Elizabeth Hoyt - Scandalous Desires

Nell lifted one end of the trunk even as she moaned. “But after what he did to you—”

“I haven’t any choice, don’t you see?” Silence walked to the door, the heavy little trunk between them.

“But the home—”

“Oh, goodness!” Silence stopped and stared at Nell.

She’d been so busy worrying over Mary Darling, she’d not thought of what her actions would do to the home. In the last year the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children had gained the patronage of several aristocratic ladies—ladies who cared terribly about appearances and reputations. The home depended on their donations. If they found out that Silence was staying with a man—a pirate—without benefit of marriage…

Silence’s eyes widened. “You mustn’t let anyone know where I am. We can say that I’ve gone to attend an ill aunt in the country.”

“And Mr. Makepeace?” Nell muttered as they began to descend the staircase. “What shall I say to him?”

Silence stumbled, nearly dropping her end of the trunk. She’d forgotten she’d have to deal with Winter’s disapproval as well. Her brother had made a journey to Oxford on business and thus had been away from the home when Mary Darling’s absence had been discovered. This morning Silence had wished desperately for her brother’s support in searching for the little girl. Now she was thankful he was away. Winter was a mild man, a schoolmaster by trade, as well as manager of the home, but she had no doubt at all that he would’ve locked her in her room before letting her go to Mickey O’Connor.

Just the thought made her hurry her step. “I’m truly sorry, Nell, to leave you with the chore of telling Winter but I can’t stay. I need to go to Mary Darling.”

“Of course you do,” Nell said stoutly.

Silence shot her a quick smile. “None of this is your fault and Mr. Makepeace will understand that.”

“I surely hope so, ma’am.”

By the time they’d descended the rest of the stairs Silence was perspiring from exertion and anxiety. Winter wasn’t expected back for days, yet she couldn’t help jumping when the door to the kitchen opened.

“Take that, shall I?” Harry asked as he strolled out, a bun in one hand. He grasped one of the trunk’s handles and easily swung it to his broad back.

Nell straightened, hands on hips and glared. “Watch you don’t drop the mistress’s things.”

“O’ course not,” Harry said easily, earning himself a disgusted grunt from Bert.

Nell looked at Silence and her face seemed to crumple. “Oh, ma’am!” She threw her apron over her face and let out a loud, hiccupping sob.

“It’s all right, Nell, really ’tis,” Silence said helplessly.

She didn’t know whether or not she believed the words herself, but what else was she to say? Tears were pricking her eyes now as well. She’d lived at the home for just over a year, learned of her husband William’s death last fall here, discovered she was more than a wife here—that she could stand on her own two feet and be of use to others. Now she was leaving suddenly and without warning. She felt as if the very ground beneath her feet was unstable. She had no home now—hadn’t since William’s death, really—all she had was Mary Darling.

“I’ll be back,” she whispered, not even sure she spoke the truth.

Nell pulled down her apron, her face reddened and damp, her blond hair trailing from its pins. She marched up to Harry and stuck a finger in his chest. “Just you watch out for her, you hear me, you great lout? A hair on her head gets harmed and it’s you I’ll be coming after.”

The threat was ludicrous, Harry towered over Nell. Silence blinked, Bert scowled, but Harry himself was quite solemn. He took Nell’s hand gently in his big paw and spread her fingers until he could rest them on his great chest, just over where his heart might be.

“Never you fear, ma’am,” was all he said. “Never you fear.”

And then Silence was out the door, the wind whipping her skirts flat against her legs as she headed into a new life.

CHARLIE GRADY, BETTER known as the Vicar of Whitechapel, poured himself a tankard of beer. Some might find it strange—his taste for beer—seeing as how he controlled the distilling of damn near every drop of gin in Whitechapel and indeed the whole East End of London, but there it was. Charlie liked beer, so beer he drank.

And if anyone did find his taste in drink strange, well… no one was foolish enough to tell him so to his face.

“What have you found?” he asked, watching as the foam in the pewter tankard slowly subsided. He didn’t need to look up to know that Freddy, standing before Charlie’s table, was studying his own big feet.

“ ’E moved the babe into ’is palace today.” Freddy was a big bruiser, smarter than he looked, but not much for expansive talk.

Charlie grinned, only half of his face moving. “Always a smart one was Charming Mickey. He must have a real fear for what I’d do to the babe to take her out of his hiding place and move her to the palace.”

Freddy shuffled uneasily. “There’s more.”

“Aye?”

“A wench came to see ’im.”

Charlie laughed, the sound a strange sputter. “That there isn’t news.”

His gaze flicked up in time to see Freddy look hastily away.

Freddy flushed, the red mottling his pitted face. “This one is different.”

“How do you figure?”

“She’s the one ’oo lived in the orphan’s ’ome—the respectable one. The one takin’ care o’ the babe.”

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?”

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.