Author's Note: It's official, I have no life. Well, actually I do. I've just been ignoring it lately due to vicious, unforgiving plot bunnies. I came up with this idea while working on yet another separate writing project and it wouldn't let me be. So I've decided to submit it here for your judgment and hopefully, pleasure. Mrs. Prior is an entirely different from the characters I am accustomed to writing, a character who is more than mostly evil and I don't know what you'll think of her. But as always, I'm open to your thoughtful feedback. Also, this story will contain a Beckett/Elizabeth pairing, although Miss Swann will not make an appearance until the next chapter. I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread many times) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I do hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean or Lord Beckett. However, I do own Mrs. Prior, Polly and all OCs mentioned herein.

Chapter One

Polly heard boots on the stairs sometime around midnight and she stopped scrubbing the floor at once.

One, two, three, four, five.

Each step matched a heartbeat. Her pulse jumped, her heart lodging somewhere high in her throat.

One, two, three, four, five.

She recognized the cautious tread. Hesitant it was, not ponderous like a soldier's step, not quick and light like Lord Beckett's. No, the footsteps were whispers, soft sounds that touched the silence but barely broke it.

Polly dropped her rag back into the greasy bucket, her hands braced upon the soapy floor.

One, two, three, four, five.

Fear curled in her gut and it was an unnamed fear, terror born of something perceived in the shadows but never seen. Polly found her feet and pressed herself against the cool comfort of the wall. Perhaps she would be ignored, servants usually were.

And then a pause, a dreadful pause that made Polly twist and twine her hands in her grimy apron. She waited.

The shadows seemed to part at last, giving way to a white face and two sharp eyes. Polly watched as the woman slipped down the hall and a faint rustling followed her, the murmur of a cloak being dragged on the floor.

And despite her fear, Polly tried not to let her overwhelming disdain show. She hated the creature, the ghost that came and went and then came again. Oh how she waited for the day when the woman would never return, the woman who let blood rot beneath her fingernails.

The figure paused only halfway down the corridor. Bile shot into Polly's mouth. The bucket…she had forgotten.

Slowly, the woman pushed the wash bucket away with the very tip of her toe. Polly shrank against the wall and hid from her accusing gaze.

"You'll want to watch for that," the woman said softly.

"Yes, Mrs. Prior." And because habit demanded it, Polly curtsied.

Mrs. Prior laughed, her chilled, low laugh that froze and died in the darkness.

"Stupid girl," she muttered to herself, "to curtsey for one such as me. Stupid girl."

Lord Beckett tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk, the cadence resembling some half remembered march from years past.

One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four five.

Legato disintegrated into staccato just as his patience surrendered to annoyance. Where was she? By God, she had a wretched habit of being late.

There was an empty glass of port perched nearby. The last dark droplets of the libation had long since evaporated into the sticky air and Beckett stared at the glass like the tempted Adam. But no, spirits made him sleepy and he could not run the risk of dozing now. She might sneak up on him then and oh how he hated that.

The balcony windows had been shuttered already, permitting only muffled night sounds to enter his office. A sailor's curse, accompanied by raucous laughter echoed against the wooden slats and locked windows. Beckett listened for thunder, hoping, praying, for a late storm to relieve the torturous heat. A thin stream of sweat coursed steadily down his brow.

One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five.

The march had shifted into a jaunty country dance. Where was she?

A creak and a crack heralded the opening of the door. Beckett straightened in his chair.

"Mrs. Prior?"

"Yes, my lord."

He relaxed. "Why the delay, if I might ask. You were due an hour ago."

"My apologies." Mrs. Prior shut the door behind her, keeping to her place in the shadows, shying from the candlelight pooling around Beckett's desk.

"Is it finished?" He searched the black for her, morbid curiosity straining his eyes. Beckett knew her form and features well, but still, he was not one to look away. "Come closer."

His summons obviously wasn't agreeable to Mrs. Prior. She sighed and let her cloak fall from her shoulders, stepping forward only after a moment of great hesitation.

Beckett ceased drumming his fingers. "Is it finished?" he asked again as she moved into the candlelight.

"Yes, my lord, though I had a hard time of it."

"Well, I never expected it to be easy."

Mrs. Prior stood with her hands folded before her, head bowed. She had her hair tied back in a queue and her frame was more mannish this night, her bosom masterfully hidden beneath a dark coat.

Not that there was much to hide, Beckett thought with a pinch of disappointment. Pity. He would have much enjoyed her otherwise.

But Mrs. Prior's duties were not of the whorish kind, at least not most nights when his boredom was scarce. No, she had a singular ability, a rare trait that he harvested for his own use.

Her face was round, childish…innocent.

Beckett leaned back in his chair and dropped his hands onto his knees. Not many people suspected her of wrongdoing when she hurried through the streets with her skirts covered in blood. No, she was a midwife or so she told passersby. And it was perfectly normal for a woman of such a trade to bear the mark of her work.

No one suspected the young woman who frequented taverns and plied men with practiced words and drinks.

Certainly, no one suspected the quiet young boy who liked to take walks through the mist on some chilly nights and watch sailors go about their duty aboard Navy ships.

And of course, no one suspected the keeper of the bachelor's Beckett's household as anything more than a mistress.

Beckett beckoned Mrs. Prior closer, curling his right index finger in a dangerous sort of way. She understood and reached inside her coat for a packet of letters. They were thrown carelessly on the desk.

"From the governor?" he asked, his hands lilting upon the very top of the packet.

"To colleagues in England," she replied. "He's worried about that Lord Beckett."

"Good girl. I trust you found your way into his house?"

Mrs. Prior shifted. "About that delay, my lord, there was a gardener, you see. He didn't believe I was a young lad just out and about for the night."

"Oh?"

"I had to do away with him, my lord. No one heard, no one noticed."

Beckett's lips folded into a grateful smile. "Good girl."

Silence and Beckett hated her silence. Mrs. Prior wasn't the sort to offer an opinion, keeping her lips pursed in that straight, thin line that tormented him. Beckett often wondered what brewed in her mind, what unseemly dark things festered and grew.

He stood, pushed back his throne of a chair and rounded the desk. Mrs. Prior took a nervous step back. Beckett smiled, loving her justified fear. Even a murderess was terrified of him.

"Camilla," he addressed her by her given name and it seemed like a sin almost, to undress the creature with such a casual title. "I should like to know what you think of this business."

"I haven't many thoughts, my lord," she said. "I only do what I'm told.

"Oh come now, don't act the idiot."

She said nothing, but bowed her head. Beckett clenched his fists. He hated her obscenely polite manners, why it was a very mockery of her person. A woman with bloodstained hands and breeches shouldn't be polite.

"What should I do with Swann? Hmm? You must have an opinion, I daresay. You've threatened the man enough."

Again, she bowed her head. "Yes, my lord."

"Well?"

More hesitancy, more caution and by God, he hated it so. Mrs. Prior eyes shifted from the carpet to his boots and then finally came to rest on his shins.

"I would kill his daughter," she said in a hopeful whisper. "She's of no use to us and only serves to distract him."

"Yes, but it isn't quite so simple as that." Beckett crossed his arms over his waist. "Why?"

She didn't like to be prodded and her narrowed eyes were evidence of such. "The governor is plotting to send her to England. He's been in contact with a ship captain, a friend."

"Then why not kill the acquaintance instead?

"I'd much rather kill her."

Beckett touched her shoulder. "You have a strange way about you, a singular way, a curious way."

She dared to meet his gaze then. "I only do what I am told, my lord."

"Then give me a kiss."

Mrs. Prior complied, her cold widow's lips touching his, lingering for a moment and then drawing away. Beckett swallowed a disappointed sigh. The woman had no passion about her.

"You know, even I would be called ruthless for sending the governor's daughter to the gallows," he said.

Mrs. Prior smiled and it was just a hint of a delighted smile. "I've been to the prison, my lord and it's in a awful state. If a deranged man had enough strength, he might break free and throttle the poor girl. She's alone in there, she is. No one would notice, no one would hear."

And then Beckett remembered why he hired her in the first place. "Good girl."

It was as much a dismissal as any other and Mrs. Prior took it as such. She bowed her head once more, took up her cloak and left the shadow laden office. But for a good while, Beckett still heard her footsteps in the hall.

One, two, three, four, five.