Wicked Intentions
Concord turned back to Winter. “And you allowed this?”
“I did not like it,” Winter replied shortly.
“Yet you let our sister whore herself for this home.”
Temperance gasped, feeling as if her brother had slapped her across the face. Winter was on his feet, speaking in a grim voice to Concord and Asa was shouting, but all she heard was a muffled roar in her ears. Did Concord truly think her a whore? Was her greatest shame written on her face for all to see? Perhaps that was why Caire had made his suggestive comments. Perhaps he’d seen with one glance that she could be so easily corrupted.
She covered her mouth with a shaking hand.
“Enough!” Asa had raised his voice to flatten his brothers’ argument. “Whether Winter is at fault or not, Temperance is near fainting with fatigue. Let us send her to bed while we discuss this further. Whatever happens, it’s obvious that she can no longer see this Lord Caire.”
“Agreed,” Winter said, though he would not look at Concord.
“Naturally not,” her elder brother said ponderously.
Well, this was wonderful—all her brothers were in agreement for once. Temperance almost felt a pang of guilt. “No.”
“What?” Asa stared at her.
She rose from the table, placing her palms flat against the surface to steady herself. Any sign of weakness on this point would be fatal. “No, I will not stop seeing Lord Caire. No, I will not give up my search for a patron.”
“Temperance,” Winter murmured in warning.
“No.” She shook her head. “If my reputation has already been compromised as Concord says, then what is the point in giving any of it up? The home needs a patron to survive. You all may protest Lord Caire and my virtue, but you cannot argue that fact. Furthermore, none of you have a solution for the problem, do you?”
She looked from Winter’s weary, lined face to Asa’s watchful eyes, and finally to Concord’s disapproving countenance.
“Do you?” she demanded again softly.
Concord abruptly stamped from the room.
She let out her breath, feeling almost giddy. “That’s answer enough, I think. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m to bed.”
She turned to make a grand exit but was stopped by a figure in the doorway.
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” Polly muttered.
“Dear God,” Temperance breathed. “Is she…?”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” the wet nurse said hurriedly. “’Tisn’t that at all.”
She pulled back a corner of the blanket, and Temperance saw dark blue eyes staring back at her curiously. The relief hit her so hard she hardly heard the wet nurse’s words.
“I’ve come to tell you that Mary Hope is feeding at last,” Polly said.
SHE’D BURNED THE joint of beef.
Silence waved a cloth over the smoking meat that night, trying to dispel the acrid odor. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She should have been more alert to the dinner, instead of staring off into space worrying about their future, hers and William’s. Silence bit her lip. The problem was that it was so very hard not to think about their troubles.
The door to their rooms swung open and William came in. She looked up eagerly but could see at once that he’d not recovered the shipment. William’s face was lined with worry, his complexion gray even with his tan from the sea. His shirt was rumpled, and his neckcloth was askew as if he’d been pulling at it in his agitation. Her husband seemed to have aged years in the last few days.
Silence hastily went to him, taking his cloak and hat and hanging them on a peg by the door. “Will you sit?”
“Aye,” William replied absently. He ran his hand over his head, forgetting he wore his wig. He swore an oath he’d normally never utter in her presence, and took the thing off, throwing it to the table.
Silence picked up the wig and carefully draped it over a wooden form on the dresser. “Is there any news?”
“None of use,” William muttered. “The two sailors left to guard the ship are missing—either dead or run away with their bribe money.”
“I’m sorry.” Silence stood uselessly by her husband’s side until the stench of burned meat reminded her of the dinner.
Hurriedly she set the table with their pewter plates. At least the bread was fresh from the baker this morning, and the boiled carrots looked appealing. She set out William’s favorite pickles and poured his ale before bringing the beef to the table. She carved the small joint and placed some on his plate with nervous trepidation, but he didn’t even seem to notice that the meat was charred on the outside while still red inside. Silence sighed. She was such a pitiful cook.
“It was Mickey O’Connor,” William muttered suddenly.
Silence looked up. “What?”
“Mickey O’Connor was behind the theft of the cargo.”
“But that’s wonderful! If you know the thief, surely you can inform a magistrate?”
“Most magistrates are in the pay of the thieves and other lawbreakers themselves.” William stared down at his dinner. “They only bring in the ones too poor to pay their bribes. And the remaining magistrates are so fearful of O’Connor that they’ll not risk their lives to bring him in.”
“But who is he? Why are the magistrates afraid of him?”
Her husband pushed his plate away untouched. “Charming Mickey O’Connor is the most powerful dock thief in London. He controls the night horsemen—the thieves who steal at night. Every ship that docks in London pays a bribe to Mickey; he calls it a tithe.”
“That’s blasphemy,” Silence whispered, shocked.
William nodded, closing his eyes. “Indeed it is. ’Tis said he lives in a falling-down house in St. Giles, the rooms furnished for a king.”
“They call this monster charming?” Silence shook her head.
“He’s very handsome and the ladies like him, so ’tis said,” William said quietly. “Men who cross Charming Mickey disappear or are found floating in the Thames, a noose about their necks.”
“And no one will touch him?”
“No one.”
Silence stared at her own plate, no longer hungry. “What shall we do, William?”
“I don’t know,” her husband replied. “I don’t know. The owners are saying now that I must have had a hand in the theft.”
“That’s ridiculous!” William was one of the most honest men Silence had ever known. “Why are they accusing you?”
He closed his eyes wearily. “I left the ship early the night we docked. Left it with only two guards. They say I must’ve been bribed to help.”
Silence clenched her fists under the table. William had left the ship early to return to her. Guilt made her chest ache.
“They need a scapegoat, I fear,” William said heavily. “The owners are talking about prosecuting me for theft.”
“Dear God.”
“I’m sorry, my dear.” William had finally opened his sad green eyes. “I brought this catastrophe upon us.”
“No, William. Never.” Silence laid her palm on her husband’s hand. “This is not your fault.”
“This Charming Mickey’s, that’s who,” Silence said in sudden anger. “He’s the one who makes his living off the backs of honest men. He’s the one who stole this cargo out of greed.”
William shook his head, withdrawing his hand from hers as he rose from the table. “That may be, but we have no way of seeking redress from the man. He has no care for us or anyone else.”
He stood a moment looking at her, and for the first time, Silence saw hopeless despair in his face. “We are doomed, I fear.”
He turned and left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him.
Silence stared at the pitiful meal she’d prepared. She wanted to sweep the old dishes, the burnt meat, and mushy carrots to the floor. She wanted to scream and cry, to pull at her hair and let the world know her despair. But she didn’t do any of that. None of those actions would help the man she loved. If William was correct, no one she knew could help them. She and William were on their own. And if she couldn’t find a way to get the cargo back from Charming Mickey, then William would either die in prison or be hanged as a thief.
Silence squared her shoulders. She would never let that happen.
IT TOOK A week for Lazarus to recover from his wound. At least it was a week until he felt well enough to seek out Mrs. Dews. He’d been out of bed for days before that, but he was damned if he’d let the little martyr see him so weak again. So he’d bided his time, patiently eating the pap Small insisted was fit for the sickroom. Another doctor was called for, but Lazarus shouted at him when the quack started mumbling about bloodletting. The man beat a hasty retreat, but not before leaving a bottle of noxious liquid “medicine.” Lazarus threw the bottle out, uncaring that he’d no doubt be billed for the elixir later.
He spent the rest of his confinement chafing at the delay in seeing Mrs. Dews again. Somehow the woman had crept into his blood as surely as the poison from his wound. During the day, he reviewed conversations they’d had, remembering the look of hurt in her gilded eyes when he’d said something particularly crass. The pain he’d caused her provoked a strange tenderness. He wanted to heal the hurt and then hurt her again just to make it better. It was impossible to keep thoughts of her gentleness, her wit, and her acerbity from his mind. His dreams at night were far more basic. Even with his illness, he woke each morning with the flesh between his legs straining for her.
Perhaps he should’ve let the quack bleed him. Perhaps then his body would rid itself of not only the poison, but also of Mrs. Dews.
He considered abandoning her help and not seeing her again, but the thought was fleeting. On the night Small deemed him recovered, Lazarus prowled the alley behind the foundling home.
He’d not sent word ahead for her to expect him, and he felt an uncharacteristic uncertainty of his reception. The night was dark and cold, the wind blowing his cloak about his legs. Lazarus hesitated in the fetid alley. He laid a hand against the wood of the kitchen door as if in this way he could feel the woman within.
Nonsense.
He contemplated stealing in as he had before, but in the end, prudence made him rap sharply on the door. It was thrown almost immediately open. Lazarus stared down into light brown eyes gilded with golden stars. Mrs. Dews looked startled, as if she’d not expected him at the door, and indeed her hair was down about her shoulders, curling damply in the heat of the kitchen.
“You were washing your hair,” he said stupidly. The thought of such a mundane intimacy stirred a longing not only at his groin but in his chest as well.
“Yes.” Pink was suffusing her cheeks.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, because her hair was beautiful, thick and nearly to her waist. It waved and curled with reckless abandon. How she must hate that.
“Oh.” She glanced down and then over her shoulder. “Won’t you come in?”
His lips twitched in amusement at her unease, but he said as gently as was possible for him, “Thank you.”