Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(103)

“What the f*ck are ye doin’ here?” Mick choked out, his throat raw.

“She needs you alive, pirate,” the Ghost said in a familiar voice. He knelt to cut the ropes around Mick’s legs. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m doing this for you. I’ve sent your men ahead. Now go save Silence.”

“Arrogant bastard,” Mick muttered, but the crowd was swarming and the Ghost whirled to fight off two apprentices bent on being heroes.

“Go!” shouted the Ghost.

And Mick did, simply by rolling into the crowd. His hands were still tied and he worked the little penknife he’d concealed up his sleeve loose as people stumbled over him. He was kicked twice in the legs before he could cut the cords. Then he threw off the noose and looked up. A stunned walnut hawker was staring back at him and Mick reached up and pulled the man to the ground, scattering nuts everywhere. He simply shucked his velvet coat and tore the man’s plain brown coat from his back. Mick had on the tattered coat in a thrice, took the man’s battered tricorne for good measure, rubbed dirt on his face and white shirt, and stood.

The spectators were all looking to where the Ghost was in a mismatched fight with four soldiers.

A woman noticed him and began to open her mouth.

“Oi!” Mick shouted. “The pirate’s gettin’ away over there!” He pointed in the opposite direction from the Ghost.

There was a surge as the news spread through the crowd. Mick saw the Ghost fall and then get up again. Some of the crowd were still intent on him, angry for having their entertainment snatched from them. But the Ghost of St. Giles had proven himself a capable fighter more than once. As Mick watched, the Ghost dodged away, slipping back into the milling masses.

Mick drew the collar of his coat up around his cheeks and made for a mounted soldier on the edge of the crowd.

The soldier’s horse was already agitated from the noise and movement of the crowd. All Mick had to do was give the soldier a good push and he tumbled from the nag.

Mick swung up in his place as the horse reared. People screamed and struggled to get away from the horse’s flailing hooves. Mick kicked the nag and they were off at a cantor.

Charlie Grady lived in Whitechapel. Mick rode as fast as possible in that direction. He passed soldiers riding toward Tyburn and what was no doubt a riot now, but they didn’t even look in his direction.

Mick rode hard and as he did all he saw was Silence’s face. A bell began to toll. It had been at least three hours since the Vicar had taken her.

Jaysus, was she alive?

SILENCE SAT AS still as if she were in the presence of a viper. Except the man in front of her was much more dangerous than any snake.

She must survive.

Even if Michael no longer lived, even if this human snake attacked her, she must find a way to learn to live. Mary Darling depended on her and it seemed that Mr. Grady was quite obsessed with Mary.

Or rather he was obsessed with anyone who had any connection to Michael.

They were in an untidy bedroom that still bore the faint sour smell of the sickroom. From that and the feminine accessories on the dressing table she surmised that this must have been Michael’s mother’s room.

The room she’d died in.

Silence shivered and then froze as Charlie Grady swung his hideous face toward her at the movement. He sat in a chair across from her, his left hand constantly rolling two grimy dice. The left side of his head was almost entirely bald, only a few long strands of gray hair grew here and there. His ear was gone as was most of the left side of his nose. The skin that remained was burned a dark, leathery brown and rippled quite disgustingly. Had she seen him in the street, she would’ve turned aside in sympathy.

Here, she was frozen in fear.

Both of their chairs sat in front of a small, unlit hearth. They’d been here, sitting like this for nearly three hours as much as she was able to judge—there was no clock in the room. And that entire time Mr. Grady had been speaking in a low monotone. Any person entering would think he spoke to her, but in reality she might have been another chair. Charlie Grady wasn’t really talking to her.

He was addressing his absent son.

“Thought you could turn her against me, didn’t you?” he said, only one half of his mouth truly moving. “But I soon showed you the error of that! She was ever loyal to me, was my Grace. Loyal though you tried to take her away. Ha! Didn’t work, did it my lad? Now I have your woman and soon I’ll have your little lass. Won’t be able to laugh then, will you, Mickey O’Connor? Not when I’ve f*cked your woman and turned her out into the streets.”

It was rather strange to sit here and listen to years of hatred pour from this man’s mouth. She might find it in herself to pity him—were it not for the fact that he quite often in his monologue made reference to what he intended to do to her. Outside the door was a room where half a dozen of Charlie Grady’s men lounged. He’d informed her with chilling indifference that if she tried to escape he’d give her to them to be abused.

A bell began to toll.

Mr. Grady cocked his head, listening. “Right, then, he’s hanging now. Shall we see how lucky you are?”

Silence felt a thrill of horror at his words. Was he finally addressing her? She watched in morbid fascination as he threw his grimy dice upon the hearth. They rolled and turned up a three and a four.

“Tch,” he said, shaking his head. “Not lucky at all, are we?”