Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(39)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Mrs. Dews sighed beside him. “That’s it, then. I don’t think she’ll tell you more.”

The young man who had been leaning against the wall all this time cleared his throat. Lazarus looked at him, but the boy’s eyes were on Mrs. Dews. “You want to know about Marie Hume?”

His mouth barely moved, his words all but inaudible. Still Mrs. Dews nodded silently and placed the rest of the coins Lazarus had given her into the man’s hand.

“There’s a house in Running Man Courtyard. D’you know it?”

Mrs. Dews stiffened, but she nodded.

“Ask for Tommy Pett and don’t tell anyone where you got ’is name. Understand?”

“I do.” Mrs. Dews turned and left the back hall.

Lazarus waited until they’d climbed the stairs and walked into the cold night air. “You know the way to this Running Man Courtyard?”

She pressed her lips together as if not well pleased. “Yes.”

Lazarus glanced up and down the dark street. “Do you know that young man? Can we trust him?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met him before.” Mrs. Dews pulled her cloak about her shoulders. “Do you think it’s a trap?”

“Or a wild-goose chase.” Lazarus frowned. “Mother Heart’s-Ease may’ve ordered him to whisper that information to us.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know, damn it.” He blew out a breath. “That’s the problem. I don’t know the players in any of this. I’m too much the outsider.”

“Well, if it helps, I thought his fear of her overhearing him was genuine.”

Lazarus felt a sudden smile tug at his lips. He bowed low, sweeping his hat from his head. “In that case, Mrs. Dews, lead on.”

She almost smiled—he would’ve sworn it on his life—but she schooled her expression and set off, walking briskly, her shoes echoing off the cobblestones. Lazarus trailed close behind, keeping an alert eye out. The mist furled about the corners of buildings and dimmed what lanterns had been set out. This would be a good night for an ambush, he thought grimly.

“When I returned from your house last week, I was met by my elder brothers,” she said suddenly. Her head was turned away, so he could not read her face.

“What did they say?”

“That they didn’t want me to go with you, of course.”

“And yet here you are.” They rounded a corner into a wider street. “Should I be flattered?”

“No,” she said shortly. “I do this for the home, nothing else.”

“Oh, naturally.”

A party of three men staggered out of a doorway farther down the street, obviously drunk. Lazarus reached forward and pulled her back toward him, ignoring her squeak of surprise. He halted in the shadows and wrapped her in his cloak until she was nearly hidden.

Lazarus bent his head to murmur in her ear, “The sad thing about being virtuous is that when one tries to lie, it doesn’t work very well.”

She opened her mouth and he caught the glint of anger in her eye, but the drunkards were passing by.

“Hush,” he breathed across her ear. This close, he could smell the sweet herbs she’d used when she washed her hair. He wanted to draw her even closer, to press her hips to his, to lick that delicate ear.

But the toughs had passed them by and he let her go instead.

She immediately leapt back and glared up at him. “I have no desire to be with you. I only do this for the home and the children.”

“How very noble, Mrs. Dews. You sound quite the saint.” He felt himself smile, not very pleasantly. “Will you tell me now what this house is in Running Man Courtyard?”

“It’s Mrs. Whiteside’s house,” she muttered before turning quickly and marching off.

Lazarus felt his eyebrows wing up in honest surprise as he hurried to catch up to his guide. This should be very interesting, indeed.

For Mrs. Whiteside ran the most notorious brothel in St. Giles.

Chapter Nine

Very early the next morning, Meg was roused from her sleep by four burly guards. They hustled her up a winding staircase until she was once again in the king’s room. He sat sprawled on a golden throne, his black beard and hair shining in the morning sunlight. Before him were several dozen guards standing at attention in strict rows.

“There you are!” the king snapped. “Now, then, I shall prove to you my people’s love.” He turned to the assembled guards. “My guards, do you love me?”

“Aye, sire!” cried the guards with one strong voice.

King Lockedheart smirked at Meg. “You see? Admit now your folly and I might grant you your life.”…

—from King Lockedheart

Temperance felt her cheeks heat as she continued walking. She knew about most of the houses of ill repute in St. Giles—they were where many of her charges came from, after all—but she’d never set foot in one after dark. And Mrs. Whiteside’s house was rather notorious for the types of amusements one could find there.

“Ah,” Lord Caire murmured from behind her. “I believe I have knowledge of this place.”

She bit her lip. “Then perhaps you have no further need of me tonight.”

He caught hold of her suddenly, making her gasp. “You swore you would not renege on our compact, Mrs. Dews.”

She frowned, truly puzzled. “And I won’t, but—”

“Then lead on.”

Temperance gathered the edges of her cloak together and did just that. The wind was bitter tonight, numbing her cheeks. She didn’t know what to make of this man anymore. He’d teased and kissed her, probed for her most shameful secret, and then held her against his warm body to shield and protect her. She still trembled from the scent of his throat, the steel of his arms.

They crossed into another alley, this one smaller. Signs swung overhead, creaking in the wind. She heard laughter, sudden and close, and then it moved away. They passed a thin woman in a worn cloak carrying something in a bucket. The woman avoided their eyes as she hurried past. The alley widened abruptly into a courtyard with overhanging upper floors, making the square space seem close and cramped. Light flickered behind the shutters on each floor, and odd, muffled sounds leaked through—a cutoff laugh, a muttered word, rhythmic banging, and what sounded like moans.

Temperance shuddered. “This is Mrs. Whiteside’s establishment.”

“Stay close to me,” Lord Caire murmured before raising his stick to knock upon the only door in the courtyard.