Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(10)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Lord Caire stilled, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he’d sighted prey. “Who?”

“Martha Swan.” Mother Heart’s-Ease smiled a twisted, evil smile and crooned, “The last woman to see her alive.”

THE WIND TOOK away her breath as Temperance climbed back up Mother Heart’s-Ease’s outer steps. Lord Caire was behind her, eerily silent. Who was the murdered woman? And why was he asking about her murder? She shuddered, remembering the way he’d described the woman as “gutted.” Dear Lord, what had she involved herself in?

“You are unusually quiet, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire observed in his deep voice.

“How would you know what is usual with me, my lord?” she asked. “You hardly know me.”

He breathed a soft chuckle behind her. “And yet I sense that you are a loquacious woman when you are with those you are comfortable with.”

She halted and turned, arms crossed to hold in her heat, but also perhaps to reassure herself. “What type of game are you playing with me?”

He’d stopped as well, much too near to her. His queue was coming undone, and strands of his long silver hair blew across his face. “Game, Mrs. Dews?”

“Yes, game.” She glared, refusing to be afraid of him. “You tell me that you’re searching for someone in St. Giles, but when I take you to Mr. Hopper’s shop, you ask about a murdered woman, and now at Mother Heart’s-Ease’s, you ask about a gutted murdered woman.”

He shrugged, broad shoulders moving under his cape. “I did not lie to you. I do seek someone—her murderer.”

Temperance shivered as the wind blew icy droplets of rain against her frozen cheeks. She wished she could see his eyes, but they were hidden under the brim of his hat. “Who was she to you?”

His wide, sensuous mouth curled up into a half smile. He did not answer.

“Why me?” she muttered low, a question she realized belatedly that she should’ve asked the night before. “How did you find me? Why did you choose me?”

“I’ve seen you about,” he said slowly, “as I’ve searched in St. Giles. You were always hurrying, always in black, always so very… determined. When I saw you last night, I followed you to your home.”

She stared. “That’s it? You chose me on a whim?”

“I’m a whimsical man. You are cold, Mrs. Dews. Come.”

And he set off again, this time leading the way, his steps assured.

“Where are we going?” she called after him. “Don’t you want to find Martha Swan?”

He halted and turned toward her. “Mother Heart’s-Ease said she frequented Hangman’s Alley. Do you know the direction?”

“Yes, but it’s half a mile or more that way.” She gestured behind them.

He nodded. “Then we’ll save Mistress Swan for another night. It’s late and it’s time you were home.”

He started off again without waiting for her answer.

Temperance trotted after him like an obedient terrier. He’d answered her questions but in a way that made new ones crop up in their place. There were hundreds of women in St. Giles. Granted, many were prostitutes or engaged in other illicit activities. But had he wished, he could’ve found a dozen or more willing women to lead him about. Why had he chosen her? Temperance frowned and hurried to keep step with him. He might be a stranger with dark secrets, but she still felt safer walking these alleys with him by her side.

“I don’t know that we can trust Mother Heart’s-Ease,” she said, gasping a bit as the cold wind snatched away her words.

“You doubt there is a Martha Swan?”

“Oh, she’s probably real enough,” Temperance muttered. “But whether she actually has any information is a different matter.”

“How is it you know Mother Heart’s-Ease?”

“Everyone knows Mother Heart’s-Ease. Gin is the demon of St. Giles.”

He glanced back at her. “Indeed?”

“Young and old drink it. Some make it their only meal.” Temperance hesitated. “But that is not the only reason I know her.”

“Tell me.”

She raised a hand to pull her hood more closely about her face. “Nine years ago, when I first came to the home, Mother Heart’s-Ease sent us a message. She had a young girl of about three years of age. I don’t know where she got the child from, but it was certainly not hers.”

“And?”

“She offered to sell the toddler to us.” Temperance paused, for her voice had begun to shake—not from fear or sorrow, but from rage. She remembered her hot anger, her contempt at Mother Heart’s-Ease’s mercenary cynicism.

“What happened?” Lord Caire’s voice was soft, but she heard it clearly. It almost vibrated in her bones.

“Winter and Father were against buying the child. They said it would only encourage Mother Heart’s-Ease to sell more orphaned children.”

“And you?”

Temperance inhaled. “I hated to pay her, but she made it quite plain that she would find another buyer if we did not give her the price. Someone who would not care for the child’s welfare at all.”

“A whoremonger.”

She glanced swiftly at him, but his face was in profile to her, cold and remote. They’d crossed into a larger lane, one in which she could walk beside him. This wasn’t the way she’d taken Lord Caire to Mother Heart’s-Ease’s cellar. Idly she wondered if he was lost.

Then she faced forward again. “Yes, a whoremonger, most probably, though Mother Heart’s-Ease never actually said the words. She simply hinted horribly.” Temperance’s head was down, remembering that ghastly negotiation. She’d still been a little naive then. She’d had no idea how black a woman’s soul could be.

She wasn’t paying enough attention to the way. Her toe caught on something, and her hands shot out as she stumbled, trying to regain her balance. There was an awful second when her belly dove, and she knew she was going to hit the ground.

And then he caught her, hard hands—painful hands—gripping her elbows but keeping her safe. She looked up and he was there, right in front of her, his blue eyes gleaming like a demon’s. He drew her closer, almost into an embrace. Like a friend. Like a lover.

All her worst desires clamored to the surface.

He whispered, his breath brushing her lips, “So you bought the babe.”

“Yes.” She glared at him, this unfeeling aristocrat. Why did he want to hear this story? Why did he insist on ripping open old wounds? Why was he searching for a dead woman’s murderer? “Yes, I paid the price. I sold the only bit of jewelry I had—a gold cross my husband had once given me—and I bought the babe. I named her Mary Whitsun for the Whitsunday on which I first held her.”