“The Vicar’s got dozens of men around him at all times,” Bran replied. “He guards himself better than you, come to that. It’ll be a right job to get to him.”
“Ah, but get to him we must,” Mick said. “ ’Tis near the end o’ winter and he’ll be runnin’ low on grain for his damned gin stills. Have some o’ me men find out who’s supplyin’ him. I’ll offer the suppliers an incentive to quit doin’ business with the Vicar.”
“Very well.” Bran hesitated, then blurted out, “But I don’t see why you two are at war. He has his gin distilling and you have the river. How do your interests cross?”
Sad brown eyes rose up in his inner mind, the lilt of an Irish voice, Me darlin’ Mickey.
Mick grimaced, pushing the memories aside. “It’s a personal matter. One ye needn’t worry about.”
Bran frowned as Mick put away the map. “That’s your own affair, but we’re spending time on the Vicar and getting no money in return.”
“Aye, and I’m aware o’ it,” Mick said. “If I could end this, I would. But I’m afraid the Vicar isn’t such a reasonable gent as m’self.”
“Then you’ll have to kill him.” Bran’s light blue eyes were young—and utterly ruthless.
“I would, but as ye’ve pointed out, the man guards himself well.” Mick tapped the table for a moment in thought, then came to a decision. “We’re better off takin’ the roundabout way. Cut off his grain, starve him, and run him out o’ St. Giles for good. In the meantime, send some o’ me men about to roust any o’ his crew they find in St. Giles.”
Bran nodded. “As you wish.”
Mick arched an eyebrow. The boy was still lingering though he’d been given his orders. “Somethin’ else on yer mind?”
“What about this Mrs. Hollingbrook?” Bran’s upper lip curled. “I can see keeping the child—if you think she’s truly yours—but why insist the wench stay, as well? She’s a distraction.”
Mick’s jaw tightened. “Pardon me, but I wasn’t aware I need explain m’self to ye, lad.”
Bran’s face went a fiery scarlet. A muscle beneath his right eye jumped and then he turned and left the room abruptly.
Harry had been leaning on the wall in the corner, but he stirred now. “The boy’s impatient.”
“That he is,” Mick muttered.
“ ’E’s clever, is our Bran,” Harry said with an air of consideration. “But a bit rash.”
Mick cocked a sardonic eyebrow at Harry, waiting.
Harry straightened. “ ’E may not like Mrs. ’Ollingbrook, but Bran does ’ave a bit o’ a point. Are ye sure ’tis best to keep ’er ’ere?”
Mick’s reaction was immediate and gut-deep. Silence was his and he would hold her. No one was going to change that.
“Second-guessin’ me, Harry?” Mick asked with silky menace.
The big man flinched, but didn’t back down. “Now, ye know I’d never do such, Mick. But, see, she’s a soft thing, is Mrs. ’Ollingbrook, though she ’ides it be’ind a sharp tongue. She’s a lady, through and through, and easily ’urt. Ye ’ad yer way with ’er once afore. Is it necessary like to play with ’er again?”
Mick glanced down at the papers he’d picked up. They’d crumpled beneath the force of his grip. Hazel eyes weeping in the night. “I find m’self in a strangely good mood this evenin’, Harry, otherwise ye know I’d not be allowin’ such questionin’.”
“I know that, I do,” Harry said earnestly.
“Then ye know also that I’ll be answerin’ yer damned questions jus’ this once,” Mick said, his eyes pinning Harry. “I trust ye remember the girl found upon me doorstep jus’ last week?”
“I do.”
“She’d been in me palace only nights afore, though I didn’t take her to me bed,” Mick rasped, remembering the body of the girl. Her face had looked like it had melted off her head. Jaysus. That wouldn’t happen to Silence Hollingbrook, not while he still lived. “Can ye imagine what the Vicar would do to someone I might… care about?”
Harry looked away uneasily. He’d been the one to find the body. “Aye, but Mick, the Vicar don’t know ye fancy ’er, does ’e?”
“I don’t know.” Mick felt his jaw clench at the admission. “I thought the babe secret and safe as well—and she wasn’t, was she?”
Harry shook his head soberly.
“Either he knows already or he soon will—he’s not stupid is the Vicar. It’s very necessary that I keep Mrs. Hollingbrook here with me,” Mick said softly. “Do we have a problem?”
Harry swallowed. “No.”
“Good.” Mick nodded. “And Harry?”
Harry, who had turned to the door, froze. “Aye, Mick?”
Mick smiled thinly. “Whatever else I might be doin’ with Mrs. Hollingbrook, I’m not playin’.”
The information didn’t lighten Harry’s expression. He was wearing a frown on his ugly face when he left the planning room.
Mick cursed and flung himself onto a velvet settee. Months of scheming had finally born sweet, juicy fruit and yet he still had a feeling of… What? Some strange emotion, some odd sense that he hadn’t truly won. Mick snorted. And what sort of pirate felt any emotion at all? He had the wench in his grasp, held fast in his own domain where he might examine her at his leisure. Find out why the little widow Hollingbrook brought such an uncommon itch to his skin, making him as restless as a caged wolf. He’d forgotten the face of the lass he’d bedded just the night afore, yet Silence Hollingbrook’s wide hazel eyes had haunted his sleep for months.
Muttering to himself, Mick rang for his accountant, Pepper. The balding sparrow of a man came to him promptly enough and for the next hour or so Mick listened to the man drone on about ships and building materials until his head fairly ached. Yet at the end of that time, had anyone asked, Mick realized he wouldn’t have been able to report what Pepper had said.
Sighing, Mick sent the accountant away again, then washed his face and hands and headed to supper.
The dining room was a cavernous hall—Mick liked to have all his people eat the evening meal together—and thus the room was usually quite loud. But as Mick entered tonight, what conversation there’d been quickly quieted.
He looked about. Bran was seated next to Fionnula. Pepper was across from him, a book open on his empty plate. A couple of Mick’s current women tittered together in the corner, while Bert glared at them from across the way. And a dozen or so of Mick’s night crew took up the far end of the long tables set end to end. To a man they were a dangerous, shifty lot—and yet not a one could meet his eye. Even the sweetmeats boy, Tris, was seated behind Mick’s chair, ready to serve him.
Everyone was there in fact, except Mrs. Hollingbrook.
Mick strode to Fionnula. “Where is she?”
The girl trembled. “She said that she couldn’t come down to sup.”
Mick bent and whispered softly, “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
The girl gulped and said bravely, “Wouldn’t”
Mick inhaled, feeling rage boil within his breast. He turned heel and left the room without a word. No one ignored his summons to supper—a fact Mrs. Hollingbrook was about to learn the hard way.
SILENCE HAD JUST finished feeding Mary Darling her dinner when Mickey O’Connor burst into the bedroom without so much as a knock. She glanced up, startled, and then stiffened at the grim set of his mouth.
Mary Darling frowned sternly, looking quite a bit like her sire at the moment. “Bad!”
Mickey O’Connor narrowed his eyes at the baby and then turned to Silence. “ ’Tis supper time—or hadn’t ye heard?”