Wicked Intentions

He eyed her sharply. “I didn’t know.”

She nodded. “Of course not. You were a child, and we were not a particularly close family.”

He didn’t bother replying to that.

She continued. “So when Annelise was born, she was very dear to my heart. Your father, of course, had no need of a girl child, but that was just as well.” She glanced up quickly at him and then down again at her glass. “He’d taken you away from me when you were but a baby, made you his own, as it were. His heir. So I made Annelise my own. Her wet nurse lived in the house, and I visited her every day. Several times a day if I could.”

She took a long sip of brandy, closing her eyes.

Lazarus didn’t say anything. He didn’t remember this, but then he’d been a child and only interested in matters that impacted his own small world.

“When she became ill…” She stopped and cleared her throat. “When Annelise became ill that last time, I begged your father to send for a doctor. When he refused, I should’ve sent for one myself. I know that. But he was adamant… and he was your father. You remember how he was.”

Oh, yes, he remembered well how Father was. Hard. Mean. Completely assured of both his own invincibility and his own correctness. And cold, so very cold.

“Anyway,” she said softly, “I thought you should know.”

She looked at him as if waiting for something, and he stared back, mute, because he wasn’t sure if he was ready—if he’d ever be ready—to give it to her.

“Well.” His mother drained her glass and set it on a table before rising. She smiled brilliantly at him. “It’s very late and I must be getting home. Tomorrow I have a fitting for a new gown and then an afternoon tea to attend, and I must get some sleep if I’m to look my best.”

“Naturally,” he drawled.

“Good night, Lazarus.” She turned to the door, but then hesitated before looking at him over her shoulder. “Please remember that just because love isn’t expressed doesn’t mean it isn’t felt.”

She swept from the room before he could reply.

Lazarus reseated himself and watched as he swirled the last of the brandy in his glass, remembering a little girl’s brown eyes and the scent of oranges.

SHE COULDN’T GO on like this.

Silence pretended sleep as she watched her husband rise. They’d slept in the same bed last night, but it might as well have been separate houses. William had lain as still as a corpse on the far side of the bed, so near the edge she’d thought he might fall off in the night. When she’d carefully inched over to lie against him in the dark, his entire body had stiffened, and fearing he really would fall, she’d rolled back to her own side, hurt.

But it had taken her many hours to finally sleep.

Now she watched as he shaved and dressed without ever looking her way. Something shriveled and died inside her. His ship’s cargo had reappeared just as suddenly as it had disappeared. The ship’s owner was overjoyed, William was no longer in peril of being sent to prison for theft, and he’d finally received his pay.

They should have been happy.

Instead, despair hovered over their little home like an insidious mist.

William buckled his shoes and left the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. Silence waited a moment and then rose herself, hurriedly tiptoeing about the room to dress. Yesterday he’d left without saying good-bye. And, indeed, when she came out of the bedroom, he already had his hat on.

“Oh,” she said.

He walked to the door.

“I… I’d hoped to make you breakfast,” she said in a rush.

He shook his head without looking at her. “No need. I have business this morning anyway.”

He’d been at sea for over six months. Probably he did indeed have business, but at seven of the clock?

“He never touched me,” she said low. “I vow on my mother’s grave, he never touched me. I swear… I swear on…”

She looked wildly around the room and ran to pick up the Bible her father had given her as a little girl. “I swear, William, on—”

“Don’t.” In two strides he was beside her, finally. He gently took the Bible from her hands. “Don’t.”

She looked at him helplessly. She’d told him again and again, but each time he merely looked away from her.

“It’s the truth,” she said, her voice trembling. “He took me to his bedroom and told me that if I spent the night in his bed, then in the morning he would return the cargo. He promised he would not touch me, and he did not. He did not, William! He slept on a chair by the fire the entire night.”

She fell silent, mutely urging him to acknowledge her, to turn and kiss her and pat her on the cheek and say what a silly misunderstanding this all was. To be her William again.

Instead he turned his face away from her.

“Oh, why can’t you believe me?” she cried.

He shook his head, his weariness more chilling than anger would’ve been. “Mickey O’Connor is a notorious scoundrel without a scrap of decency or pity, Silence. I don’t blame you. I just wish you had let me handle this.” He looked at her finally, and to her horror, she saw that his eyes swam with tears. “I wish to God you’d never gone there.”

He strode to the door and jerked it open.

“He asked me if you loved me,” she cried.

He halted, still and silent.

“I told him you did,” she whispered.

He walked out without answering and shut the door behind him.

Silence stared at her hands and then around the small, old room. She’d thought it homey once. Now it merely seemed dreary. She sat abruptly on a straight-backed chair. When she’d told Charming Mickey that her husband did indeed love her, he’d simply smiled and replied, If he loves you, he will believe you.

What a fool she was.

What a fool.

HE’D NEVER REALLY allowed himself to examine why he sought Marie’s killer, Lazarus reflected as he paced through the darkening streets the next night. St. John had told him he was obsessed, and Temperance had accused him of believing he was in love with Marie when he had no idea what love was, but was either right? Perhaps he simply was on a quixotic quest for no discernible reason. Perhaps his life was so barren that the violent death of a mistress was a welcome excitement.

Depressing thought.

She’d been seeing other men while living at his expense. The knowledge should’ve shocked him, made him angry, but his only emotion was curiosity: Had she needed more money than his generous allowance? Or had she needed the sexual coupling?

He stepped around a near-skeletal man, passed out or perhaps dead in the street. He was nearing St. Giles. The street was becoming narrower, more filthy and wretched. The channel in the middle of the street was clogged with noxious debris, the stench a miasma that seemed to cling to the skin.

He’d already found one of the men Faulk had named, a thin weaselly fellow who’d never once met his eyes as they’d talked. He couldn’t help but think the man needed to tie up his women in order to get the courage to become aroused. The thought was repugnant. Was that what he was? A coward unable to look a woman in the eye as he bedded her?

Except he could look Temperance in the eyes. He didn’t need the ropes and hood with her. She was a kind of freedom for him. A pleasant sort of normalcy.

Perhaps that was why his feet guided him to her even now.

Night had fallen fully, black and ominous, by the time he entered St. Giles proper. Lazarus grasped his stick more firmly, aware that he’d been attacked three times now in this area. He’d been intent on the hunt, on following the trail of blood, but perhaps he should look more closely at where and when he’d been attacked.

On why he’d been attacked.

Up ahead, a gang of men emerged around the corner. Lazarus faded back into a side alley and watched their approach warily. They were arguing over a gold watch and a curled wig—they’d obviously already preyed on at least one unlucky gentleman tonight.

Lazarus waited a moment after their voices had died into the night and then continued.

Ten minutes more and he stood outside Temperance’s kitchen door. The hour was late. He hesitated a moment, straining to listen for any sounds from within. When he could make out none, he twisted apart his stick, drawing out his short sword. He inserted the blade in the crack between the door and the frame. A moment of careful maneuvering and he’d lifted the bar.

Easing the door open, he glided inside and rebarred it. The kitchen fire was banked for the night. Perhaps she’d already gone to bed. He could sneak up the stairs, but he had no idea which room was hers. The risk of alarming the house was too big. Besides, a teapot sat on the table, a small, pitiful tin of tea beside it. Perhaps she meant to return for her midnight cup of tea.

He entered her little sitting room as he had on that first night he’d met her. The grate was cold, and he knelt to lay a fire, returning briefly to the kitchen for a spill. Then he sat and waited like a lovelorn swain. Lazarus laughed lightly under his breath. Wasn’t that what he was? A suitor waiting in bitter hope that his lady would grace him with her presence? It wasn’t even about the sex. He simply wanted to be with her. To watch the expressions flit across those extraordinary golden eyes. To listen to her voice.

Oh, he was pitiful.

He heard rustlings from the kitchen and he tilted his head, closing his eyes to listen. Was it her out there? He imagined so, seeing in his mind’s eye her pulling the kettle from the hearth and pouring the water over the tea leaves. He sat inert and called to her silently, his whole body longing for her.

The door creaked and he opened his eyes to see her staring at him. He smiled like a fool; he couldn’t help it.

“Oh,” she said, quite obviously nonplussed. “What are you doing here?”

“Calling on you,” he replied. “I fear I need to go into St. Giles tonight, and I need you with me.”

She stared at him a moment and then turned back into the kitchen. He followed to find her already putting on a cloak. “Why do you need me?”

“Because I plan to go back to Mother Heart’s-Ease.”

“Why?” She frowned at him over the ties to her cloak. “We’ve been there twice; surely we’ve learned all we can there?”

“It would seem so.” He ran a finger along the worn wooden kitchen table. “Except that I went to see one of Marie’s lovers. He says he met Marie at Mother Heart’s-Ease’s gin house.”

“What?” She stared at him. “But Mother Heart’s-Ease acted as if she’d never met Marie.”

“And perhaps she hadn’t.” He shrugged. “Still, I find it very odd that Marie would have patronized her gin shop. Marie catered to gentlemen. Had you asked me before she died, I would’ve said she wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like Mother Heart’s-Ease’s shop.”

“It’s very odd.” She walked to the bottom of the stairs and called softly, “Mary Whitsun.”

A thump and then the patter of feet came from above.

“And then there’s Martha Swan,” he said.

She looked a question at him.

He smiled whimsically. “I know it sounds daft, but think: Why were we attacked at Martha Swan’s place?”

She shrugged. “To keep us from talking to her.”

“But she was already dead.”

Her brows knit together, but Mary Whitsun appeared at that moment in her night rail. “Ma’am?” The girl looked uncertainly between him and Temperance.

“Bar the door behind me, please,” Temperance said. “And then go back to bed.”

The girl nodded and in another moment they were in the alley.

The wind caught the edge of Temperance’s cloak and sent it billowing about her. “If not to keep us from talking to Martha Swan, then why the attack?”