“Yer tea is gettin’ cold,” he murmured.

She drank some more and his mouth softened.

“Tell me somethin’,” he said, his voice a deep, quiet rumble. “I saw ye once with the Ghost o’ St. Giles almost a year ago.”

“So you were watching me.” She set her teacup down.

Last fall she’d been caught in a riot in St. Giles and only escaped harm when the Ghost of St. Giles had saved her. She’d seen Mickey O’Connor across the street at the time and wondered why he was there.

He shrugged, unperturbed. “Aye, sometimes. Ye had me daughter after all.”

“Oh.” His explanation was rather deflating.

“D’ye know him?”

“Who?”

“The Ghost o’ St. Giles,” he said patiently. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know. He wore a mask the night he saved me from the rioters.”

“And that’s the only time ye’ve seen him?” His question was intent.

“I’ve seen him from afar, but it was certainly the only time I talked to him, although he never spoke to me.” Silence looked at him, confused. “Why do you ask?”

He shook his head, frowning absently. “No matter.”

Lad sighed loudly and slid down to lie on the floor.

Mr. O’Connor looked at the dog. “I should put him out in the courtyard.”

“But we just bathed him.”

He shot a rather frightening look at her from under his brows. “Aye, so ye did. Be a shame, I guess, to let him roll in the mud so soon.” He tilted his chin at her teacup. “Are ye finished?”

She took a last sip. “Yes.”

“Good.” He nodded and shoved away from the cupboard. “I’ll escort ye to yer room, then.”

They walked all the way back to her rooms in silence, Lad padding happily behind.

When they reached her door, Mickey exchanged nods with Harry, sitting outside, and turned to Silence. “Good night, then.”

“Good night,” Silence said, her hand on the doorknob. “And thank you for the tea. It was truly delicious.”

One corner of his mouth curved. “Me pleasure.”

She began to close the door, but he stayed it with one broad hand. “One more thing. Tomorrow ye and the babe are movin’ rooms.”

Silence blinked. “Why?”

“We were followed tonight,” he said, his eyes angry. “I want ye closer to me so I can keep an eye on ye m’self.”

She frowned over that alarming news as he turned and ambled gracefully away. It wasn’t until he was nearly at the end of the hall that she remembered something.

“Where will our new rooms be?” she called after him.

He cast an inscrutable glance over his shoulder. “Next to mine.”

Chapter Five

The second night the nephews resumed their guard with renewed determination. They placed thorns beneath their clothes to keep themselves awake, refused to sit, and paced about to stimulate their senses. But despite all their efforts, once again they fell asleep. And in the morning once again they had to confess their failure to the king.

And this time when Clever John rose he found a yellow feather behind his ear….

—from Clever John

The moon was but a pale sliver in the sky when Mick stepped into the wherry the next night. He wore two pistols stuck into a belt strapped across his middle, as well as a half dozen knives hidden about his person. Tonight they raided a ship whose captain had decided to keep half of Mick’s tithe for himself. Mick signaled the other boat and the wherrymen silently pushed off from the dock. Only the quiet sound of the oars dipping into the water broke the night’s hush.

Mick hunched down in the stern of the boat, watching as the massive hulk of the Fairweather drew near. She was a fully rigged ship, not more than five years old and a beauty. He’d always had a certain fascination for the tall ships that docked in London harbor. They were like living giants, slumbering on the dirty waters of the Thames.

The wherry made the side of the ship and the rope ladder already waiting there. The water sloshed against the hull as Mick swarmed up, leading his men. He climbed over the rail and saw the two guards, huddled together.

“Good evenin,’ gentlemen,” Mick murmured as he straightened. “Only ye two aboard?”

“Aye,” the elder of the two, a bantam fellow of thirty or so, nodded nervously. “Jus’ like ye said.”

“Good.” Mick casually tossed a small bag to the men. It clinked as the elder man caught it. “Ye’ll have the rest when me and me men depart.”

Mick waved a hand to his crew.

Immediately, his men spread out over the ship, swiftly climbing below where the cargo lay.

Mick sauntered to the poop deck and ducked inside the door there. The captain’s cabin usually lay at the stern of the ship and the Fairweather was no different. Mick grunted with satisfaction when he found a solid oak door that was finer than the rest in the corridor. Of course it was locked, but a few quick shoves with his dagger against the wood near the lock opened the door very nicely. He prowled inside.

The captain of the Fairweather obviously liked to take his luxuries with him when he sailed. An enameled snuffbox lay on a table next to a brass inkwell and stand. Mick glanced at them and turned to a small chest near the bed. This was locked, as well, but he opened it easily. Inside were a few gold coins, a fine brass sextant, and some maps. Mick rifled through the contents until his hand found a rectangular object wrapped in oilcloth at the bottom of the chest. He drew it out and sat back on his heels to unwrap it.

The oilcloth fell away in his hands to reveal a slim volume, the leather dark with age, gilt decorating the cover, but no title. Mick turned the book over in his hands before opening it. Within were finely written pages—in a language he could not decipher. He turned a couple of pages and came upon a tiny, exquisite illustration.

Mick’s eyebrows arched and he smiled.

He rewrapped the little book carefully and stuck it into an inner pocket in his coat. Then he continued looking about the room.

Ten minutes later he’d found nothing more interesting than an amazing array of clay pipes. Mick left the captain’s quarters and went up on deck. He’d taught his men to be swift when they went raiding and he wasn’t disappointed now: Bran stood overseeing the removal of several barrels into the waiting boats.

“Almost done?” Mick asked as he came up to Bran.

“Aye.” The boy turned to grin. “We got nearly all the tobacco.”

“Good.” The Fairweather’s captain would pay a steep price for his greed. Mick tossed another small bag to the waiting guards. They looked none too bright, but if they had any sense they’d be gone by the time the captain came on board tomorrow. “Then let’s away.”

Bran nodded and was over the side and down the ladder in two blinks. Mick followed, feeling the boat dip under his weight as he stepped in. He gestured and the wherrymen shoved away from the Fairweather.

The puny moon shed little light on the water and they rowed in near darkness, the only sound the dip of the oars into the river. Still, as Mick neared the dock, something made him peer intently into the gloom. All looked the same as when they’d left it only a half hour before—a few barrels squatted together in the shadows, a tumbling-down warehouse looming behind. There was nothing to alarm him, yet he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

Then something moved behind one of the barrels.

“Ambush!” Mick roared as he drew one of his pistols.

His shot coincided with one from the dock and the wherryman in front of him slumped over the oars, blood pouring from a hole in his head. Suddenly the night was lit with the sparks of gunfire. Mick fired his other pistol, then took the dead man by the arm and threw his body out of the boat.

He shoved one of his own men into position. “Row for shore, hard as ye can!”

A shout and a splash as one of his pirates went into the Thames. God willing, the man was already dead, for most of Mick’s men couldn’t swim—and drowning was a hard way to go. Mick growled and drew one of his daggers, sticking it between his teeth. Then he threw off his boots and coat and slipped over the side of the wherry like an eel.

The water was as icy as a dead woman’s kiss and smelled of the sewers that emptied into the river. No matter—he’d swum the Thames before and tasted her foul brew. Mick glided through the water, only his eyes breaking the surface, his face going numb. He made the wharf before the boats and could see now clearly their attackers. One man crouched near the water’s edge, firing from two long guns, another loading for him.

The gunman was the first to go into the river.

There was a splash and a gurgle and then the man was lost below the fetid surface. His mate stared as Mick swarmed the dock.

“Fuck,” the gun loader cried. “It’s Charmin’ Mickey ’imself!”

“How de do?” Mick grinned and stuck his knife between the man’s ribs.

The gun loader’s eyes widened a moment, but Mick hadn’t time to watch. He shoved the man—dead or alive—into the Thames’s cold embrace. When he turned back, his boats were almost at the dock, some of his men still shooting. The attackers fled into the dark.

All but one.

He was only a silhouette, standing without fear even in the midst of gunfire, and Mick sensed more than saw who he was.

“Charlie Grady,” he whispered.

“Charming Mickey.” The shadow dipped his head as if in acknowledgment. “How long will you stay in business if you lose a man or two every time you go out on a raid?”

“Fuck ye,” Mick breathed.

“The same to you,” Charlie murmured. “Oh, the same to you, Mickey O’Connor.“

Then the pirates were on the docks and Charlie Grady was gone.

“Who was that?” Bran panted by Mick’s side. “I couldn’t see in the dark. Did you know him?”

“Aye,” Mick said, his chest expanding and falling as he gulped air. “That was the Vicar o’ Whitechapel.”

BY THE TIME Mick and his men made it back to the palace, he was gritting his teeth to keep from chattering.

“Who was it?” he asked Bran as they came in the doors, trying to get a reckoning on the men he’d lost tonight. He’d sent the rest of his crew to store the barrels of tobacco and sugar. “I saw Pat Flynn, but didn’t make out the other.”

“Two others,” Bran said grimly. “Sean Flannigan went over the side and didn’t come back up again, and Mike O’Toole caught one in the face. Was dead at once.”

“Damn me,” Mick said, grimacing. Losing three of his best men in one night was enough to make him want to howl. “Pat had family, didn’t he?”

Bran nodded as they tramped through the dark halls toward the kitchen at the back of the palace. “Pat had a woman and two little girls.”

Mick shuddered, the cold shaking his bones. He’d taken off his wet shirt at the docks and put on his dry coat and boots, but the chill of the Thames seemed to have seeped to his very core. “Make sure Pat’s woman has enough to live on until she can find another man.”

Bran looked at him doubtfully. “That might take years.”

Mick shot him an evil look. “And if it do?”

Bran shrugged uneasily. “Makes no matter to me, but you’re throwing good money away—Pat’s woman would be happy with ten pounds and a pint of gin.”

Mick halted in the middle of the hall and swung on Bran. He thrust his face into the younger man’s and growled, “Pat Flynn died obeyin’ me orders. He was a good man. They all were. I’ll see them buried proper with black gloves and mourners and all. And if I want to keep his woman and children in enough style that they dine upon beef and sugarplums every night for the next three years, I’ll damn well do so.”