Page 183 of The Pirate Queen

She nods. “I was just on my way to the kitchen for his tray.”

“And what is the earl dining on this evening?”

The wench’s eyes tighten in surprise.

Interesting. She doesn’t know Butler’s title.

“Sunday roast with turnips. He likes his rolls hot. Extra butter.”

“And to drink?”

“Whiskey.”

“Does he take the bottle?” Grace asks.

The girl shakes her head. “Only the one glass. And only on Sundays.”

A third coin goes into the apron, and when the wench returns ten minutes later with a tray loaded down with food, Grace lifts it out of her small hands.

Ultan leads her up the stairs, then pounds on the door at the top.

“Dinner,” she calls, making her voice softer, smaller.

“Bring it in.”

Ultan turns the knob for her and pushes the heavy oak door open. A man stands with his back to them. He stares out a dirty window overlooking the Thames.

“I’d have thought that such a view would turn your stomach,” Grace says in Irish.

Butler turns on his heel, fury chasing surprise across his face. “What—”

Grace sets the tray on his desk. Lifts the whiskey and tips it toward him in salute, then knocks it back and drains the glass in two swallows. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Plunks the heavy glass down on his desk.

“Hello, Tom.”

His eyes narrow, darting to where Ultan leans against the door, blocking the way out. After a moment of careful contemplation, he moves to the desk and takes his seat as though this is an official appointment and he has summoned her. Butler makes a great show of arranging his napkin. Slicing a piece of roast. Taking a bite.

Finally he looks at her.

“If it isn’t my Irish cousin.”

Nothing about his dress or speech would let on that this is a man who was born in Kilkenny. That his wet nurse never learned a word of English or that fried cod and colcannon remain his favorite meal to this day. Age has been as gracious to Tom as it has to her. Though he would never admit as much, it is the Irish in them, refusing to wither before their English overlords. There is some silver in his hair, but only at his temples and sprinkled throughout his neat, trimmed beard. Distinguished is the word often used to describe the Lord Treasurer of Ireland.

“Come to bend your knee at last, Grace?” he asks.

Grace.

The Anglicized version of her name: Grace O’Malley. She hears it for the insult that it is. Her name, Gráinne Ní Mháille, will never pass his lips. But she will suffer any insult if it means the safe return of her son and brother.

Thomas Butler spears a perfectly cut square of turnip, pops it into his mouth, and chews with all the decorum of an English aristocrat.

“Did you receive my message?” he asks.

“It was hard to miss.” She looks to the window. It is dark now, the gallows mercifully hidden from view, though she can see the warm glow of boat lanterns dancing up and down the water.

“You should keep better tabs on your men,” he says.

“And you should play a better host, Tom. I am quite disappointed in your manners.”