Captain Trevillion turned his gimlet eyes on the maidservant. “He can defend himself in a court of law.”
Winter snorted under his breath. The Ghost might “defend” his innocence, but only if he could afford to pay the magistrate. The courts were notoriously corrupt in London.
“I expect your cooperation in this endeavor, Mr. Makepeace,” Captain Trevillion said coolly. “I shall be requesting the same from the other merchants and men of business in St. Giles, but as an educated man, I hope in particular to have your cooperation. Do I have it?”
“Naturally,” Winter said. He laid a restraining hand on Nell. The maidservant seemed about to make another protest. “We will do whatever we can to help the king’s men.”
“Good.” The captain nodded. “Whatever rumors you may hear will be of great help in hunting the Ghost of St. Giles and other miscreants. Indeed—”
“What a brave man,” came a husky feminine voice, “to declare he will hunt the Ghost of St. Giles.”
Winter stiffened even before he turned to see Lady Beckinhall. He’d been so intent on the confrontation with Captain Trevillion that he’d not been aware of her approach. The thought shocked him almost as much as the wash of quite inappropriate gladness that shot through him at the sight of her.
Lady Beckinhall wore a flaming red gown today, covered in silver embroidery. He felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. Her gown was at least as grand as Lady Penelope’s, perhaps more so, and it set off her rich mahogany hair exquisitely. Yet it wasn’t the expensiveness of her attire that perturbed him.
No. Disconcertingly, it was the woman herself.
Lady Beckinhall smiled quite blindingly and held out one slim hand to the man on the horse. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Captain.”
The soldier took her gloved hand and bowed over it. “Captain Trevillion at your service, ma’am.”
“Indeed?” Lady Beckinhall drawled. “How charming.”
A faint red stain tinged the captain’s craggy cheekbones, poor bastard. “If you say so, ma’am.”
“Oh, I do.” Lady Beckinhall glanced around at the people gathered before the home’s door. “To chase down a bloodthirsty murderer? Quite charming indeed.”
Lady Penelope gave a shriek at the word “bloodthirsty.” “Oh, my goodness! You told us the Ghost was harmless, Mr. Makepeace.”
Captain Trevillion’s stern eyes swung to Winter. “You have had some dealings with the Ghost of St. Giles, Mr. Makepeace?”
Winter shrugged. “Some. As I say, he never seemed particularly dangerous to me.”
“He has been accused of several bloody murders,” Captain Trevillion said.
Lady Penelope shrieked again.
Winter winced.
“But have no fear, darling,” Lady Beckinhall drawled, “Captain Trevillion is here to protect us, are you not, Captain?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Which is a good thing since we seem to have no other gentlemen as stalwart as the captain.” Lady Beckinhall widened her eyes at Winter.
Winter felt his jaw tighten at the ridiculous insult to his manhood, but he did his best not to let her see it. Instead he looked up at the captain. “If that is all, sir, I will bid you good day and see my guests inside the house.”
Captain Trevillion bowed again. “Good day to you, sir. Ladies.”
He wheeled the big black and set it to a trot, his men following behind. In another moment they were around a corner and gone from sight.
“My nerves are quite overset,” Lady Penelope declared. “And I’m sure Sugar’s are as well”—she waved vaguely at the little white dog, which appeared to be asleep in her companion’s arms—“I do hope that even a bachelor establishment such as yours has some tea and refreshments available, Mr. Makepeace?”
A bachelor establishment? What odd phrasing. Winter pasted a polite smile on his face and bowed to the silly woman. “Of course, Lady Penelope.”
He opened the door and watched her and Miss Greaves step inside. Lady Beckinhall was behind them and he cleared his throat as she drew abreast of him.
“I thought not to see you here again, my lady.”
“Had you not?” Her eyebrows arched over mischievous eyes. “But then I’ve decided that the home needs my help, even if you don’t think so, Mr. Makepeace.”
And she swept inside, leaving him to follow her, his eyes narrowed in contemplation.
ALMOST A WEEK later Silence frowned over her knitting. It was always hard to make the heel of a stocking, but this one seemed particularly misshapen. Michael’s carriage gave a bump and began slowing. She glanced out the window and saw that they were turning into a narrow, tree-lined country lane. Lad the dog raised his head at the change in speed. He lay on the floor of the carriage, taking up far too much room.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked. “This isn’t a London inn.”
The last week had been a blur of tedious travel over bumpy roads, interrupted now and again by stops at little inns where the food could vary quite drastically from good to inedible. Each night she’d fallen into a strange bed, exhausted, with Mary Darling snuggled close to her side. She’d woken in the mornings to find Michael already up from whatever bed he’d spent the night in and usually bringing her a pot of tea. He’d been kind and attentive and rather distant, now that she thought of it.
“We’re in Greenwich,” Michael said. “We’re home.”
She looked at him, sitting across the carriage with the baby on his lap, and as always the sight of him made her heart beat faster. “Home?”
He smiled crookedly, but didn’t answer. He wore the same clothes he’d had on when he’d first come for her at Lord Caire’s residence: worn and simple. She was almost used to this more sedate Michael. This Michael who might have been a traveling merchant or prosperous farmer.
What an odd thought. Silence peered out the window to try and find out what “home” was to Michael. The tree-lined lane opened up to a small circular drive in front of a mansion made of warm red brick. Ivy covered one corner, its branches still bare, and a half dozen chimneys rambled over the gabled roofs. Tender green shoots had begun to poke through the soil around the foundation of the house.
Silence looked at Michael in surprise. The mansion was quite lovely, it did indeed look like someone’s “home”—but certainly not a pirate’s.
He gave her a wry glance as if he knew her thoughts. “Come inside.”
He lifted Mary Darling in his arms, practiced now after a week of keeping her entertained in a cramped carriage. He descended the steps and held out a hand to help Silence step down. Lad bounded down from the carriage last, ran to water a tree, and then began running in wide circles.
Silence shook out her skirts and looked up. A short, stout butler had appeared on the front steps to the house, flanked by two young maids and an older woman.
“Good evening, Bittner,” Michael called as they approached the steps.
“Good evening, Mr. Rivers,” the butler replied. His round red face beamed under a snowy white wig. “I trust you had a pleasant journey, sir?”
Silence blinked and glanced at Michael, but instead of correcting the elderly man, he merely nodded. “Pleasant enough. Have you made the arrangements I asked for?”
“Oh, indeed, sir,” Bittner replied. “Mrs. Bittner made sure to procure the very best nursemaids from the village. This is Rose and her younger sister Annie.”
The girls curtsied shyly. The elder one was probably in her early twenties, while the younger was still a teenager. Both were fresh-faced and pretty with striking blue eyes.
“Rose has worked five years in the Johnson family nursery,” Mrs. Bittner cut in eagerly. She was a couple of inches taller than her husband, but just as rosy.
“Indeed?” Michael said.
Mrs. Bittner nodded vigorously. “The Johnsons have seven children, would you believe?”
“Then she should be quite capable of handling one small child,” Michael said. He glanced down
at Mary who hid her face shyly in the lapels of his coat. He looked up again and drew Silence closer. “This is my friend Mrs. Hollingbrook. I trust you all will extend every courtesy to her while she is a guest in my home.”
Silence felt a blush creep up her cheeks. Only one kind of woman resided unaccompanied at a bachelor’s house. But she saw no trace of disapproval on the servants’ faces. Indeed, they were quite respectful as they curtsied and bowed.
“Naturally so, Mr. Rivers,” Mrs. Bittner said. “Shall I show Mrs. Hollingbrook to her rooms?”
“Please,” Michael said.
“Come with me, ma’am.”
Mrs. Bittner led her inside. The entry hall was neatly appointed, with wood floors and paneling gleaming with beeswax. Windows to either side of the front door as well as above it let in the late afternoon light, making the space warm and welcoming. A heavy wood staircase to one side of the hall led to the upper floors.
“This way, ma’am,” Mrs. Bittner said as she mounted the stairs.
Silence followed after her, glancing about curiously. Oil paintings decorated the stairs, but they weren’t in what Silence thought of as Michael’s usual style. There were a few landscapes, but the majority depicted sailing ships of all things.
“Ma’am?” Mrs. Bittner called.
Silence had paused by a huge painting of a ship in harbor. “Coming.”
She hurried after and found the housekeeper standing in the doorway of a bright little room. Silence entered, looking around. It was a beautiful room, done in several shades of blue. In fact, it rather reminded her of her rooms at Michael’s palace. She turned to look at the walls and saw the connecting door almost immediately.
No need to ask whose rooms lay beyond.
“I’ll have the girls bring up some hot water,” Mrs. Bittner was saying. “We’ll have supper at seven. That’ll give you several hours to refresh yourself and rest.”
“Thank you,” Silence replied. She hesitated, then blurted out. “How long have you known Mr. Rivers?”
Mrs. Bittner had been drawing the curtains. She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Bless you, dearie, it’s been five or more years since Mr. Rivers hired me and Bittner to look after Windward House.”
“Windward House?” Silence asked, utterly charmed. “Is that what it’s called?”
Mrs. Bittner smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “As long as anyone in the area can remember. We thought Mr. Rivers might want to change the name to Rivers House, but he said Windward House suited him fine.”
“And he’s lived here ever since?” Silence asked, just to see what the housekeeper would say.
“Well, when he has a chance he does,” Mrs. Bittner replied. “His business takes him away most of the time, poor gentleman.”
“What is Mr. Rivers’s business?”
“Don’t you know, ma’am?” Mrs. Bittner’s brows crinkled. “He’s a shipbuilder, is our Mr. Rivers. Makes the finest ships to sail out of London.”
“Oh,” Silence said because she couldn’t think of what else to reply. A shipbuilder? How fanciful! And yet dressed the way he’d been for the last week, with his hair hidden sedately under the ubiquitous men’s white wig, Michael might indeed be a prosperous shipbuilder.
“Will that be all, ma’am?” Mrs. Bittner asked.
“Yes, thank you.” Silence smiled absently.
The door closed behind the housekeeper and Silence went to part the curtain and peer out the windows.
What other secrets had Michael hidden so well from her?
Silence only had time to notice that her room had a lovely view of a garden in back before the water arrived. It was pleasingly warm and Silence washed her hands and face before lying down on the soft bed.
But within minutes she was up again. She was simply too curious to lie abed when she could be exploring Michael’s secret house.
Outside her door was a hallway. She knew whose room was beside her own, and after opening a few doors she saw that the rest of the rooms in the hall were empty bedrooms.
Well, that was rather boring.
The stairs led both up and down. Up would almost certainly hold the nursery. She mounted the stairs and found the upper floor lined with windows facing south, the late afternoon sunlight pouring in. At the end of the bright hallway was a door.
She opened it and peeked inside.
Mary Darling sat in the middle of a large, beautiful nursery. The room was situated on a corner of the house and had windows on two sides with new bars to keep Mary safely in. There was a small bed and tiny dresser, and though there were only a few playthings, Mary’s new dolly had already been installed on top of the pillows on the bed. Anne was showing Mary a little wooden wagon with flocked horses to draw it, but on her entrance Mary looked up.
“Mamoo!” The baby got to her feet and toddled to Silence.
“And how are you, Miss Mary?” Silence smiled. The baby was freshly washed and wearing a new rose-colored dress that contrasted nicely with her glossy black hair. Silence looked at the nurse who had sprung to her feet. “Do you mind if I take Mary for a walk, Anne?”
“Oh, no ma’am.”
Silence picked up Mary and bore her away. “Shall we see what we can find downstairs?”
She descended the stairs, holding Mary. Below, they startled a little maid, dusting the pictures in the hall. They paused for a moment to examine the portrait of a funny spaniel dog before continuing. Further along the hall was an open door on the right. Silence tiptoed in and guessed from the masculine furnishings and the huge desk that this must be Michael’s study. She spent a few minutes peering at the sketches of ships and sails on the walls, and then Mary Darling indicated that she was bored.
“Very well,” Silence murmured. “Let’s see what else we can discover.”
Across from the study was a closed door. Silence gently pushed it open, expecting a little sitting room perhaps.
The room took up the entire south side of the house and was lined with French doors that let in the sun’s rays. A vast carpet covered the floor in muted shades of cream, apricot, and grass green, and scattered here and there were comfortable groupings of plush chairs and polished tables. The walls were lined with honey-colored wood, and everywhere there were books. Big books, small books, books on tables, books laying open as if abandoned by a recent reader. Some were old with crumbling spines, some looked so new they might never have been read, and all were illustrated.
“Down!” Mary said, and Silence absently set her on the floor.
This room was so elegant, and at the same time so comfortable. It was as if Michael had taken his library at the palace and made it something a person might actually want to spend time in.
Days in.
Silence looked around in wonder. By the window was a simple wooden stand with an enormous book opened on it. Silence went to it and looked down. An azure butterfly lay on the page, trembling and delicate, and almost alive. Carefully she turned the page and found an exotic black and white striped butterfly.
This was his butterfly book, she realized. The first book he’d kept. The one that had taught him that there was beauty in the world. She’d found Michael’s treasure, the heart he’d kept hidden.
She looked up and saw that at the top of the walls, where it met the ceiling, the wood had been carved. Butterflies cleverly flew all around the room.
“D’ye like it?”
She spun and was unsurprised to see Michael standing in the doorway, Lad by his side. “I do. It’s… wonderful.”
He smiled and nodded at the windows where Mary stood. “Mary wants to see the garden.”
“There’s a garden?” Somehow the information made her want to smile, as well.
“There is in summer. It’s not much more than bare earth at the moment.”
“Oh, can we see?”
In answer he crossed the room and opened one of the French doors. Outside a paved terrace separated the house from a garden. Low evergreen hedges demarc
ated earthen beds, most of them barren.
“Look.” Silence crouched over the nearest bed. Someone had planted crocuses and they had spread on their own, like a living carpet, spilling into the lawn. Their delicate purple petals fluttered in the spring breeze.
“Bye!” Mary said. She crouched in mimic next to Silence and pointed one stubby finger at a small, azure butterfly, sitting on a crocus.
The butterfly startled at Mary’s gesture and floated up, drifting on the breeze, its wings sparkling blue and bright in the late afternoon sunshine.
Silence watched it, enthralled, and then her eyes met Michael’s.
A corner of his mouth cocked up. “Welcome home, m’love.”
MICK GAVE A last tug to his neck cloth and scowled at himself in the small mirror over the dresser. His rooms at Windward House weren’t nearly as ostentatious as those in his palace, but he had kept one thing the same: his bed here was just as big as the one in his palace. He glanced around his rooms. It had taken him years to outfit this hidey-hole, this refuge where no one knew him as Charming Mickey O’Connor, and at first he’d felt foreign in this house. After all, he wore different clothes, used a different accent. He was a different man here. But somehow over the years, that different man had become merely another facet of him. Now he felt nearly as comfortable wearing Michael Rivers’s staid clothes as he did Mickey O’Connor’s flamboyant costume.
So if revealing his other identity to Silence wasn’t the reason for his present nerves, what was? He’d supped every meal with Silence over the last week. There was no reason then for this missish skittishness.
He cursed and thrust himself away from the mirror. No reason, and yet here he was delaying by playing with a plain neck cloth—he who usually wore silks and velvet!
Mick strode out of his room and down the hall. Bittner had already announced supper and Cook did hate it when he was late. But that was not what made his pace quicken. It was the thought of seeing Silence again. Mick snorted. Oh, he had it bad! Like a lad with peach down on his cheeks with his very first tart.
Except that if Silence were a tart, he’d be much more sure of what to do with her. No, he’d had to go and fall for a respectable lady. A lady with swirling hazel eyes that hid secrets he wanted to spend the rest of his life exploring.