Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(8)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Nell bit her lip, stood on one foot and then the other, and finally squeezed her eyes shut and said quickly, “His bedsport.”

Temperance waited, but no other explanation was forthcoming from the maidservant. Finally she sighed, keeping a firm rein on the part of her that had leapt at the word bedsport. “The home is in danger of closing. I can’t let what Lord Caire does in his bedchamber keep me from using his assistance.”

Nell’s eyes popped wide in alarm. “But, ma’am—”

Temperance opened the back door. “Remember: If Winter asks, I’ve gone to bed early. And if he presses, tell him it’s a female matter. That’ll stop any questions.”

“Be careful, ma’am!” Nell called as Temperance pulled the door closed behind her.

A blast of wind whistled around the corner. Temperance shivered and pulled her cloak tighter, turning to go down the alley. A broad male chest loomed suddenly in front of her.

“Oh!”

“Good evening, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire drawled in his dark, ominous manner. His cloak swirled about his legs in the wind.

“Please don’t do that,” Temperance said, rather too sharply.

But he only looked amused. “Do what?”

“Pop out at me like a footpad.” She glared up at him, watching as his wide mouth curled at the corner. She had a ridiculous urge to smile back at him, but she suppressed it ruthlessly. Tonight his silver hair was contained in a queue under a black cocked hat. Her belly trembled and she couldn’t help but wonder in exactly what way Lord Caire was different in the bedroom.

But he’d turned and begun striding down the alley. “I do assure you that I’m no footpad, ma’am.” He glanced over his shoulder, and she saw the flash of his blue eyes as she hurried to catch up. “If I had been, you’d be dead by now.”

“You’re not giving me any encouragement to come with you,” Temperance muttered.

He stopped suddenly and she nearly ran into him again. “You’re here, are you not?”

Wretched man! “Yes, I am.”

He bowed extravagantly, his silver-tipped walking stick in his outstretched hand, his black cloak sweeping the filthy ground. “Then lead on, fair lady.”

“Humph.” Temperance faced forward and began trotting down the alley, aware that he followed close behind her, a large dark presence.

“Where will you take me tonight?”

Was it her imagination or did she feel his hot breath on the back of her neck?

“It was rather hard to decide, since you refused to tell me much of anything about who it is you’re looking for.”

She waited for an explanation, but he didn’t comment.

Temperance sighed. “You said only that you were searching for someone, which, I must tell you, my lord, was no help at all.”

“Yet I sense you still have a destination in mind,” Lord Caire murmured.

“I do.” They’d come to the end of the alley, and she ducked through a crumbling archway into an even narrower alley.

“And that is?” There was a trace of amusement in Lord Caire’s voice.

“Right here,” she said with some satisfaction. Really she was rather pleased with herself for coming up with a source for him on such little information.

They stood in front of a building without any windows. Only a swinging wooden sign with a painted candle on it indicated that this was a chandler’s shop. Temperance pushed open the door. Inside, the shop was tiny. A counter ran along one side. The goods were displayed here and there, in heaps and piles and hanging on the walls. Candles, tea, tin cups, salt and flour, string, lard, a few knives, a ragged fan, some new brooms, buttons, one little plum tart, and, of course, gin. At the far end of the counter, two women huddled over their cups. Behind the counter stood Mr. Hopper, a small, dark man who might’ve grown to his exact size so that he might fit inside his shop.

Selling gin without a license was illegal, of course, but licenses were exorbitantly dear and few could afford them. Besides, the magistrates relied on paid informers to bring unlicensed gin sellers to the courts—and no informer would dare set foot in St. Giles. The last had been attacked by a mob, dragged through the streets, savagely beaten, and finally left to die of his injuries, poor man.

“What might I do for you t’night, Mrs. Dews?” Mr. Hopper asked.

“Good evening to you, Mr. Hopper,” Temperance replied. “My friend is looking for someone, and I wonder if you might help him?”

Mr. Hopper squinted at Lord Caire suspiciously, but he said cheerfully enough, “Aye, I might. Who be you lookin’ for?”

“A murderer,” Lord Caire replied, and every head in the room swiveled toward him.

Temperance caught her breath. A murderer?

The gin drinkers silently slipped out of the shop.

“Nearly two months ago, a woman was murdered in her rooms in St. Giles,” Lord Caire continued, unperturbed. “Her name was Marie Hume. Do you know anything about her?”

But Mr. Hopper was already shaking his head. “Don’t have no truck with murder. An’ I’ll thank you to take this gentleman out of here, Mrs. Dews.”

Temperance bit her lip, glancing at Lord Caire.

He didn’t seem particularly put out. “A moment, please,” he said to the shopkeeper.

Mr. Hopper reluctantly looked at him.

Lord Caire smiled. “Might I have that tart?”

The shopkeeper grunted and handed him the plum tart, pocketing tuppence in return before pointedly turning his back. Temperance sighed, feeling rather irritable. It was obvious that she’d have to find another informant for Lord Caire.

“You could’ve warned me,” she muttered outside the shop. The wind blew her words back in her face and she shivered, wishing she were by her own cozy fire.

Lord Caire seemed unaffected by the cold. “What difference would it have made?”

“Well, for one, I wouldn’t have tried Mr. Hopper.” She stomped across the street, making sure to dodge the sludge in the channel.

He easily caught up with her. “Why not?”

“Because Mr. Hopper is respectable and your inquiries obviously aren’t,” she said in exasperation. “Why ever did you buy that tart?”

He shrugged. “I’m hungry.” He bit into the pastry with relish.

She watched him lick purple syrup from the corner of his mouth and swallowed in reaction. The tart did look awfully good.

“Would you like a bite?” he asked, his voice deep.