Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(84)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

The dawn was coming soon.

Chapter Nineteen

Clever John called for his cook and made a special order, and then he waited for the cherry pie to be brought to him in his throne room. His voice had grown weak with age, so he was only able to croak her name. “Tamara.”

At once a beautiful rainbow bird flew through the window and alighted at his feet, turning into Tamara. She was as young and as lovely as she had been all those years ago when he’d first seen her, but she didn’t smile.

Instead her eyes were grave when she asked, “Why have you called me?”…

—from Clever John

They came for him at dawn, just as promised, a new set of soldiers to replace the dragoons that had guarded him all night.

Mick kept his eyes on Silence even as the soldiers opened his cell door and tied his wrists in front of him. He’d dressed in his best with Silence’s loving help—blue velvet coat and breeches, gold brocade waistcoat, and lace-trimmed shirt. He wore the stockings that Silence had knit for him—crooked and sagging in places—and they were the most important things on him. His fingers were barren of rings—he’d given them all away to spend an hour with Silence, but he’d not regret that in this life.

Or the next.

The soldiers hustled him from the cell and along long, dank corridors until he emerged, squinting, into the morning sun.

Silence stepped from Newgate Prison behind him, trailed by Harry and Bert.

“Go now,” he said gently to her and nodded at Harry. Both Bert and Harry were forlorn, but from Harry’s look he knew what Mick wanted.

A public hanging was a nasty thing and she didn’t need to see him kicking his heels in the air. With any luck it’d not come to that. His men should rescue him in time—but he wasn’t about to tell Silence that. There was still the chance that his plan would fail, and he didn’t want to get Silence’s hopes up for naught.

She looked at him, her eyes red, but dry, and said nothing. The expression on her lovely face was enough. Not many men were so fortunate as to have the love of a woman like Silence.

He expected to see her again in another couple of hours, but if the escape attempt failed, he’d die content.

Mick nodded to her as they led him toward the cart, already laden with his coffin and a chaplain. “Be well.”

“How romantic,” a terrible voice said.

The Vicar and a half dozen of his men emerged from the prison behind Silence and her two guards.

Harry began to look, but was knocked to the ground before he could fully turn. Bert backed away as two pistols aimed at his heart. In the wink of an eye Charlie had Silence, holding her by the throat as if she were a dog. She scrabbled at the fingers holding her, her eyes desperate as they met Mick’s.

“Is this your lady fair, Mickey?” the Vicar asked, his mangled face tilted grotesquely.

No. No.

Harry was on the ground, his head bleeding, but struggling to sit, so he was still conscious at least. Bert had skipped out of the way of the Vicar’s henchmen, but he couldn’t get near Silence with their pistols trained on him.

“She’s nothin’ to ye,” Mick said, trying to control his voice. Not now. Not now when he was trussed like a goose and helpless. “Let her go, Charlie.”

“Oh, I might,” the Vicar replied. “After I’ve taught her how to properly serve me. After all, your mother’s dead, Mick. I need a replacement. And I’ve waited patiently since your arrest so that you might fully enjoy this moment.”

Bile roiled in his stomach. Mick met Silence’s eyes.

They were wide and frightened, but calmer now. “I love you, Michael.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them to glare at the Vicar. “Anythin’. Just name yer price.”

Silence threw her weight suddenly against the Vicar’s grip. He stumbled under her force, but righted himself too soon, yanking her back into his terrible embrace.

Charlie smiled, a horrible lop-sided parody of a smile. “I already have my price, boy. Your death and your woman. I might get my granddaughter, as well, but she’ll just be a sweet bon bon. This”—he shook Silence by the neck—“this is the meat on my table.”

Mick bellowed, lunging at Charlie, but he was knocked to his knees by the soldiers surrounding him.

“Will ye allow the kidnappin’ o’ a lady?” Mick demanded of the soldiers. They’d been simply standing there as if blind and deaf to the outrage being played out in front of them.

Charlie laughed. “They will if properly paid. This lot isn’t like Trevillion’s dragoons—they like gold in their hands, and never mind who gives it. Now, remember this as they tighten the noose around your neck, son: I’ll be fucking your woman even as you’re breathing your last.”

And with that the Vicar motioned to his men and simply walked away. Silence gave Mick one last horrified glance, still struggling in the Vicar’s grasp, and then the Vicar jerked her around.

The soldiers were manhandling Mick into the cart now. The chaplain studiously looked the other way. They’d all been bribed by Charlie, there’d be no help here. His men planned to rescue him at Tyburn, but if they did, no one would help Silence.

His life meant her death.

His death meant her life.

“Go!” he shouted at Bert and Harry. “Go tell Winter Makepeace what has happened. Tell him to take me men and get her back. Tell the crew to belay any other order. D’ye understand? Nothin’ stops them from rescuin’ Silence!”

The cart started and Mick craned his neck to see Bert helping Harry up and both men taking to their heels, Harry lagging badly. Bert had been with Mick for over five years, and had in that time served him well. But Bran had served Mick well, too—until the day the boy had betrayed him. Mick was going to his death. He had no way of repaying Bert for his loyalty. What if Bert decided simply to run away? Mick would only know if his men showed up at Tyburn as originally planned.

And Silence would pay the price.

Dear God, let him hang.

The cart ride was a trip through hell. The cart rocked into Oxford Street and they were already waiting. People lined the streets, calling to him, some in sympathy, some in derision. They were three and four deep, packed as full as the street would allow. Mick stood, head held high, feet braced wide apart so he wouldn’t stagger as the cart began its journey through London to Tyburn. A young girl threw a wreath of flowers into the cart at his feet and Mick stared down blindly at them. He was notorious in London, and there were those among the poor who thought him something of a hero.