Wicked Intentions

Standing, Temperance knocked hard against the carriage roof. “Stop! Stop, please! I wish to go to a different address. I wish to visit Mr. St. John.”

LAZARUS HAD NEVER thought of himself as lovable. Therefore it should come as no shock at all that Temperance did not, in fact, love him. No, not a shock… but it would have been nice had she had some small feeling for him.

Lazarus pondered his own sickening craving as he guided his black gelding through the London morning throng the day after he’d walked out on Temperance. It appeared that his own nascent emotions had provoked a new desire as well: the urge to be loved. How banal. And yet, banal or not, he could not change the way his heart felt.

A corner of his mouth quirked up humorlessly. It seemed he must be like other men after all.

The black shied and Lazarus looked up. The address he sought this morning was not so very far from his own town house. The square he now guided the horse into was new, the houses genteel and so elegant they must’ve cost a fortune to rent. Lazarus swung down from the gelding and gave the reins to a waiting boy, along with a shilling for his troubles. He mounted the pristine white steps and knocked.

Five minutes later, Lazarus was shown into a study both luxurious and comfortable. The chairs were wide enough for a man’s girth and covered in a deep red leather. The books were in enough disarray to suggest actual use, and the massive desk, taking up an entire corner of the room, shone with polish.

Lazarus strolled the room while he waited for his host. When the door at last opened, he had a copy of Cicero’s speeches in his hands.

The man who entered wore a full-bottomed white wig. The outer corners of his eyes, his lips, and his jowls all sagged downward as if pulled by an invisible string, giving his countenance the agreeable look of a hunting dog.

He glanced at Lazarus, raised a bushy gray eyebrow at the book in his hands, and said, “May I help you, sir?”

“I hope so.” Lazarus closed and set aside the book. “Am I addressing Lord Hadley?”

“You are indeed, sir.” Hadley gave an abbreviated bow and, sweeping aside the skirts of his coat, sat heavily in one of the leather chairs.

Lazarus inclined his head before sitting across from his host. “I am Lazarus Huntington, Lord Caire.”

Hadley arched an eyebrow, waiting.

“I was hoping you could help me,” Lazarus said. “We have—or rather had—a mutual acquaintance: Marie Hume.”

Hadley’s expression didn’t change.

Lazarus cocked his head. “A blond lady specializing in certain forms of entertainment.”

“What forms?”

“The rope and hood.”

“Ah.” Hadley didn’t seem at all embarrassed by the outré turn of conversation. “I know the gel. Called herself Marie Pett when she was with me. I was under the impression she had died.”

Lazarus nodded. “She was murdered in a house in St. Giles almost three months ago.”

“A pity,” Hadley said, “but I don’t see how it matters to me.”

Lazarus inclined his head. “I wish to find the murderer.”

Hadley showed the first sign of emotion since Caire had arrived: curiosity. He took a small enameled box from a pocket, tapped out a pinch of snuff, inhaled, and sneezed. He blew his nose and shook his head as he put away his handkerchief. “Why?”

Lazarus raised his eyebrows. “Why what?”

“Why d’you want to find this gel’s murderer?”

“She was my mistress.”

“And?” Hadley fingered the snuffbox still in his hand. “You know about her specialty, so I assume you used her for the same purpose as I. A pity, as I said, that she’s dead, but there are other women to fulfill our particular needs. Why bother seeking her killer?”

Lazarus blinked. No one had ever asked him the question phrased in such a way. “I… spent time with her. With Marie.”

“You loved her?”

“No, I never loved Marie. But she was a person. If I do not find her killer, seek retribution for her death, then no one held her in regard. Then…”

Then what?

But Hadley finished his sentence for him. “And if no one holds Marie in regard, then perhaps no one holds you in regard? No one holds us in regard. We are merely solitary creatures enacting our bizarre form of human contact without anyone caring about us at all.”

Lazarus stared at the other man, a bit stunned.

Hadley’s mouth curved, creating a whole array of sagging wrinkles in his cheeks. “I’ve had a bit more time to think it out than you.”

Lazarus nodded. “Do you know any other who visited her?”

“Besides that worm she called a brother?”

“Tommy?”

“Aye, Tommy.” Hadley pursed his lips, not an attractive expression for him. “Tommy was there, lurking about, nearly every time I visited fair Marie. Once he came with an older woman. She wore a soldier’s red coat. Seemed a bad sort, but as I said, I didn’t bother much with Marie’s personal life.”

“Indeed?” Lazarus frowned. The brother had said he only visited his sister rarely. Apparently he lied. And how was Mother Heart’s-Ease involved with this? She and her shop seemed to pop up at every turn.

“Does that help?” Hadley inquired courteously. “I never met any of her other clients.”

“It does help.” Lazarus stood. “I thank you, my lord, for your time and your frankness.”

Hadley shrugged. “It was no trouble. Would you like to stay for a glass of wine, sir?”

Lazarus bowed. “Thank you, but I have another appointment this morning. Perhaps some other time?”

It was merely a polite gesture and both men knew it. A fleeting emotion crossed Hadley’s face, but it was gone before Lazarus could decipher it.

“Of course.” Hadley stood. “Good day, sir.”

Lazarus bowed again, crossing to the study door. But a thought gave him pause there. He turned to look at the older man. “Might I ask one more question, sir?”

Hadley waved a hand, indicating assent.

“Are you married?”

That same expression trod across Hadley’s face, deepening each wrinkle and sag. “No, sir. I have never married.”

Lazarus bowed yet again, conscious that he’d crossed the bounds of civility. He let himself out of the elegant, expensive town house. But as he emerged into the morning sun, he wondered: Had loneliness left its stamp upon his features as well?

SILENCE STOOD IN front of the foundling home the next morning and smiled. No, that wasn’t quite right. She looked at her feet and tried again, feeling the muscles move in her cheeks. How odd. Something that had been as natural as, well, smiling just days ago was now so foreign that she wasn’t sure she was doing it properly.

“Have you got a toothache, ma’am?”

Silence looked up into the rather grubby face of one of the orphans. Joseph Smith? Or perhaps Joseph Jones? Goodness! Why had her brother and sister chosen to name all the boys Joseph Something and all the girls Mary Whatever? Had they been quite mad?

But the boy was still staring at her, one dirty finger stuck in his mouth.

“Don’t do that,” she said sharply, startling them both. She’d never reprimanded one of the children, sharply or otherwise.

The child immediately removed his finger, watching her rather warily now.

Silence sighed. “What is your name?”

“Joseph Tinbox.”

Silence wrinkled her nose. “Whyever were you named that?”

“Because,” the boy said, “when I comed here, I had a tin box tied to my wrist.”

“Of course,” Silence muttered, giving up on the smile altogether. “Well, Joseph Tinbox, I’m here to see Mrs. Dews. Do you happen to know where she is?”

“Yes’m,” Joseph replied.

He turned and opened the door to the home—apparently unlocked this afternoon—and led her into the house. There was a great commotion coming from the kitchen, and when Silence stepped in, she saw Temperance, her hair coming down about her ears, managing sheer chaos. A group of boys stood in the corner, alternately singing in high, angelic voices and poking each other when Temperance or Nell turned their back. Nell was supervising the weekly wash, while three small girls tended a large pot of something steaming on the hearth.

Temperance turned just as Silence entered and shoved back a lock of curling hair. “Silence! Oh, thank goodness. I could use your help today.”

“Oh.” Silence stared about the kitchen rather dazedly. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Temperance said firmly. “Winter is still ill. Could you take this tray up to him?”

“Winter is ill?” Silence picked up the tray automatically.

“Yes.” Temperance frowned at the singing boys. “From the beginning again, please. And Joseph Smith, do stop shoving Joseph Little. Yes,” she said again, turning back to Silence. “I forgot to tell you, didn’t I? Oh, so much has happened in the last day. Just take him his food, and under no circumstances should you let him rise from his bed.”

Temperance’s look was quite stern, and Silence was tempted to salute, though she wisely refrained from the gesture. She hurried from the kitchen instead and made her way to Winter’s room up under the eaves. Perhaps Temperance had had some sort of foresight, for as Silence pushed open the door, she caught Winter putting on his breeches.

Or trying to in any case.

Her youngest brother was pale and sweating and fell against the bed as she shut the door behind her.

“Can’t a man have some privacy?” Winter said in uncharacteristic ill humor.

“Not if you’re attempting to escape.” Silence set the tray on a small table by the bed, balanced precariously atop a pile of books. “Sorry.”

“She told you, didn’t she?” Winter asked darkly.

“That you’re ill? Yes.”

Silence wrinkled her nose in sympathy. Temperance could be rather bossy sometimes, although in this case Silence was in full agreement with her sister. Winter looked quite terrible. He’d taken off his nightshirt to get dressed, and she could count the ribs on his bare torso. He bent to retrieve his nightshirt from the floor, and she sucked in her breath.

He straightened hastily, but she’d already seen the long cut on his back. “Dear God! Where did you get that?”

He pulled his nightshirt on over his head. When he reappeared, he grimaced. “It’s nothing, really. Please don’t tell Temperance; she’ll only worry more.”

Silence frowned. “But where did you get it? It looks like a knife cut.”

“Nothing of the sort. I fell.” He looked sheepish. “In the street the other day. I’m afraid I came down on a wagon wheel and the iron cut right through my coat.”

“How strange. It looks exactly as if someone had cut you with a knife—or a sword, I suppose.” Silence tried to look over his shoulder, but he sat back against the pillow with a slight wince. “Have you cleaned it?”

“It’s fine. Truly.” He smiled, crooked and endearing. “I admit that I may’ve let the wound go when I first got it and that may have led to my fainting spell, but it’s healing properly now.”

“But—”

“Really, Silence,” he said. “Now. Tell me how things are with you.”

“Oh.” She carefully transferred the tray to his lap, making sure it was settled enough that it wouldn’t spill. “Well, William has sailed again.”

Winter glanced up from a spoonful of soup. “So soon?”

She looked away, busying herself with straightening the bed linens. “There was a ship whose captain fell suddenly ill. William assured me that he would be paid well for going back to sea early.”