Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(80)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“I think so, yes. As am I,” Lady Hero said almost diffidently. “I was orphaned at the age of eight, you know.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t.”

Lady Hero waved aside her apology. “It was a long time ago now. But there are any number of ladies who are interested to one degree or another with the welfare of poor infants.”

“Oh,” was Temperance’s not very eloquent reply. It hadn’t occurred to her to seek a patroness. Somehow she had been thinking all along about a patron who would be like Sir Stanley Gilpin—older, wealthy, and male—when perhaps she should’ve been focusing merely on the wealthy bit. She smiled at Lady Hero. “How wonderful!”

Lady Hero smiled. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to show me about your home.”

“Of course,” Temperance said, but Winter descended the stairs at that moment.

“Sister, have you seen Mary Whitsun?” Winter had a line between his brows.

“Not since this morning.” She turned to look at Nell.

The maidservant shrugged. “Shall I look for her?”

“If you don’t mind, Nell,” Winter said.

Nell hurried up the stairs.

“You must be Mr. Makepeace,” Lady Hero said.

“This is Lady Hero Batten, Winter,” Temperance said.

“An honor to meet you, ma’am.” Winter bowed.

“I was just telling Mrs. Dews—” the lady began, but Nell came rushing back in the room again. She held Joseph Tinbox by one arm.

“Tell her what you’ve told me,” Nell demanded of Joseph. “Tell her where Mary Whitsun went!”

“She left,” Joseph said succinctly. His brown eyes were wide, his face so pale the freckles stood out. “She said it was all right. She said everyone was too busy.”

Temperance felt ice form in her breast. “Too busy for what?”

“A woman came and said there was a babe what needed fetching,” Joseph said. “Mary went with her.”

Temperance glanced out the door. The sky had already begun to darken, night slinking into St. Giles like an alley cat.

Dear God. Mary Whitsun was out in St. Giles at night with a mad killer on the loose.

LAZARUS DRIFTED THROUGH the late afternoon streets of St. Giles. The sun was beginning to set, the feeble rays withdrawing swiftly from tall buildings, overhanging eaves, and a myriad of swinging signs. Lazarus leapt over the corpse of a cat in the gutter and continued on his way.

He was close, very close, to finding Marie’s murderer. Again and again he’d come back to St. Giles, and this trip he felt might very well be the last one—for better or worse. Danger was lurking here, sharpening its claws, waiting for him to make a false move.

Danger or not, something deep inside him felt it only right to balance the scales. He needed to see that Marie’s murderer was punished before he could move on with Temperance. And he needed to see Temperance again. Badly. He had no doubt that the breath would stop in his chest if he could no longer touch her, speak to her, and watch those amazing golden-flecked eyes reflect her true emotions.

But first he had to find Marie’s murderer.

To that end, he’d tried speaking to Tommy Pett thrice in the last week—the boy must know something about the connection between Mother Heart’s-Ease and his sister. But each time Lazarus had called at Mrs. Whiteside’s establishment, Tommy had been unaccountably absent. Perhaps a late daytime call would find him in.

In another fifteen minutes, he turned into Running Man Lane, following its twists and turns until it spilled into the courtyard where Mrs. Whiteside’s whorehouse was. But as he neared, he could hear bawling and raised voices. His last few steps were made at a run.

The sight that greeted him in the courtyard was an odd one: the ladies—and boys—of the night all seemed to be standing in the courtyard, many holding candles or lanterns. Some argued, some wept, and some simply stood stunned. At that moment, Pansy walked out of the whorehouse with her hulking guard, Jacky, behind her. Lazarus began pushing through the crowd, even as Jacky raised his massive hands above his head and clapped them together, effectively silencing the courtyard.

“The house has been searched. No one lurks within. The danger is gone,” Pansy said in her deep voice. “Now I want all of you to go back inside.”

Jacky clapped his hands together again, and one by one, the whores moved reluctantly inside.

A big woman in purple silk braced her hands on her hips. “An’ ’ow are we to know it’s safe in there?”

Pansy shot her a stern look. “Because I say ’tis.”

The woman turned red-faced and shuffled inside.

Lazarus stepped forward and Pansy caught sight of him. She jerked her chin. “You’re not wanted here.”

He was undeterred. Wanted or not, he had the feeling that what was inside the whorehouse was of importance to him.

“What has happened?” he asked.

“Nothing you need worry about,” she muttered, and turned aside as if to leave him there.

Without thinking, he caught at her shoulder before she could disappear inside the house, then felt more than saw Jacky swing at him. The guard was a big man, but he had a big man’s slowness. Lazarus easily ducked inside the blow and punched him hard in the gut. Jacky fell heavily to his knees.

Pansy made a distressed sound and wrapped her tiny arms about the big man’s shoulders. “Stop it!”

Lazarus stepped back but kept his hands fisted. It wouldn’t do to underestimate Jacky.

Pansy sighed, her misshapen face looking a little gray. “I’m as good as dead anyway. Come inside.”

Jacky lumbered to his feet, shooting a nasty look at Lazarus, but he stood aside to let him in.

Lazarus entered the house with the hairs on the back of his neck on end. The guard wouldn’t mind killing him. Only Pansy’s will kept him from attacking.

She made no other comment but led the way up the stairs. A few whores still lingered in the hallways, gossiping, but at the sight of the madam, they vanished into their rooms. Pansy stopped at a door midway down the upper hallway and cast an inscrutable glance at Lazarus before she pushed it open.

The smell hit him first, the stench of bowels and blood. The body on the bed had been gutted—just like Marie. He stepped closer, mindful of the dark smears on the floor, and gazed into the waxen face. It was Tommy, the boy’s countenance oddly serene above the violence of his body.

Lazarus looked back at Pansy. She was staring fixedly at the horror on the bed, but at his look, she jerked her chin at him. “Come downstairs. I need a cup of tea.”