Wicked Intentions
Mary ducked her head, her little shoulders slumping. “Yes, ma’am.”
And Temperance had to turn away to hide the shine of tears in her eyes.
The rest of the day was spent in the usual labors of the home—cooking, cleaning, ordering the children and gently chiding. By evening, Temperance was at once exhausted and on edge, anticipating seeing Caire again. Yet, when his knock came at the kitchen door, she was still not prepared to see him.
Temperance opened the door and looked at him, standing there in the waning dusk. His silver hair was pulled back into a sleek tail, but her fingers remembered the silkiness of the locks. His sapphire eyes watched her from beneath the brim of his tricorne, and he wore his usual black cloak, but now she knew what it felt like to have him lie between her thighs. Knew how the lines about his mouth deepened when he was at his point. Knew how his penis jumped and jerked within her as his semen washed into her.
She inhaled, fighting to keep the polite, everyday expression on her face.
A corner of his sensuous lips curved just slightly as if he had an idea of the battle she fought within. “Mrs. Dews. How are you this evening?”
“Quite fine, my lord,” she replied, perhaps a touch too sharply. She had an overwhelming urge to touch him, and yet she could not.
His mouth hid a definite smile now, and the sight made her want to both slam the door in his face and grab him and kiss him all at once.
It was a rather frustrating sensation.
She cleared her throat. “Would you care to come in for tea before we depart?”
“I thank you, no,” he replied, as formally as she. “The business I have tonight cannot wait.”
She nodded. “Very well.”
Her cloak was ready and she swung it around herself before nodding to Nell, who was pretending not to be eavesdropping at the kitchen table, and left. Caire immediately set off. She hurried to catch up, but they hadn’t gone half a dozen steps before he pulled her suddenly into a darkened doorway.
“What—”
His mouth cut off her startled exclamation. He kissed her thoroughly and possessively before raising his head slowly. “That’s better.”
He sounded very satisfied with himself.
“Humph.”
He set off again, more moderately this time. Unlike their other evenings in St. Giles, she did not know where they were headed. Caire was the one leading now. They followed the back alley out to the crossroads, and Temperance saw his carriage waiting.
She glanced at him, surprised. “Where are we going?”
“To visit the man we saw at Mrs. Whiteside’s house,” he said matter-of-factly.
She halted. “Oh, but surely you don’t need me for that.”
“You have no idea the ways that I need you,” he murmured, and helped her into the carriage.
Well, she really had no choice. At least that was what Temperance told herself as she sat on the carriage cushions. Perhaps the truth was that she liked being with him no matter the pretext.
He sat opposite her, and she tamped down a twinge of regret.
The carriage lurched forward, and she looked down at her hands in her lap, aware of his gaze upon her.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly after a moment.
“Fine,” she replied.
“I meant after our coupling last night.”
“Oh.” She felt heat creep up her neck. He would talk bluntly about the matter! “I’m well. Thank you.”
“And your sister?”
She frowned, the tears too close to the surface. “We haven’t heard anything else.”
“Ah.”
She peeked through her lashes, trying to read his expression in the dim light. He sounded as if he might be worried for her. Did he intend to repeat the events of the night before? Or was it a one-time thing best forgotten? But surely if he was not interested in her, he would not have dragged her along on this ride. Temperance felt heat pool low in her belly at the thought of his hands caressing her breasts again. Of his lips against her neck.
The carriage shuddered to a halt and she looked up quickly. “Where—”
She didn’t have time to finish the question, because the carriage door opened at that moment and a tall man in a gray wig and half-moon spectacles entered.
“Mrs. Dews, perhaps you remember my friend Mr. St. John?” Caire asked smoothly.
“Of course,” she replied, trying to hide her confusion.
Mr. St. John inclined his head. “Ma’am.”
“St. John has kindly consented to join us in our investigations this evening,” Caire said.
St. John snorted softly, making Temperance wonder how his kind consent had been obtained. She stared curiously between the two men. Caire and St. John didn’t seem likely friends. Caire was so carefree—but with an air of danger—while St. John looked grave and scholarly.
“May I inquire as to how you two became friends?” she asked.
It was Caire who replied. “St. John and I met at Oxford, where I was spending my time drinking bad wine, and he was attempting to translate obscure Grecian philosophers and arguing politics with other boring fellows.”
St. John interjected another snort here, but Caire continued, oblivious to the interruption. “One night I came across him in the midst of six vulgar toughs who were in the process of pounding him into a sort of puree. I’m afraid I took offense at their chosen pursuit.”
Temperance waited, but both men merely looked at her as if their story was done.
She blinked. “So you met in a tavern brawl?”
Caire looked at the ceiling consideringly. “More a street fight.”
“Or melee.” St. John shrugged.
“And you became friends,” she finished for them.
“Yes,” Caire said while St. John shrugged again, as if the outcome was self-evident.
Caire must’ve had acute hearing. “I think it was the blow St. John received to the crown of his head,” he said kindly. “Blood all over the place. It has a kind of bonding effect.”
That presumption was too much for St. John. “He had his nose broken and both eyes blacked,” he said with what sounded very much like satisfaction. “And his lip swelled so much he talked with a lisp for a month.”
“A sennight,” Caire interjected.
“Six weeks at the very least,” St. John shot back without heat. “You were still lisping on May Day when we, ah…”
“Rowed down the Isis dead drunk at dawn,” Caire said. “With the don’s stolen pug.”
“Quite,” St. John murmured.
Temperance’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
Caire’s mouth cocked up. “So you see why I brought him when I thought we might need another.”
“Oh, yes,” Temperance said weakly.
“I spent the next two years at Oxford trying to get him to drink more wine and study less,” Caire.
“And I spent those two years attempting to keep you from succumbing to your worst urges,” St. John said far less lightly. He glanced at Caire. “At one point, I was certain you had a death wish.”
“Maybe I did, ” Caire whispered. “Maybe I did.”
The carriage jolted and stopped.
Caire glanced out the window, immediately sobering. “And here we are.”
AFTER THAT LAST attack in St. Giles, Lazarus had vowed never again to put Mrs. Dews at risk. Yet, at the same time, he needed an excuse that required her continued presence in his life. His inquiries, while dangerous, were perfect.
Hence St. John’s appearance tonight.
Lazarus admitted to himself wryly that a male duenna—whom he’d provided himself—made his pursuit of Temperance somewhat comical. But he’d not compromise either her safety or his… courtship of her.
The word gave him pause. Was that what this was? A courtship? Perhaps. It was the first time that he’d pursued a female without the lure of money. It was a strangely humbling thought: She’d come to him with no regard for what he could give her. He had to use his charm alone.
And that was often in short supply.
“Who is the man we see tonight?” St. John asked as they descended the carriage. He might be a scholar, but Lazarus knew from those days at Oxford that the man could fight if need be.
“George Eppingham, Lord Faulk,” Lazarus said, looking at the crumbling town house in front of them. They were in Westminster. The area had once been fashionable, but now most of the wealthy former citizens had fled west. “He’s fond of blindfolds.”
Lazarus felt St. John’s quick glance, but he ignored it as he rapped on the door. There was a long pause.
“How did you find this man?” St. John asked stiffly.
Lazarus smiled humorlessly. “A brothel madam recommended him to me.”
He caught St. John studying Temperance, but before he could voice a possible concern, the door to the house was opened.
A slatternly maid stood gaping at them.
“May we see your master?” Lazarus asked.
She gulped, scratched at one arm, and turned without replying. The maid led them into a house that obviously had once been better maintained. The worn wooden floor was dull. Dust had settled into the dark corners. A room was off the hall, and she opened the door without preamble. Faulk was seated inside at a desk, attired in a frayed brown banyan and soft cap to keep his shaved head warm. He wore fingerless gloves on his hands to write, and Lazarus noticed that his fire was meager. In fact, the whole house was chill.
“Who was it, Sally?” Faulk asked before belatedly looking up. He stared at them for a moment, and Lazarus thought his eyes iced over. “I have no monies to give you.”
Lazarus arched an eyebrow. “We’re not bill collectors.”
“Ah.” Faulk showed no sign of embarrassment. “Then what is your business, if I may ask?”
“I wished to ask you about a mutual friend.”
Faulk arched a single eyebrow. He was younger than Lazarus had first taken him for—perhaps no more than forty. He was handsome, but want or hard living had etched lines in his face, and his jawline sagged. In another year or so, his good looks would be gone.
“Do you know Marie Hume?”
“No,” Faulk replied promptly. His gaze never wavered, but his hand fisted on top of the desk.
“A fair woman with a round, red birthmark by the corner of her right eye?” Lazarus asked gently. “She was found dead in St. Giles almost two months ago.”
“Many whores die in St. Giles,” Faulk said.
“Yes,” Lazarus said, “but I never said she was a whore.”
Faulk’s expression blanked.
In the silence, Lazarus took Temperance’s arm and pulled her to sit next to him on a listing settee. St. John remained standing by the door.
Faulk flicked his eyes to Temperance and St. John and then seemed to disregard them.
“What is this about?” he asked Lazarus.
“Marie was a friend of mine,” Lazarus replied. “I’m interested in finding the man who murdered her.”
Faulk’s sallow skin turned waxen. “She was murdered?”
Could a man pretend a change in skin color? Lazarus thought not. “She was found bound to a bed, her belly cut open.”
Faulk stared at him and then abruptly shifted his weight in his chair, slumping back. “I didn’t know.”
“You saw her?” Lazarus asked.
Faulk nodded. “A half dozen times or more. But I wasn’t the only man she entertained.”
Lazarus waited, not saying anything.
Faulk’s color—what there was of it—was returning to his face. “She had several callers. She was willing to do, ah, unusual things.”