“And this is my dear husband’s sister, Lady Margaret—” Lady Hero began, gesturing gracefully to a pretty, dark-haired woman, when the door opened again.
“Goodness! What a dismal place!” A girlish voice exclaimed.
Isabel turned to see Lady Penelope Chadwicke blow into the room. Lady Penelope hardly ever simply entered a room—she was much too melodramatic for that. With glossy black hair, rosebud lips and pansy-purple eyes, she’d been declared a beauty the moment she’d come out, nearly three years ago. She wore a velvet cloak lined with swan’s down, which she immediately doffed and threw to the much plainer woman following her. Underneath the cloak, her close-fitting jacket was champagne brocade overembroidered in pale rose and gold thread. Her skirts were pulled back to reveal a petticoat embroidered to match the jacket, the entire ensemble probably costing several hundred guineas.
But then Lady Penelope was the daughter of the Earl of Brightmore, one of the richest men in England and she was rumored to have a dowry worth a king’s ransom.
“Is there tea?” Lady Penelope looked about the room as if a tea tray might be hiding in the corner, then pouted prettily. “Tea and cakes would be so nice. The carriage ride here was simply devastating. I think my coachman was actually aiming for the holes in the cobblestones. And St. Giles!”
For a moment Lady Penelope’s gorgeous eyes widened as if struck speechless by the horror of it all. Then she turned with a snap and addressed the lady following her, who was still struggling with the velvet cloak. “Artemis, you must go see about tea. I’m sure you’re just as weary by all of this as I. We need reviving!”
“Yes, Penelope,” Artemis murmured and retreated out the door.
“And cakes!” Lady Penelope called after her. “I do so long for some darling little cakes.”
“Yes, Penelope,” the other woman answered from the hall.
Isabel noted rather wryly that Lady Penelope might include her lady’s companion in her “weariness” but that didn’t stop her from sending the woman off on a servant’s errand. Amelia used the time to introduce the other ladies to Lady Penelope.
“Oh, Lady Hero, I’m not at all certain it is wise for the Ladies’ Syndicate to meet in this part of London,” Lady Penelope said, after the introductions were made. She gingerly lowered herself into one of the rickety chairs. “Is it quite safe?”
“I believe as long as we meet in daylight and bring along footmen as guards, we shall be perfectly safe,” Lady Hero said. “It wouldn’t do to visit St. Giles after dark, of course.”
Lady Penelope shivered dramatically. “I hear that there is a masked man dressed as a harlequin who roams these parts, stealing pretty women away to his lair where he ravishes them.”
“The Ghost of St. Giles is mostly a myth,” came a deep, male voice from the doorway.
Lady Penelope gave a little shriek and Isabel turned to see a tall young man standing just inside the room. He was entirely in black, save for his white shirt, with no ornamentation of any kind on his clothes. He held a round-brimmed hat in his hand and his unpowdered brown hair was clubbed back very simply. He’d frowned a bit at Lady Penelope’s shriek and the expression made him seem rather dour. As he glanced about the room, Isabel had the distinct impression that this man didn’t approve of any of the ladies.
Isabel smiled widely—with just a hint of wicked flirtation. “Mostly?”
He glanced at her, his eyes flicking over her form so swiftly that for a moment she thought she’d imagined the look. She was suddenly conscious of the low, rounded neckline of her dark emerald gown. Then he met her eyes, his face perfectly expressionless. “A man dressed as a theatrical harlequin does roam the streets hereabouts, ma’am, but he is harmless.”
The information didn’t reassure Lady Penelope. She shrieked again and made to slump in her chair as if in a faint, but then seemed to remember the fragility of the chair and thought better of the idea.
“Let me introduce you all to Mr. Winter Makepeace, the manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children,” Lady Hero said hastily. She introduced the ladies in turn and Mr. Makepeace bowed shortly to each. When he came to Isabel, she rather thought his bow was more a nod of the head.
“Mr. Makepeace,” she drawled. Priggish gentlemen always managed to get her back up—and they were so very easy to tease! “How… interesting to meet you. I vow you look rather young for such great responsibility.” Despite his grave air he couldn’t yet be thirty. Certainly he was younger than she.
“I’ve managed the home since my father’s death two years ago,” he replied calmly. “And before that I was my father’s right-hand man for many years. I do assure you my years are quite sufficient to run this home.”
“Indeed?” She bit her lip to keep from smiling. He was so woefully serious! The man had probably never laughed in his life.
Lady Penelope’s little companion returned at that moment with several girls bearing trays of tea. She was a bit out of breath, for she was carrying a tray of dainty cakes herself, and seemed almost startled as Lady Hero took the time to introduce her to everyone present as Miss Artemis Greaves.
Mr. Makepeace’s expression softened—although he still didn’t smile—as he was introduced to Miss Greaves. “May I take that?”
Without waiting for her assent he took the tray of cakes and placed it on the sole table in the room.
Miss Greaves smiled rather shyly. “Thank you, Mr. Makepeace.”
“My pleasure, Miss Greaves,” he replied, his voice a pleasing rumble.
So he did know how to comport himself in the presence of a lady—when he chose.
“Will you give us a report on the home, Mr. Makepeace?” Amelia asked as she poured the tea.
He nodded and proceeded to give a very dry account of the expenses of the home and how the children were situated. By the end of his little speech even Lady Hero was nodding.
“Er, thank you, Mr. Makepeace,” she said when there was a little silence indicating he was finished. “Have you any suggestions as to how the Ladies’ Syndicate may benefit the home at the present?”
“We need money, ma’am,” he said without a hint of humor. “Everything else is extraneous.”
“Oh, but couldn’t we have little jackets made for the children? At least the boys?” Lady Penelope cried.
Mr. Makepeace looked at her. “Jackets, ma’am?”
Lady Penelope waved a vague hand. “Oh, yes! Scarlet ones—they’d look like little soldiers. Or perhaps lemon? Lemon is such an elegant color, I find.”
She smiled brilliantly at the home’s manager.
Mr. Makepeace cleared his throat. “Yellow also becomes dirty very easily. In my experience, children, especially boys, tend to run about and make a mess of themselves.”
“Oh, pooh!” Lady Penelope pouted. “Can’t you just keep them inside?”
Everyone looked at Lady Penelope. It was hard to credit, but she seemed quite serious.
Isabel felt a grin tug at her lips. She widened her eyes at the manager. “Yes, Mr. Makepeace, tell us why you can’t simply lock the little dears in their rooms?”
He shot her a quick, dark look that made her catch her breath.
“I’m sure Lady Penelope understands the impossibility of keeping small boys immobile and clean at all times,” Amelia murmured. “If that is all, Mr. Makepeace, we will not keep you further from your duties.”
“Ma’am. Ladies.” He bowed.
He was almost at the door when Lady Hero suddenly seemed to remember something. “But where is Mrs. Hollingbrook? I thought to see her today.”
Mr. Makepeace didn’t change expression, his body didn’t jerk or stiffen, but somehow Isabel understood that the comment had given him pause.
He glanced over his shoulder. “My sister is no longer residing at the home,” he said coolly and left the room before Lady Hero could make further comment.
Lady Penelope’s high, silly voice broke the silence. “Goodness! Surely he isn’t thinking of running the home all by himself? A woman’s touch is so important with children, I think, especially since Mr. Makepeace is a bachelor gentleman.”
Several other ladies offered their opinions, but Isabel let the conversation flow about her as she bent her head in thought. Mr. Makepeace’s gaze had met Isabel’s in the second before he turned away, and she’d realized something in that instant: Mr. Makepeace might not show it, but there were strong emotions churning under that cold exterior.
His eyes had been black with anger.
SILENCE SQUARED HER shoulders that night outside the dining room door. She’d left Mary Darling happily playing with Moll, the maid from the kitchen, with Bert as guard, and now she was about to join Mickey O’Connor for dinner. After all, he’d asked this time instead of ordered. There was still that small part of her that was convinced she was making a mistake. But then she reminded herself that it had been he who had made the first move, had held out the hand of peace.
Surely that counted for something?
She pushed open the door before she wasted another five minutes pacing and dithering. The room within was long and, not surprisingly, gaudily decorated. Watered silks lined the walls in purple, deep blue, and green. Silence snorted under her breath. How appropriate: Charming Mickey had covered the walls of his dining room with the colors of a peacock.
Down the middle of the room several long tables had been set end-to-end, almost like what she supposed a medieval dining hall might have looked like. Mickey O’Connor himself lounged at the far end of the table in a crimson velvet chair. He hadn’t looked up at her entrance, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking he hadn’t noticed her.
Silence began making her way down the line of tables. This end of the room seemed to be comprised of Mickey’s crew, quite a rough-looking lot. She’d gingerly passed the first couple of seated men when some type of signal was given. Suddenly all the pirates rose rather alarmingly, some so hastily their chairs crashed to the floor.
Silence blinked. “Ah… good evening.”
“Good evenin’, ma’am,” the closest man said gruffly. Belatedly, he snatched the greasy tricorne from his head.
Each man greeted her in turn as she walked past them, and even though they were all rather murderous looking, Silence smiled shyly at them. She found a seat just past the pirates. It was across from Harry and next to a little man with spectacles who she’d seen before in Mr. O’Connor’s throne room.
As she drew out the chair, the little man stood. “Not here, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry?” she asked, confused.
“He’ll want you with him,” the little man said nervously.
“That’s yer place,” Harry said and nodded his chin toward the head of the table.
Silence looked at the head of the table and of course Mickey O’Connor was watching her. They were all watching her.
Silence lifted her chin and made her way up the table, conscious that all eyes were upon her, until she stood beside the empty place at the right hand side of Mickey O’Connor. For an awful moment she thought he would ignore her, but then he uncoiled his long limbs and stood, pulling out her chair for her.
“Mrs. Hollingbrook,” he murmured. “I’m that pleased ye’ve come down.”
She nodded nervously and accepted the chair. She could feel his heat behind her as his hands took the sides of the chair and moved it forward to properly seat her. The scent of frankincense and lemons floated in the air, sensuous and somehow alarming. She thought she felt the brush of his fingers on her shoulder, but when she looked around he was already back in his seat.
He made a gesture and Tess and two other maidservants came in laden with trays of food. Incredibly—decadently—rich food. There were platters of thinly sliced pheasant, roasted rabbits, fish in wine, pigeon pie, fresh hothouse fruit, and enormous serving dishes heaped with oysters.