Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(27)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Lazarus kept his eyes on his little martyr as she used all of her Christian wiles to seduce Lambert and Easton into supporting her foundling home. “I have no idea to what you refer.”

St. John snorted softly and half turned so as to be heard only by Lazarus. “She’s obviously as respectable as you claim, which means that you’re either using her for some ends of your own or your debauchery has descended to the rape of innocents.”

“You hurt me, sir,” Lazarus drawled, placing his fingertips over his heart. He knew he looked ironic—jaded, even—but oddly, inside his chest, he did feel a twinge of something that might’ve been hurt.

St. John had leaned close to whisper, “What do you want from her?”

Lazarus narrowed his eyes. “Why? Will you play her gallant knight and steal her away from my dastardly arms?”

St. John cocked his head, his normally mild gray eyes sharpened to granite. “If need be.”

“Think you that I’d truly allow you to take from me something I wanted?”

“You talk of Mrs. Dews as if she’s a plaything.” St. John’s expression had turned analytical. “Would you break her in a fit of spoiled temper?”

Lazarus smiled thinly. “If I wanted.”

“Come,” St. John murmured. “You are not so lost to humanity as you sometimes like to play.”

“Aren’t I?”

Lazarus no longer smiled. He glanced at Mrs. Dews, discussing her charity home with earnest enthusiasm. Had she made the slightest sign of acquiescence in the carriage, she might at this moment be accepting his cock into her sweet saintly mouth. Wasn’t the debauchery of a saint the work of a devil? He looked back at St. John, the only man in this world who he might call a friend. The room had grown damnably hot, and his shoulder sent sharp shards of pain down his arm.

“A word to the wise: make no wagers on my humanity.”

St. John arched an eyebrow. “I’ll not sit back and watch you hurt an innocent. I will take her away from you if I think she needs my help.”

The anger shot through him so quickly Lazarus had bared his teeth before he realized.

St. John must’ve seen the murder in his eyes. He actually stepped back. “Caire?”

“Don’t,” Lazarus hissed. “Not even in jest, St. John. Mind your own lady. Mrs. Dews is mine to do with as I please.”

The other man’s glance flicked between him and Mrs. Dews. “And does she have no say in this matter?”

“No,” Lazarus growled, aware that he sounded like a dog standing guard over a bone.

St. John raised his eyebrows. “Does she know your intent?”

“She will.” And Lazarus turned and caught Mrs. Dews’s arm, interrupting her in midspeech. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I wish to find Mrs. Dews the best seat possible.”

“Of course,” Sir Henry murmured, but Lazarus was already steering her away from the others.

“What are you about?” Mrs. Dews looked none too pleased with him. “I had just begun discussing the amount of fresh vegetables we buy every month for the home.”

“A most interesting topic, I have no doubt.” He needed to sit down, to rest a bit. Damn the wound in his shoulder.

Her brows knit. “Was I boring them? Is that why you intervened?”

His mouth twitched in amusement. “No. They seemed more than happy to listen to you lecture them on clothing and feeding urchins for the rest of the night.”

“Humph. Then why did you take me away?”

“Because ’tis always better to leave the buyer wanting,” he whispered into the dark hair over her ear. The silly red ribbon twined in and out of the glossy locks, and for a wild moment, he wanted to tug it free. To watch as her hair came tumbling down about her shoulders.

She turned and looked up, so close he could see the flecks of gold in her light brown eyes. “And have you sold very many things, Lord Caire?”

She was teasing him, this proper Christian woman. Did she have no fear of him? Did she not sense the darkness that bubbled deep within him?

“Not things so much as… ideas,” he drawled.

She cocked her head, those gilded eyes curious. “You’ve sold ideas?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said as he guided her toward two chairs at the end of a row near the front. “I belong to a number of philosophical and scientific societies.” He seated her and flicked apart the skirts of his coat to sit beside her. “When one argues a point, one is in effect selling it to the opposition, if you understand me.”

He didn’t mention the other type of “selling” he did—the luring of sexual partners into performing actions they would in other circumstances never contemplate.

“I think I comprehend your meaning.” Mrs. Dews’s eyes lit with amusement. “I confess, I’d not seen you in the role of idea merchant, Lord Caire. Is that what you do with your days? Argue with other learned gentlemen?”

“And translate various Greek and Latin manuscripts.”

“Such as?”

“Poetry, mostly.” He glanced at her. Did she really find this interesting?

But her golden eyes sparkled as she cocked her head. “You write poetry?”

“I translate it—quite different.”

“Actually, I would think it somewhat similar.”

“How so?”

She shrugged. “Don’t poets have to worry over meter, rhyme, and the proper words?”

“So I’m told.”

She looked at him and smiled, making him catch his breath. “I would think the translator would have to worry over those things as well.”

He stared. How did she know, this simple woman from another walk of life entirely? How had she with one sentence articulated the passion he found in his translations? “I suppose you have a point.”

“You hide a poet’s soul well,” she said. “I would never have guessed it.”

She was definitely teasing him now.

“Ah.” He stretched his long legs before him. “But then there’s quite a lot you don’t know about me, Mrs. Dews.”

“Is there?” Her gaze skipped over his shoulder, and he knew she looked at his mother in conversation with Lady Beckinhall in the corner. “Such as?”

“I have an unnatural fondness for marzipan sweetmeats.”

He felt more than heard her giggle, and the small, innocent sound sent a frisson of warmth through him. She hid her emotions so well usually, even the joyous ones.