Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(23)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“What about down here?” Mary Whitsun asked. She’d bent to peer at Temperance’s hem, which unfortunately was several inches off the floor.

Nell grunted. “That too. Ladies, we have a busy afternoon ahead of us.”

And they did. All afternoon, Nell and her company tugged and stitched and cut.

Nearly four hours later, Temperance stood in the kitchen for a last inspection. In the intervening time, she’d bathed and washed her hair. Nell had set it expertly, threading a bit of crimson ribbon through her hair. The cherry-red dress almost glimmered in the firelight as Temperance attempted to yank up the neckline. It was still far too low for her tastes.

“Stop that.” Nell batted at her hands. “You’ll pull out the stitches.”

Temperance froze. The last thing she needed was the dress to completely fall off of her.

“It’s a pity you don’t have proper slippers,” Mary Whitsun said.

Temperance pulled aside her skirts to look at her sturdy black buckle shoes. “Well, these will just have to do. And with the addition of the ruffle Nell added to the hem, I think they’ll hardly be noticeable.” The ruffle was black silk and had once been one of Papa’s nicer coats.

“It does look lovely,” Mary said.

Temperance’s mouth trembled. “Thank you, Mary Whitsun.”

She was absolutely terrified. Only now did the full implication of her bargain with Lord Caire bear upon her. She was going to rub shoulders with the aristocracy—with those sparkling people, so elegant and bright they hardly seemed human. Would they think her a figure of fun?

How could they not?

Well, Lord Caire was certainly human enough. Temperance squared her shoulders. What did it matter what these exotic creatures thought of her? She was attending the musicale to save the home. For Winter and Nell and Mary Whitsun and all the other children. For them she could certainly endure one night’s humiliation.

So she smiled at her audience of small children and said, “Thank you all. You’ve been—”

“Someone’s at the door!” One of the little boys scurried to the front door.

“Joseph Tinbox.” Temperance started after him into the front hallway. “Do not run. It hardly matters if—”

But Joseph Tinbox unlatched the door at that point and pulled it open, revealing not Lord Caire, but Silence.

Temperance halted. Her sister’s face was pale and she wore no cap. Her lovely russet hair was windblown, her hazel eyes tragic. Silence never even glanced at the beautiful cherry-red dress.

“Temperance.”

“What is it?” Temperance whispered.

Silence put her hand to the door frame as if to brace herself. “William’s cargo has been stolen.”

IT WAS PAST four by the time Lazarus’s carriage pulled up at the end of Maiden Lane. The lane itself was too narrow for the carriage, so he descended the steps and told the coachman and footmen to wait before walking to the door of Mrs. Dews’s foundling home. The sunlight hadn’t yet completely faded, but he was sure to keep his fist firmly on his ebony walking stick. He caught the movement of a shadow out of the corner of his eye, a strange flicker of black and red, but when he turned, the thing—a man?—was gone.

After two nights of rest, his shoulder felt even worse than it had the evening he was wounded. It throbbed with a low, continual beat of pain. At the sight of the wound this morning, Small had broken his usual reserve to suggest that his master might do well to spend the evening abed—a suggestion that Lazarus had discarded after only a moment’s consideration. He owed Mrs. Dews an event in which she might go hunting a patron for her home. In addition, he was oddly eager to see her again, a state of mind that a dark inner part of himself found vastly amusing. He’d nearly forgotten about the musicale invitation, but once remembered this morning, he knew it was one of the few events to which he might take Mrs. Dews.

Most of his invitations were considerably less benign than a musicale.

Lazarus used the head of his stick to rap upon the home’s wooden door. It was opened almost at once by a small female urchin with an abundance of freckles over her cheeks and snub nose. She stood back without a word and he entered the pitiful hallway. It was empty save for themselves.

He arched an eyebrow at the child. “Where is Mrs. Dews?”

The child stared back, apparently stricken mute by his presence in her home.

Lazarus sighed. “What is your name?”

There was another awkward silence during which the child inserted a thumb into her mouth, and then they were both rescued by the clicking of advancing heels.

“Mary St. Paul, please return to the kitchen and tell Nell she must bar the door well behind me,” Mrs. Dews said.

She was lit from behind by the light in the kitchen, and she seemed to come toward him in a glowing nimbus cloud. She wore a crimson frock, a startlingly bright color that contrasted to the severity of her usual attire. Her bosom was framed by a low, round neckline, the expanse of smooth white skin nearly glowing.

His groin had the predictable reaction.

He bowed. “Mrs. Dews.”

“Hmm?” Her gaze focused on him as if she’d only now noticed him, and his vanity reared in disbelief.

He straightened, deliberately holding out his arm for her. It was expected, of course, the offering of his elbow to a lady, an everyday polite gesture. For him, however, with his peculiar aversion to touch, it’d always been a source of discomfort and thus avoided if at all possible. But right now he seemed to yearn for her touch. Odd, that. She placed her fingers on his sleeve. He felt the jolt, even through the stiff fabric, but whether it was of pain or some more indefinable sensation, he was unable to tell.

Interesting.

“Shall we?” he asked rhetorically.

But she seemed to hesitate, glancing back toward the home’s kitchen. “I think… Yes, I think so.” She looked at him squarely for the first time, and he thought he detected a faint flush high on her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”

He nodded and escorted her out the door. The night was chill, and she drew a thin wrap about her shoulders. The wrap was gray and coarse, obviously more her usual style, and looked even poorer contrasted to the rich red of her silk dress. Lazarus frowned, wondering where she’d gotten the dress. Had she always had it, saving it for special occasions, or had she been forced to purchase it for this evening?

Mrs. Dews cleared her throat. “Your letter said that it is a musicale we’ll be attending.”