Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter seven of "Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed cazonetta, Olivegreeneyes, PirateKnightoftheRings, ScarletSnidget and PearlSparrow13. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

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

Chapter Seven

Lord Beckett was surprised, quite surprised, when the door to his dining room swung open and Elizabeth Swann swept in accompanied by two guards. She had the air of Aphrodite about her, but looked like a peasant girl in her tattered gown. He smiled, stood and gestured to an empty chair next to his elbow. The guards shut the door quietly behind them.

"Why, my lord," she said in a voice that was falsely simpering, "have I caught you unawares? Has your dependable courier, Mrs. Prior, failed to relay my message?"

"She mentioned something," he whispered and the heavy night air seemed to twist his words. Elizabeth took a jerky step forward and sat. Beckett did not bother to push her chair in.

"And where is she?"

Ah, was there a bit of fear in brave Miss Swann's face? Perhaps. Camilla often had that effect on the doughtiest of men and women, although Beckett himself could quickly reduce her to a pile of quivering tears. How strange the world was.

"Not here." He sat at the head of the long table, indecently long really, with the far end lost to shadows. A clawed candelabra had been lit and stood sentry to his left. The light reached only far enough to encapsulate Elizabeth.

She wasn't very pretty now, he decided. There was something dreadful in her eyes, something desperate and desperation made her ugly. He sat back in his chair, repulsed and waited for his dinner.

The quietude did not bother him, but apparently Elizabeth was the sort to prattle. It was a pleasant change, really, when he was often greeted with stony silence and forced to wallow in the very depths of solitude. Having a ghost of a person for a companion was not like having a companion at all, really.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, looking thoroughly clever. "Which asylum did you buy her from? Bedlam?"

"No asylums. I found her in the slums of London."

"That would have been my second guess."

Lord Beckett indulged in a wicked smile which made Elizabeth noticeably tense. He leaned over the table toward her, his green coat spilling over the white linen cloth like moss. "You certainly are keen to speak on Mrs. Prior."

"Curious, you might say." Her words were quick now, short jabs. He saw her chest rise and fall. Something stirred within him.

"I expected your curiosity, but on other matters. The compass, Mr. Turner, your father even."

She flinched and looked hateful, vengeful. Beckett sat back in his chair and wine was brought forth, set on the table in two crystal goblets. He drank. She did not.

"Tell me, what persuaded you to join me?"

"I think you know." And Elizabeth looked up through golden lashes and at once he thought her some feral goddess trapped in a flowering glade. Yes, there was even a fresh scent about her, like newly shorn grass.

But she was only teasing him, that he knew. Conquest was never so easy. Even indifferent Camilla put up a struggle at first, weeping something about her dead husband and loyalty that never existed in the first place. This fair flower certainly would not submit so readily and if she did, he would turn her away. After all, where was the sport in that?

"I did not take you for a wanton girl, miss," he said, equally teasing. She looked annoyed and the candlelight darted across her face as she turned away from him.

"I'm not, my lord."

"Then why?"

A tureen of soup was brought in by a cautious servant. Two steaming bowls of broth where placed before them and Beckett fondled his spoon. Elizabeth, however, sat still.

As it was, the exercise had been meant for Mrs. Prior, really, not Elizabeth. He had been certain, so very certain that she would turn down his invitation. But what he really wanted was for his black widow to employ restraint for once. And she had, quite successfully. Apparently, she had also become clever with words for now Elizabeth Swann sat before him. Two birds killed with a single, sharp stone. He would certainly have to reward Mrs. Prior after tonight.

Beckett found his appetite decidedly lacking now that he had company. He put down his spoon. Things would have to be drawn out to the very breaking point. He wanted her to come to him. There was no pleasure in rushing things, after all. And perhaps when everything was concluded, he would have a pretty new mistress, one who was intimately familiar with the Caribbean and might be used as a bargaining chip when necessary. Of course, Will Turner would need subduing in time and the governor needed to be controlled. Yes, Elizabeth Swann would do just fine.

Satisfied with his logic, he rose and leaned against the arm of his chair. Elizabeth looked up somewhat reluctantly.

"My lord?"

"You have not answered my question," he said impatiently.

"I have quite forgotten it."

"Why did you come here tonight?"

Again, silence. He noticed her hands clench, her elegant fingers turning white with what he suspected was rage. She too, had restrained herself with difficulty and now she stood, slowly, purposefully.

"I know what you have done."

A brow was raised. "Miss?"

"And they call you a gentleman." Her face flushed, her lips drawing back as she snarled. Beckett was shocked by the sudden appearance of her feral manner, but it was a most intriguing thing and he was reminded of why he had spared her in the first place.

"I am," he parried, still savoring her opening thrust. Oh he had been hoping for this, a battle with her.

She drew back her shoulders and stood there like some magnificently dignified general. The girl would have made a fine Caesar, perhaps, if the heathens still danced in their sacred groves. But alas, all had fallen to science and reason now.

"It's a strange gentleman that keeps a woman such as Mrs. Prior," she said, "and I would think that you are frightened of her, frightened that she might turn on you, snap at the lavish hand that feeds her."

Beckett swallowed and shifted his weight, along with his position. Elizabeth was searching for a weakness, any weakness. "Not at all, she is quite tame, I assure you."

"Any creature that needs taming is unstable."

"Indeed and I much enjoy the adventure of it."

She was repulsed, briefly, but then recovered brilliantly. Her nostril's flared and she had the look of a wild mare of the moors. "I know what you have done."

"Ah, so you think that by recounting my somewhat unseemly actions, that you may induce me to change, miss?" Beckett even laughed a little, which seemed to infuriate her, to infuse her with hate. "I have a stony heart and my resolve is of iron. There is not much that troubles me."

But she was beyond reason and her reckless mind made her beautiful.

"You murdered my father."

And despite his stoicism, his iron resolve and stone heart, Beckett flinched.

Mrs. Prior would know his wrath before the night was through.

She had been cast from the house and it vexed her, no angered her. Yes, she was furious. Polly had tried to soften the blow by fixing her a cup of tea which hopefully contained laudanum. Mrs. Prior sipped it greedily as she lay on one of the small beds in the servants' quarters. The building was separated from the main house, a cramped, tight thing which was utterly despised by her. After all, she would much rather doze comfortably in his lordship's feather-soft embrace.

But not tonight or so she had been told. Damn that Miss Swann. Mrs. Prior wished all the more that she had finished the business, left the wench to stink and rot in the prison courtyard as a corpse. But now she was dining alongside Lord Beckett.

How very unfair that was.

Mrs. Prior stared at the yellow ceiling. Steam rain in sweaty beads down the walls and she almost felt as though she were dying. Misshapen faces taunted her. She fancied she heard laughter. The tea cup rolled to the floor and she did not bother to right it. The stable boy sitting in the corner jumped but kept to his own business. No one rightly disturbed her unless they had to. After all, she wasn't really a servant, but the mistress of the household, yes the mistress. Hmm, it had been a long time since she had been mistress of anything, a very long time indeed.

Ah, laudanum. There must have been some in the tea after all. She was mellow now, exhausted. But her body was throbbing and she touched her wrist, her heart jumping frantically beneath her skin.

"Polly's tried to poison me," she laughed. Her words echoed away from her and there seemed to be a mist between the world and her mind.

Mrs. Prior rolled over and tried to ignore the sweat that stuck to her burning flesh. Christ, her hand ached. Perhaps it would fall off. She stared at it and touched the bandage. It was wet. The stable boy glanced at her now.

"The surgeon'll have to cut it off," she told herself and her voice was a gurgle in the back of her throat. "And it's a damn shame too, John says my hands are our livelihood. Can't sew without them. Where is he? Has he come in yet?"

The stable boy murmured something, but it was all lost to the roaring in her ears.

"Should've killed the Swann wench," she said, before slipping into an uneasy sort of sleep.

John Prior came in at seven o'clock, as always. Camilla heard his lumbering step in the hall. The door swung open.

"Hello, my pretty, what have you there?" He kissed her on the cheek and chin, rain still sticking to his wiry hair that spilled from his messy queue.

She put down the sleeve she had been stitching and smiled. "Lady Winshaw was by this morning. Her daughter is marrying in the fall and she wants a gown. Look." And she flipped open her ledger where nonsensical squiggles passed for nearly illiterate writing. She had to pretend for the rich ladies, pretend she could read and write just as they did and was therefore worthy to cloth them in their finery. "Pearls and silk and lace. I'll have to order it all."

John took off his overcoat and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. He stooped to warm his hands by the cackling fire. A massive man he was, tall, with broad shoulders, virile, like some muscled Hun or Greek hero of Sparta. And yet he was gentle. Not an intelligent sort of fellow, nor a master of his chosen trade. But a good man.

"I can go tomorrow. Just scribble down the numbers, will you? I can't keep all those yards and such straight in my head."

"Thank you." Camilla sighed in relief. She would have more time to finish Mrs. Nevinson's gown by then, and if she worked by candlelight, perhaps she might be done by dawn.

John straightened slowly. "Where's Betty run off to?"

No one would ever love her again, Camilla was certain of that. He stood across from her, one hand on the edge of the ash-colored tombstone. She had never seen John look so stricken. Black did not suit him.

Amber leaves tumbled over the earthen mound.

She waited, standing there for what seemed like an agonized year. Night was falling, the parson had already left. And oh, even a man of God had no words of comfort for her.

At length, John looked up and the sky was grey behind his head.

"I love you, my pretty."

Camilla did not bother to dab at her tears.

He was sleeping, or so one would guess from the perfect stillness about him. And yet, his brown eyes were open and no soft inhale raised his chest.

She hadn't meant…how had it happened…

Camilla crawled cautiously over him, her legs tucked neatly over his. "John, John, won't you wake? John, I'm sorry, I hadn't meant…John!"

He did not stir and Camilla finally realized what she had done. Her hands, once so tender, once so eager to bestow affectionate caresses upon him, trembled.

"John!" She shook him, but he did not rouse. "John! John!"

The warmth was leaving him and she wept over his chest.

"John! John!"

And outside, the sky was bleeding sooty snow.

It was autumn again in the city of London and her breath fogged the air. She had walked for hours and now dawn peeled the night away. Time was short.

He didn't see her, no. For hours he had not seen her.

She had been cautious. She had restrained herself, hid herself in gutters and alleyways and the very darkness that dripped like some dangerous poison over the city. It was all for one moment, for one brief moment when she would pin her victim to the ground and kill.

Yes, kill. Camilla intended to kill him. Haughty Lord Darby's son. He had lost her the roof over her head and her place with the tailor in Whitechapel. Not that she minded much. Sleeping on the streets was not so daunting a position as it had once been. Even her own mother had turned her out. They all did, in the end.

He was slowing. She saw the hesitation in his step. Did he sense? Did he know?

Camilla stopped, her wet skirts flapping about her legs. She was drenched with the evening mist and the haze that slithered like a gossamer snake through the streets.

Lord Darby's son looked over his shoulder and for one moment, one brief moment, he saw her.

She struck, quickly and without much of a fuss on his part. He was a weakling after all. When she finished, he lay at her feet, his fine clothes slightly mussed, his hat off.

Camilla watched him, somewhat disappointed that it had been over with so quickly. She turned to go.

"Now that

Camilla froze. She had not checked the back alley for spectators…

Muscles coiled and tightened. She was ready to spring forth, to run or kill once more. But then Lord Cutler Beckett slinked into view and she was entranced. He stood over the body.

"Yes, a great amount of skill indeed."

There was John again, smiling, laughing, kissing her cheek. And then there were black bruises about his neck and his eyes did not see. John, John, where has Betty run off to? John, John…I'm sorry…the candle…I've forgotten it.

"Where? John! I…where is he?" Mrs. Prior was weeping when she finally jerked awake. Murky firelight stung her moist eyes and sweat had soaked the sheet beneath her. She looked about wildly.

John. Where was he? He must be told. She must speak with him, she must tell him. John, John. Did the shadows hide him?

"Where is he?"

"I don't know, ma'am," a small voice answered her. The stable boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor polishing the brow band of a bridle. His tiny mouth was open and Mrs. Prior saw the fright in his eyes. Little fool.

"Where is John?" she demanded, slipping and staggering as she tried to stand. "He must…have you seen him?" And her eyes raked the darkness, searched the far corners of the room. But it was empty, save for the now trembling boy.

"No John here, ma'am," he whimpered, "no one that I know of, anyway."

"Oh." And then Mrs. Prior understood, but still her hands shook. It had been a dream, a fever dream and nothing more. Something sank within her and she tasted the bitter brew of disappointment. John was still dead, murdered….

Suddenly, she didn't much feel like spending the evening in the servants' quarters, locked away like some slave. Instead, Mrs. Prior walked shakily into the yard and twisted her loose hair back in a braid. The air was not yet cool and night had only just fallen, with pale stars lining the eastern horizon. The windows of Lord Beckett's dining room glowed gold. He must still be entertaining that Swann wench.

Mrs. Prior shook herself once, much like a waterlogged dog and she felt restored. Well, perhaps she should check in on them. Yes, that was what she would do. Only for a moment. His lordship could hardly punish her for that.

Elizabeth could not contain her rage. It stormed within her, a thick black cloud residing in her breast and pounding against her heart. She stared at Beckett and hoped her eyes would bore into his flesh and brand his skin with flames. He had robbed her of everything she had ever held dear and she wanted him dead.

Yes, dead, Elizabeth thought and she was almost shocked by her determination. She had never killed a man before and only fought to survive, but now she wanted to kill because she could.

Beckett looked somewhat stunned himself and in the harsh candlelight, his face flushed.

"So you say," his lips barely moved. Elizabeth wanted to bash in his smart mouth. Hours she had spent in her chamber, thinking, planning, envisioning his end. Her father was gone and she wanted him to feel the enormous pain that pulsed against her skin. She wanted him to suffer.

Her hands began to tremble then, her control slipping.

Not now, not now, she chided herself. But when? Surely, she had the opportunity now and surely she could overpower him, couldn't she?

But what of Will? The guards would overhear, of course and the gallows awaited her. Elizabeth needed to live for Will and in doing so, she needed to keep Lord Beckett alive.

A soul-shaking sigh escaped her. Beckett seemed to recover himself. He lifted his head, a quizzical look darkening his sharp eyes.

"Who told you such?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Elizabeth did not think she could speak. With difficulty, she mastered herself, a cruel smile twisting her full lips. "Your whore."

"Mrs. Prior?"

"Indeed."

Beckett paled. "Did she now? Did she? Well-"

"And you may think," Elizabeth began, now unable to stop herself, "you may think that one man's life is meaningless, just another pair of boots for the hangman, just another coil of rope twisted about a neck, but there are others that will take notice. My father was beloved by many. You have much to fear, Lord Beckett, much to fear."

There, she had said it all. Beckett was leaning against the table, his face the same hue of the white wax that dripped over the candelabra. He was a pallid thing now and his wide eyes showed naught but a cold soul within

Elizabeth turned about for she could gaze on him no longer. Her skirts whipped and whistled across the floor, the cold door knob steadying her shaking hand as she twisted it open. The corridor beyond was dark and empty…save for the ghost of a woman that stood before her.

Elizabeth jerked back, surprised and Mrs. Prior seemed quite as shocked as she.

Yet then, all restraint was abandoned and the madwoman snarled. "You would have made a pretty corpse, yes, a pretty corpse to rot within a moldy graze."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, to spit the most wretched and foul curses she could conjure at the widow. But Lord Beckett was out in the hall then and Mrs. Prior cringed, recoiling in the light that drifted from the dining room.

"You." His eyes were narrowed, dark. For the first time that evening, Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken with fear.

"My lord, I-" Mrs. Prior began but it was too late. He lashed out and grabbed her bandaged hand and Elizabeth did not think she would ever forget the shriek that followed. Servants and soldiers came running.

"Back to your work," he ordered with Mrs. Prior sobbing hysterically at his feet. "And you," Beckett gestured to a sentry, "take Miss Swann to her room, now."

"Yes, sir."

The soldier was gentle and Elizabeth felt a soft hand close about her arm. But she was lost in a stupor, in a nightmare and she could not help but look over her shoulder as she was led away.

Lord Beckett had taken Mrs. Prior into the dining room.

"Camilla," he said in a voice that was too deceptively soft to be kind, "dear Camilla, what am I going to do with you?"

Bedlam or The Bethlem Royal Hospital of London is the oldest psychiatric hospital in the world.

Laudanum is an opium tincture, a pain killer that was used to remedy dozens of maladies. It became wildly popular amongst the Romantic poets and Victorians of the 19th century and is highly, highly addictive.