Winter said.

  Temperance nodded. “Good night.”

  She felt his hand, briefly laid on her shoulder as he passed, and then she breathed a sigh of relief. She hated his disapproval more than that of her other brothers. Winter was the brother closest to her in age, and they’d become closer still by running the home together.

  She shook her head and quickly finished braiding the other little girls’ hair and sent each on their way until only Mary Whitsun remained. It was something of a ritual between the two of them that Mary Whitsun was the last to have her hair braided at night. Neither spoke as she worked the comb through the girl’s ha
ir, and it occurred to Temperance that she’d been doing this for nine years—since Mary had come to the home. Soon they’d find an apprenticeship for Mary, though, and their nights together by the fire as she braided the girl’s hair would be over.

  Temperance’s breast ached at the thought.

  She was tying a bit of ribbon to Mary’s braid when a knocking came at the front door.

  Temperance rose. “Who can that be?” It was still too early for Lord Caire.

  She hurried to the door, Mary Whitsun at her heels, and unbarred it. On the step was a liveried footman, holding a large covered basket.

  “For you, miss,” he said, and thrust it into her hands before turning away.

  “Wait!” Temperance called. “What is this for?”

  The footman was already several yards away. He half turned. “My lord says you’re to wear it tonight.”

  And then he was gone.

  Temperance closed and barred the door, and then took the basket into the kitchen. She set it on the table and pulled back the plain linen covering it. Underneath was a bright turquoise silk gown embroidered with delicate posies of yellow, crimson, and black. Temperance drew in her breath. The gown made Nell’s wonderful scarlet dress look like a sack in comparison. Underneath the gown were fine silk stays, a chemise, stockings, and embroidered slippers. Nestled in the silk was a small jeweler’s box. Temperance picked it up with trembling fingers, not daring to open it yet. Surely she couldn’t accept such a gift? But, then, if she was going to a grand ball with Lord Caire, she didn’t want to shame him with the modesty of her toilet.

  That decided her.

  She turned to Mary Whitsun, wide-eyed beside her. “Fetch Nell, please. I need to dress for a ball.”

  LAZARUS FELT THE hackles rise on the back of his neck when he entered the ballroom that night with Temperance on his arm. She was magnificent in the turquoise gown he’d sent to her. Her dark hair was piled atop her head and held with the light yellow topaz pins he’d included in the basket. Her breasts pressed against the shimmering silk bodice, mounded and tempting. She was beautiful and desirable, and every man in the room took note. And he was damnably aware of the other men taking note. He actually felt a growl building at the back of his throat, as if he’d stand guard over her like some mangy dog over a scrap.