Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)

He looked at her a moment, his sad, brown eyes grave; then he nodded and stood. “I’ll spare you the debate tonight, sister, but a night’s sleep won’t change my mind. Your association with this man has brought you into danger, made you neglect your duties to the home and the children, and, I fear, imperils your good sense and virtue. I don’t want you seeing Lord Caire again.”

He nodded politely and left the kitchen.

Temperance let her head sink into her hands.

Nell cleared her throat after a moment of silence. “A cup of tea always sets me right, especially afore bed.”

Temperance had to blink back the tears that had welled in her eyes. “Thank you.”

She’d never exchanged heated words with Winter. Asa and Concord could be quite maddening in their stubborn inability to see other people’s viewpoints, but Winter had never raised his voice to her. He was a thoughtful man, not easily roused to anger, and the realization that she’d done just that tonight was extremely upsetting.

Nell placed a pot of tea on the table along with two cups, and sat opposite her. She poured the steaming tea into one of the cups. “Mr. Makepeace didn’t mean to be so… so… ah…” Nell trailed away, apparently unable to think of a word without disparaging her employer.

Temperance smiled wryly. “Yes, he did.”

“Oh, but—”

“And he’s right.” Temperance reached across the table and took the full teacup, pulling it toward herself. “I shouldn’t leave him to go gallivanting about the East End with Lord Caire. I am neglecting my duties.”

Nell poured a second cup of tea silently, stirring in a huge lump of sugar. She took a delicate sip and then placed her cup carefully back on the table, her eyes on the tea. “Lord Caire is a very… fair man, quite easy on the eyes, I find.”

Temperance looked at her.

Nell bit her lip. “It’s that hair, I think, so long and thick and shining. And silver! It’s just so very striking.”

“I like his eyes,” Temperance admitted.

“Do you?”

There was a drop of tea on the table, and Temperance placed her fingertip in it and drew a circle on the table. “I’ve never seen eyes so blue. And his eyelashes are so dark in contrast to his hair.”

“He has quite a nice nose,” Nell said with consideration.

“And his lips are wide and curved at the ends. Have you noticed?”

Nell sighed, which seemed answer enough.

Temperance bit her lip. “And they’re so firm, yet so soft. They quite take my breath away.”

She realized that she might’ve said too much with that last confession and hastily took a sip of tea.

When she placed the cup back on the table, Nell was looking at her thoughtfully. “He seems to have a special… consideration for you.”

Temperance’s eyes dropped to the table again. Her tea circle had dried up. “How can you tell that? You’ve never even met him.”

“Ah, but I’ve heard from the children and Polly,” Nell said. “Polly says that the way he looks at you gives her thrills.”

How did he look at her? Was Nell mistaking lust for caring? And why did it matter so much to her?

Temperance shook her head, placing her hands flat on the table. “His wants are unnatural. And even if they were not, what kind of a woman would I be to let my urges guide me?”

“Perhaps an ordinary woman,” Nell said gently.

Temperance was silent, remembering the red-haired woman with the scarf over her eyes. Remembering how excited she’d been by the sight. She was so tired of trying to contain her urges, and here was Lord Caire who didn’t try to contain them at all. He seemed to revel in them instead.

Nell cleared her throat. “I once had a friend who liked a bit of adventure in the bedroom.”

“Really?” Nell hardly ever spoke of her previous profession.

Nell nodded. “He was an ordinary gentleman in other regards—he made watch faces—but in the bedroom, he liked to tie up the lady he was with.”

Temperance kept her gaze carefully focused on the bit of table between her hands, even as she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. To have this discussion at all was horribly embarrassing, but to do so with Lord Caire in mind… oh, goodness!

“Did…” Temperance stopped and licked her lips. “Did he hurt you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Nell said. “Make no mistake, there are gentlemen who like to hurt the girls they’re with, but my gentleman wasn’t one of them. He just seemed to enjoy the whole thing more with me unable to move.”

“Oh,” Temperance said in a small voice.

She shouldn’t be thinking of this at all; it incited the worst impulses in her. But she felt rebellion rise in her breast. Was it so horrible to merely contemplate a sexual union with Caire? To wonder what the scarf would feel like? To guess at what he might do first if she was bound, helpless and open to him? To imagine giving in to her urges without guilt—the way Lord Caire seemed to do?

She repressed a shudder. “I thought you disapproved of Lord Caire?”

“I don’t know the man,” Nell said carefully. “I know only his reputation among the ladies of the night in St. Giles.”

Temperance frowned. “The fact that he has any reputation at all among those ladies should be cause enough for disapproval.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Nell sighed. “I know a man should remain pure if he’s unwed. He shouldn’t visit whores if he has impulses.”

Temperance nodded jerkily. Of course not. Sexual congress outside the bonds of marriage was sinful.

“The thing is, ma’am,” Nell said quietly. “I just don’t see how it hurts.”

Temperance looked up quickly. “What do you mean?”

Nell shrugged. “Well, bedsport. I reckon all men and most women like it, even outside of marriage. Why is it so bad?”

Temperance stared, unable to reply.

Nell leaned forward. “If bedsport brings joy, even for a little while, why condemn it?”

ST. JOHN WAS in his study the next morning, frowning over a speech by Cicero, when Molder cleared his throat phlegmily at the door. “Lord Caire to see you, sir.”

He would’ve perhaps claimed to not be home, but Caire, damn him, was right behind the butler. St. John clenched his jaw, set down his pen, and waved Caire in.

Caire strolled in carrying a huge bouquet of daisies. “You won’t credit who I met in St. Giles last night.”

“A whore?” St. John asked acidly.

“No. Well, yes.” Caire scratched his chin. “At least I assume they were whores, but that is nothing new. No, I made the acquaintance of the infamous Ghost of St. Giles.”

“Did you, now?” St. John busied himself rearranging the papers on his desk.

When he glanced up again, Caire was looking at him thoughtfully. He placed his posy on a table. “A man in a harlequin’s tunic, a floppy hat with a scarlet feather, and a black half-mask. Oh, and he was brandishing both a long and a short sword. Rather overly flamboyant, in my opinion.”

St. John snorted. “As if you’re one to critique the flamboyance of others.”

Caire ignored him. “I think it was the scarlet feather that was too much.”

St. John sighed. “And what was the Ghost doing?”

“Saving my hide, if you must know.”

“What?”

“I was attacked by five thugs last night. The ghost rather fortuitously intervened.”

“Was Mrs. Dews with you?” St. John asked softly.

Caire turned and looked at him silently.

“Damn it!” St. John pushed away from the desk. “Why do you persist in pursuing that lady? You’re placing her in danger.”

“I dislike that fact as much as you. I’ve decided that I can no longer take her into St. Giles without a guard of some sort.” He shook his head. “I haven’t yet decided how to continue my inquiries with her.”

“You should leave her be entirely.”

Caire’s mouth twisted humorlessly. “I find I cannot.”

“Why?” St. John shook his head. “She isn’t even your type.”

“What is my type?”

St. John glanced away. They both knew well enough the kind of women Caire favored.

“Whores?” Caire asked softly. “Women who can be bought by jewels?”

St. John looked at him helplessly.

Caire was pacing the room. “Perhaps I tire of my type. Perhaps I wish to be in the company of a different sort of woman.”

St. John sat forward, his voice low and intense. “Then why her? There are innumerable ladies of our own social rank, intelligent, witty, and beautiful, who would be more than happy to have you call upon them.”

“And each would be mentally assessing my annual income and my ancestry.” Caire smiled a bit sadly. “Perhaps I want a woman who cares naught for either. Perhaps I want a woman who, when she looks at me, sees nothing but a man.”

St. John stared.

“There’s something about her,” Caire said in a low voice. “She cares for everyone about her, yet neglects herself. I want to be the one who cares for her.”

“You’ll ruin her,” St. John said.

“Will I? The lady is not unwilling no matter your protests. Cut line, Godric. Why does she bother you so much?”

St. John was silent, a long-held sorrow welling in his chest.

“She reminds you of Clara, doesn’t she?” Caire asked quietly.

“Damn it.” St. John’s eyes were stinging. “Does she remind you of Clara?”

“No.” Caire touched the bouquet of daisies with one fingertip. “Clara was always yours, right from the very start. I never thought of her as anything but a dear friend. I confess I cannot say the same for Mrs. Dews.”

St. John stared at his hands, clenched on his desk. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I think I’ve acted out of jealousy.” St. John closed his eyes. “You have a healthy, strong lady.”

“No, it is I who should apologize. Your burden is heavy.”

St. John bent his head, unable to speak.

“You know I would give my own life if I could take away her disease,” Caire whispered.

Caire’s steps moved away and St. John heard the door close gently.

St. John inhaled, opening his eyes. They were wet and he blotted them irritably upon his sleeve. Then he rose and crossed to the flowers Caire had brought. There were at least two dozen, bright white and gold daisies.

He picked them up and carried them out of his study.

Daisies were Clara’s favorite flower.

IT WAS LATE that afternoon when Silence set out. If this Charming Mickey person was a thief who worked at night, it stood to reason that he’d not be in the best of moods in the morning.

And she wanted to see him when he was in a good mood.

She walked quickly along the narrow street, taking care not to meet the eyes of any of the other people who roamed this area of London. Most were street hawkers, returning home after a long day calling their wares in more prosperous parts. They pushed wheelbarrows with wilting vegetables or carried trays empty now of pies and fruit. These people she did not fear. But there were others she did—short men with shifting, mean eyes. Women in gaudy dresses, standing in doorways and at the entrance of alleys, lifting one side of their skirts as the men passed by to advertise their profession. These last two groups Silence hurried away from.

She was aware that her plain woolen skirt and simple lace cap were of far better quality than that worn by the other people around her. She’d dressed neatly for this interview, wanting to impress without standing out, but even her second-best skirt drew looks from the whores on the corners. She pulled her cloak more firmly about her and ducked her head, walking quickly.