Wicked Intentions

Temperance snatched up a candle and hurried into her small sitting room. She swiftly stripped off her shawl, dress, and shoes. By the time Nell came back with her troops, Temperance stood in only shift and stays.

“I’ve had this for five years or more,” Nell said as she entered with a bundle. “I couldn’t bear to part with it even when I was at my most desperate.”

She laid the bundle on a chair and unwrapped it. Shimmering red silk slithered across the chair’s cushion. Temperance stared. The dress was beautiful—bright and colorful and far, far too bold.

“I can’t wear that,” she blurted before she could think of Nell’s feelings.

But Nell merely set her arms akimbo. “And what else might you be wearing, Mrs. Dews? You can hardly go in that.”

That being Temperance’s usual black stuff dress, lying now across the back of the armchair. Temperance had exactly three dresses, and all were practical black stuff.

“I—” she began, but was immediately muffled as Nell threw the red dress over her head. She fought her way through the sleeves and bodice and emerged sputtering. Nell ran around behind her and began hooking up the back.

Mary Whitsun cocked her head critically. “It’s a pretty color, ma’am, but the bodice doesn’t quite fit.”

Temperance looked down, realizing she’d never before seen so much of her bosom on display before. The bodice was extremely low. “Oh, no. I can’t—”

“No, you certainly can’t.” Nell came around to examine her. “Not like this anyway.” And she plucked the loose fabric at the bodice, pulling it forward to two points in front of Temperance’s own smaller breasts. Nell let the silk go and it sagged in the front. “No, we’ll have to take it in.”

“What about down here?” Mary Whitsun asked. She’d bent to peer at Temperance’s hem, which unfortunately was several inches off the floor.

Nell grunted. “That too. Ladies, we have a busy afternoon ahead of us.”

And they did. All afternoon, Nell and her company tugged and stitched and cut.

Nearly four hours later, Temperance stood in the kitchen for a last inspection. In the intervening time, she’d bathed and washed her hair. Nell had set it expertly, threading a bit of crimson ribbon through her hair. The cherry-red dress almost glimmered in the firelight as Temperance attempted to yank up the neckline. It was still far too low for her tastes.

“Stop that.” Nell batted at her hands. “You’ll pull out the stitches.”

Temperance froze. The last thing she needed was the dress to completely fall off of her.

“It’s a pity you don’t have proper slippers,” Mary Whitsun said.

Temperance pulled aside her skirts to look at her sturdy black buckle shoes. “Well, these will just have to do. And with the addition of the ruffle Nell added to the hem, I think they’ll hardly be noticeable.” The ruffle was black silk and had once been one of Papa’s nicer coats.

“It does look lovely,” Mary said.

Temperance’s mouth trembled. “Thank you, Mary Whitsun.”

She was absolutely terrified. Only now did the full implication of her bargain with Lord Caire bear upon her. She was going to rub shoulders with the aristocracy—with those sparkling people, so elegant and bright they hardly seemed human. Would they think her a figure of fun?

How could they not?

Well, Lord Caire was certainly human enough. Temperance squared her shoulders. What did it matter what these exotic creatures thought of her? She was attending the musicale to save the home. For Winter and Nell and Mary Whitsun and all the other children. For them she could certainly endure one night’s humiliation.

So she smiled at her audience of small children and said, “Thank you all. You’ve been—”

“Someone’s at the door!” One of the little boys scurried to the front door.

“Joseph Tinbox.” Temperance started after him into the front hallway. “Do not run. It hardly matters if—”

But Joseph Tinbox unlatched the door at that point and pulled it open, revealing not Lord Caire, but Silence.

Temperance halted. Her sister’s face was pale and she wore no cap. Her lovely russet hair was windblown, her hazel eyes tragic. Silence never even glanced at the beautiful cherry-red dress.

“Temperance.”

“What is it?” Temperance whispered.

Silence put her hand to the door frame as if to brace herself. “William’s cargo has been stolen.”

IT WAS PAST four by the time Lazarus’s carriage pulled up at the end of Maiden Lane. The lane itself was too narrow for the carriage, so he descended the steps and told the coachman and footmen to wait before walking to the door of Mrs. Dews’s foundling home. The sunlight hadn’t yet completely faded, but he was sure to keep his fist firmly on his ebony walking stick. He caught the movement of a shadow out of the corner of his eye, a strange flicker of black and red, but when he turned, the thing—a man?—was gone.

After two nights of rest, his shoulder felt even worse than it had the evening he was wounded. It throbbed with a low, continual beat of pain. At the sight of the wound this morning, Small had broken his usual reserve to suggest that his master might do well to spend the evening abed—a suggestion that Lazarus had discarded after only a moment’s consideration. He owed Mrs. Dews an event in which she might go hunting a patron for her home. In addition, he was oddly eager to see her again, a state of mind that a dark inner part of himself found vastly amusing. He’d nearly forgotten about the musicale invitation, but once remembered this morning, he knew it was one of the few events to which he might take Mrs. Dews.

Most of his invitations were considerably less benign than a musicale.

Lazarus used the head of his stick to rap upon the home’s wooden door. It was opened almost at once by a small female urchin with an abundance of freckles over her cheeks and snub nose. She stood back without a word and he entered the pitiful hallway. It was empty save for themselves.

He arched an eyebrow at the child. “Where is Mrs. Dews?”

The child stared back, apparently stricken mute by his presence in her home.

Lazarus sighed. “What is your name?”

There was another awkward silence during which the child inserted a thumb into her mouth, and then they were both rescued by the clicking of advancing heels.

“Mary St. Paul, please return to the kitchen and tell Nell she must bar the door well behind me,” Mrs. Dews said.

She was lit from behind by the light in the kitchen, and she seemed to come toward him in a glowing nimbus cloud. She wore a crimson frock, a startlingly bright color that contrasted to the severity of her usual attire. Her bosom was framed by a low, round neckline, the expanse of smooth white skin nearly glowing.

His groin had the predictable reaction.

He bowed. “Mrs. Dews.”

“Hmm?” Her gaze focused on him as if she’d only now noticed him, and his vanity reared in disbelief.

He straightened, deliberately holding out his arm for her. It was expected, of course, the offering of his elbow to a lady, an everyday polite gesture. For him, however, with his peculiar aversion to touch, it’d always been a source of discomfort and thus avoided if at all possible. But right now he seemed to yearn for her touch. Odd, that. She placed her fingers on his sleeve. He felt the jolt, even through the stiff fabric, but whether it was of pain or some more indefinable sensation, he was unable to tell.

Interesting.

“Shall we?” he asked rhetorically.

But she seemed to hesitate, glancing back toward the home’s kitchen. “I think… Yes, I think so.” She looked at him squarely for the first time, and he thought he detected a faint flush high on her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”

He nodded and escorted her out the door. The night was chill, and she drew a thin wrap about her shoulders. The wrap was gray and coarse, obviously more her usual style, and looked even poorer contrasted to the rich red of her silk dress. Lazarus frowned, wondering where she’d gotten the dress. Had she always had it, saving it for special occasions, or had she been forced to purchase it for this evening?

Mrs. Dews cleared her throat. “Your letter said that it is a musicale we’ll be attending.”

They’d drawn abreast of the carriage, and one of the footmen had already jumped down to set the step. Lazarus took Mrs. Dews’s fingers in his gloved hand, assisting her into the carriage.

He didn’t know if he was glad to have her no longer touching him or not. “The hostess is Lady Beckinhall, a veritable lioness in London society. There should be many wealthy guests at her house tonight.”

Mrs. Dews settled herself on the cushions across from him. Lazarus knocked on the roof and took his own seat.

She was frowning down at her lap. “You make me sound mercenary.”

“Do I?” He tilted his head, studying her. She was nervous and distracted tonight, but he didn’t think it was at the prospect of attending such a rarefied social event. What had upset her? “I don’t mean to, I assure you.”

She turned to look out the darkened windows, staring at her own reflection, perhaps. “I suppose I am mercenary, but it’s for the home.”

“I know.” For a moment, he felt an odd tenderness toward her, his little martyr.

Then she looked back at him. “How do you know Lady Beckinhall?”

His mouth twisted. “She is a good friend of my mother.”

“Your mother?” Her eyebrows had winged up her white forehead.

“Did you think I emerged fully formed from my father’s thigh?”

“No, of course not.” She raised a hand to her bosom and then let it drop. “Your mother is alive, then?”

He inclined his head.

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

He remembered wide brown eyes, too solemn for her age, and a touch that had never brought pain.

Lazarus blinked away the phantom. “No.”

She cocked her head, eyeing him doubtfully.

He made himself smile. “Truly. I am the last of my family save my lady mother.”

She nodded. “I have three brothers and two sisters.”

“The Makepeaces are obviously quite fertile,” he replied drily.

She pursed her lips, as if in disapproval, but continued. “I have a younger sister. Her name is Silence.”

He raised his eyebrows but had the intelligence not to comment.

She leaned forward a little, the movement making her wrap slide off one ivory shoulder. He found himself wondering if she’d made the movement intentionally.

“Silence is married to a ship’s captain, Mr. William Hollingbrook. He returned recently to port. Last night the cargo of his ship was stolen.”

She stopped and watched him with those odd light brown eyes, as if waiting for a reaction.

He tried to think what would be usual, were this situation usual and he an ordinary man. “I’m sorry?”

She shook her head, his reply obviously inadequate. “If the cargo is not recovered, at least in part, Captain Hollingbrook will be ruined. Silence will be ruined.”

He rubbed his thumb over the silver falcon on his stick. “Why? Had he invested in the ship?”

“No, but apparently the ship’s owner is accusing him of complicity with the thieves.”

He contemplated that. “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of an entire ship’s cargo being stolen.”

“It is rather extraordinary. Apparently it’s not unusual for a portion of the cargo to go missing, but everything on board…” She shrugged and sank back into the squabs as if weary.

He watched her, this woman from another world. He didn’t know why she had chosen to confide her worries to him, but it pleased him irrationally to be the recipient of her confidence. His mouth twisted at his own idiocy.