Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(7)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Certainly.”

There was a shout at the next table, and a tankard of coffee was flung to the floor.

Lazarus looked up. “Are they discussing politics or religion?”

“Politics.” St. John glanced at the arguing gentlemen dispassionately. “The newspapers are saying that Wakefield is calling for yet another gin bill.”

“You’d think by now he would have learned that too many of his fellow peers’ fortunes depend upon the sale of gin.”

St. John shrugged. “Wakefield’s argument is sound. When so many of the poor become enfeebled by gin, it hurts London’s industry.”

“Yes, and no doubt the fat country baron faced with either selling his excess grain to a gin distiller or letting it rot will put London’s health before money in his pocket. Wakefield’s a fool.”

“He’s an idealist.”

“And, I repeat, a fool,” Lazarus drawled. “His ideals do nothing but make him enemies. He’d do better pounding his head against a stone wall than trying to get Parliament to pass an effective gin bill.”

“You would have us simply sit back and let London go to rot?” St. John inquired.

Lazarus waved a hand. “You ask as if there is another option. I submit there is not. Wakefield and his ilk would like to believe that they can change the course we sail, but they are deluded. Mark me well: pigs will sprout feathered wings and fly about Westminster before gin is taken away from the London rabble.”

“The depth of your cynicism is breathtaking as always.”

A boy slid a tankard of coffee in front of Lazarus.

“Thank you, you young imp.”

Lazarus tossed a penny, and the coffee boy handily caught it before scampering back to the stall where the coffee was brewed. Lazarus took a sip of the hot liquid, and when he lowered his tankard, caught St. John examining him like an insect under a magnifying glass.

“You stare at me as if I had pox sores on my face,” Lazarus said.

“Someday you no doubt will,” St. John replied. “You’ve bedded enough whores.”

“I have needs—”

“You have indulgences,” St. John interrupted quietly, “and you make no effort to rein them in.”

“And why should I?” Lazarus asked. “Does the wolf mourn his joy at running down his prey? The hawk the desire to soar and then dive to catch the hare in his talons? It is in their nature, just as my… needs… are in mine.”

“The wolf and the hawk have no conscience, no soul, as you very well know.”

“The women I use are paid quite well for their time. My needs hurt no one.”

“Don’t they?” St. John asked softly. “I wonder if they hurt you, Caire.”

Lazarus curled his upper lip. “This is an old argument and one that neither one of us has yet to win.”

“If I give up the argument, I give up you as well.”

Lazarus rapped his fingers against the worn tabletop, saying nothing. Damned if he’d submit to St. John’s worries. His needs were unusual—strange, even—but certainly not morbid.

Of course, St. John had no problem with probing where he wasn’t wanted.

The other man shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “You were out last night.”

“Gracious me! Have you become a fortune-teller? Or were you ’round my town house last night and found me absent?”

“Neither.” St. John calmly pushed his spectacles up onto his forehead. “You wear the same look as last time I saw you, a kind of—”

“Weariness?”

“I was about to say desperation.”

Lazarus took a sip of the hot coffee, damnably aware that he was buying time, but in the end, all he could reply was, “I didn’t know you had such a flair for the dramatic. Desperation seems to overstate the case by miles.”

“I don’t think so.” St. John peered absently into his own tankard of coffee. “You’ve worn that look since Marie’s death. Do you deny that you were searching for her killer last night yet again?”

“No.” Lazarus sat back in his chair, regarding his old friend from beneath half-lowered eyelids. “What of it?”

“You’re obsessed, man.” St. John said the words evenly, which somehow only gave them more impact. “She’s been dead nearly two months, and you’ve spent every night looking for her murderer. Tell me, Lazarus, when will you give up the hunt?”

“When would you give up if Clara were murdered?” Lazarus shot back.

The only sign of how deeply the arrow hit was a small tic on St. John’s jaw. “Never. But the cases are different.”

“How? Because you are married to your woman whilst Marie was merely my mistress?”

“No,” St. John said gently. “Because I love Clara.”

Lazarus looked away. However much a mean-spirited part of him wanted to deny that difference, he couldn’t in truth do it. For St. John was right: he did love his Clara.

Whereas Lazarus had never loved anyone at all.

“I DON’T LIKE this, ma’am. I don’t like it at all,” Nell said late that night in the foundling home kitchen.

“You’ve made your disapproval quite plain,” Temperance muttered as she tied her cloak under her chin.

Nell was undeterred by the reminder. “What if he has designs upon your virtue? What if he seduces and abandons you? Or worse—what if he sells you to a whoremonger? Oh, ma’am! Terrible things could happen to you!”

Temperance suppressed a shiver at the thought of Lord Caire doing “terrible things” to her. It should have been a shiver of revulsion. Instead, the thought of Lord Caire’s sexual proclivities made her unnaturally curious. That wicked wanton part of her sat up and twitched its nose, eager as ever to be let loose. That she couldn’t let happen. Once, long ago, she’d let her base nature take control and had committed an unforgivable sin. Ever since, she’d lived every day knowing she must atone and refrain from letting her demons loose again.

Temperance yanked her hood over her head. “I very much doubt Lord Caire is interested in doing anything at all to me—terrible or not—and besides, I’ve brought the pistol.”

Nell moaned. “He’s not like other gentlemen, ma’am.”

Temperance hefted the soft bag that concealed the pistol. “You’ve made these mysterious hints before. Tell me now—in what way is Lord Caire different from other men?”