Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(15)

The maid stopped short on sight of Bran, her face lighting up. “Oh! I didn’t know you were here.”

“I just came to tell you I’d be gone tonight.” Bran set Mary gently down by the settee and gave her the loop of string. “I thought you might want to know.”

Fionnula knit her eyebrows, looking worried. “Is it the Vicar again?”

Bran frowned, darting a glance at Silence.

“What vicar?” Silence asked, looking between the two. “You have pirate business with a man of the cloth?”

“No, no,” Bran said hastily. “The Vicar of Whitechapel isn’t part of any church. He’s a gin maker and he’s…” Bran paused as if trying to find the word that wouldn’t offend Silence’s delicate ears.

“He’s evil,” Fionnula said. She crossed herself. “Pure evil.”

Silence shivered at the solemn dread in Fionnula’s voice and glanced at Mary, happily playing on the settee. “He’s Mickey O’Connor’s enemy, isn’t he? One of the people Mr. O’Connor thinks might hurt Mary.”

Bran didn’t reply, but his grim glance at Mary was answer enough.

“Ye’d best be off, then,” Fionnula said softly.

He nodded and left without further comment.

Silence blew out a breath and bent to pick up Mary. There had been a tiny, niggling suspicion at the back of her mind that Mr. O’Connor had made up all his talk of enemies who might hurt Mary. Perhaps he was playing some game of his own and simply wanted her and Mary in his palace for reasons she couldn’t comprehend. That small suspicion was now laid to rest. The fear in Fionnula’s face had been too genuine, Bran’s voice too sure as he spoke of the Vicar. Whoever he was, the Vicar—and the danger he posed—would seem to be quite real.

Well, Mickey O’Connor might be an overbearing pirate, but they were safe enough in his palace. Silence sighed and began undressing Mary Darling for her bath, her thoughts turning to another matter. “Bran seemed quite nice.”

“Yes.” The maid was blushing still as she carefully poured the hot water into a basin and tested it with her elbow.

“And quite handsome,” Silence said carelessly.

Fionnula jerked and some of the water splashed on the floor. She stared at the puddle and then raised worried eyes to Silence. “He’s too pretty for me, ’tisn’t he?”

Silence blinked. She’d meant to tease, not hurt. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that.”

“But he is,” Fionnula said dismally. “His eyes are so blue and he has such a handsome face. I see other girls lookin’ at him and I just want to tear their hair out.”

“Does he look back?” Silence asked as she placed Mary into the shallow bath.

“Nooo,” Fionnula drew out the word as if unsure.

“Then I wouldn’t worry,” Silence said as she began to sponge Mary’s little back. Mary was still busy with her string, dipping it into the water and draping it over her tummy. “I’m sure he finds you quite pretty.”

Fionnula nibbled her lower lip as if unsure, then brightened. She took a bundle from her apron pocket.

“I got some more victuals for ye, ma’am,” she whispered as she handed the bundle over.

“How kind of you,” Silence said brightly as she unwrapped her fourth meal—either her third luncheon or perhaps an early supper? It was hard to tell. At this rate she might actually grow plump while on Mr. O’Connor’s starvation diet.

She couldn’t help but wonder if Mickey O’Connor was entirely oblivious to his people smuggling her food against his express command. She shivered at the thought.

What was the pirate’s punishment for mutiny?

WINTER MAKEPEACE WOKE the next morning with a groan at his aching muscles. His room was still dark—the new day wouldn’t dawn for another hour or more—yet he knew it was exactly half past five of the clock, for that was the time at which he’d trained his body to wake. He sat up in his narrow cot, feeling the twinge of thighs and buttocks, the result of spending all yesterday riding a horse.

Since he lived in the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children and the day school where he taught small and not very disciplined boys was only a stone’s throw away, he had no need to ride a horse usually. However, his trip to Oxford had necessitated the renting of a nag. He rubbed his legs for a half minute or so and then stood, pushing the aches from his mind. They were of no consequence and would fade soon enough.

He had to duck his head as he bent over the washbasin to sluice his face. His room was under the eaves and the roof sloped sharply. But months of living in the cramped space had accustomed him to the irregularities of the room, so now he could move about without knocking his head on a beam, even in the dark.

Winter dressed in white shirt, black waistcoat, black breeches, and black coat and threw open his attic window to toss the wastewater from his ablutions into the alley below. The sky was turning a pinkish gray, silhouetting the haphazard rooftops of St. Giles. He gazed at it only a moment before shutting the window firmly and lighting a candle. For the next hour he worked steadily at a narrow desk, writing and reading. Some of his work was in preparation for the day’s lessons, but he also was in correspondence with scholars of philosophy and religion both in England and on the continent. In fact, his recent trip to Oxford had been to call upon an old acquaintance—an elderly philosopher who was on his deathbed.