Wicked Intentions

“Ah,” Winter said noncommittally.

“And I went to Concord’s house for dinner the other night, and he was quite cold. Asa was supposed to be there as well, but he didn’t come. Didn’t even send his regrets.” Silence picked up a pillow to plump. “You won’t credit it, I’m sure, but Concord implied that I’d been seduced by Mr. O’Connor, even after I told him that that simply wasn’t the case. I don’t think he believes me, Winter. I don’t think Temperance believes me either.”

She must’ve hit the pillow overhard because a small cloud of feathers puffed from a corner.

“I see,” Winter said slowly, eyeing his damaged pillow.

“I’m sorry.” Silence placed the pillow back on the bed and gave it a gentle pat. “But you believe me, don’t you? You know that Mr. O’Connor never touched me, that he only asked me to spend the night. And I did. I did spend the night in his room, but nothing—nothing at all!—happened. Do you believe me, Winter?”

She stood, arms crossed protectively over her breasts, and stared at him anxiously.

“I believe,” Winter said slowly, “that you are my sister and that no matter what happened, I will continue to love you and stand by you.”

“Oh,” she whispered, and stupid tears started in her eyes. For it was the sweetest thing Winter could possibly say—and also the most horrible. He obviously didn’t believe her either.

“Silence…”

“Well, then,” she said without looking at him; she couldn’t or she just might either burst into tears or hit him, neither of which would be very good. “I’ll just go down and see if Temperance needs my help in the kitchen.”

“Silence,” he called as she made the door.

She didn’t turn, staring down at her hand on the knob as she said gruffly, “What?”

“Have you ever thought about helping us here on a more permanent basis?”

The question was so startling that Silence turned to look at Winter.

He was regarding her gravely. “We could use your help, you know.”

“Why?” she whispered.

He blinked and looked down at his plate of soup. “I think it might be of benefit both to you and to us.”

He thought she was ruined. The realization was sudden and so entirely unwelcome that Silence was struck dumb.

Winter raised his eyes to hers, and they were filled with regret and sorrow. “Please at least think about it.”

She nodded jerkily and left quickly without replying. She couldn’t.

No one believed she’d walked out of Mickey O’Connor’s bedroom untouched. Not her neighbors, who whispered as she walked by. Not the shopkeepers, who turned their backs and pretended to be busy when she came into their stores. Not William, who had been mute as she’d watched him pack and leave. Not Asa or Concord or Verity or even Temperance or Winter. Even her own family thought she lied to cover some horrible sin.

No one believed her in all the world.

Chapter Eighteen

King Lockedheart looked bemused. “But if I open the cage door, the bird shall fly.”

“If you want to learn what love is, you must open the door,” Meg said.

So the king opened the little blue bird’s cage door. Immediately the bird took flight and darted out an open window of the room.

The king looked at Meg with his eyebrow cocked. “I think that all I have learned is how to lose a bird.”

“Is it?” she asked. “What do you feel?”

The king frowned. “Loss. Emptiness.”…

—from King Lockedheart

“Then you think we can do it?” Mrs. Dews leaned forward, her face bright, her extraordinary brown eyes eager.

St. John nodded, amazed by her vitality. How could he not be? She was in such extreme contrast to Clara’s still form upstairs.

He shoved the awful thought aside and focused on answering her instead. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve already had my secretary send out the invitations to view the foundling home.”

Mrs. Dews bit her lip. “How many did you invite?”

“A little over a hundred people.”

“Oh!” She sat very still, her eyes wide, but her hand crept out to seize the wrist of her maidservant, a woman named Nell.

St. John had been taken aback by the presence of the maid on this, Mrs. Dews’s second visit to his house. On the first, she’d arrived alone and nearly vibrating with the excitement of her idea: to open the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children for viewing in the hopes of catching the interest of a prospective patron for the home. It was a daring scheme, but one that was shrewd as well. Viewing the unfortunate, whether at prisons, hospitals, or houses for the hopelessly mad, was fashionable in London at the moment. Most came merely to stare and titter at the antics of those poor souls, but many would also pledge monies to the charities they viewed.

“That’s quite a lot of people,” Mrs. Dews said, letting go of her maid.

“Yes, but they are all of the best families—ones to whom charity is now in fashion.” St. John arched a significant eyebrow.

“Quite. Yes, of course.” Mrs. Dews smoothed her black skirts with one hand. It trembled slightly, and St. John had a wild urge to cross the room and comfort her.

“Do you think you’ll be ready in time?” he inquired, clasping his hands behind his back.

“I believe so,” she said, looking a bit relieved at the change of subject. “We’ve already scrubbed the walls and floors, Winter has been listening to the children recite various poems by heart, and Nell has been busy mending the children’s clothes.”

“Good, good. I’ll have my cook make a quantity of punch and some gingerbread the day before to be delivered quite early on the set morning.”

“Oh, but you’ve done so much already,” Mrs. Dews exclaimed. “I don’t wish you to go to the expense on my account.”

“It’s for the children,” St. John reminded her gently. “I’d feel quite the lackwit if I didn’t contribute to our little plan. Please, don’t mention it.”

“In that case…” She smiled shyly at him, her eyes so alive.

How Caire could’ve let this woman slip through his hands was beyond him. He turned quickly, pretending to study the china clock on his mantelpiece. “If that is all today?”

“Oh! Oh, of course,” she said from behind him, sounding a little hurt. “I don’t mean to take up your time, Mr. St. John. You have been of such great help to me and our home.”

He clenched his jaw to prevent himself from stuttering apologies. Instead he bowed a bit stiffly. “Good day, Mrs. Dews.”

She left then, after a graceful curtsy, and only the maid shot him a curious look over her shoulder. He waited until the door to his library shut before walking to the window that overlooked the street below. He watched as she crossed the street, her stride light and graceful, one hand on her bonnet, for it was a windy day. The maid walked by her side instead of behind, and they seemed to be conversing. Her black-clad figure grew small, and in another moment she’d disappeared into the London crowd.

St. John let the curtain fall from his fingers.

He looked about his library, but despite the books and news sheets and clutter, it seemed barren and lonely after her visit. He left the room and mounted the stairs, climbing two floors up. He didn’t visit Clara often at this hour; she usually slept in after what was invariably a restless night. But today he found himself unable to keep away. In the back of his mind, he knew that there would come a day—perhaps soon—when he would no longer be able to climb the stairs and see her.

St. John tapped at her door and then cracked it open. The old maid who was Clara’s constant companion looked up from her chair by the bed, then rose and crossed to tend the fire.

He approached the bed and looked down. Clara must’ve just had her hair washed, for it was spread, a bright banner, over her white pillow. The locks were a deep brown with bits of red in them, now streaked with strands of gray. He found himself stroking her hair. She’d once told him it was her best feature, and he’d been amazed that ladies categorized their person thusly. Amazed and fondly amused.

“Godric,” she whispered.

He looked down and saw her brown eyes watching him. Once they had been as beautiful as Mrs. Dews’s. Now they were always pain-filled.

He bent and brushed a careful kiss across her wide forehead. “Clara.”

She smiled, her pale lips curving just slightly. “To what do I owe this visit?”

He whispered in her ear, “A deep and abiding longing to see the most beautiful woman in the world.”

She laughed, as he’d intended, but then the gentle sound turned to a hacking cough that shook her frame. The nurse hurried over.

St. John stepped back, watching with painful patience as Clara’s spasm gradually subsided. When it was over, sweat had dampened her hair and her face was more pale than her pillow, but she looked at him and smiled.

He swallowed past the constriction in his throat. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I merely wanted you to know that I love you.”

She held a shaking hand out to him.

He took it and watched as she mouthed, “I know.”

St. John made himself smile before turning and leaving his wife’s bedroom.

IT WAS LATE afternoon nearly a week later when Temperance knocked on Polly’s door. Now that Winter was recovered, she and Mary Whitsun had been running errands in preparation for the home’s viewing, but it was important that she stop by Polly’s rooms today.

Polly answered the door with a sleeping Mary Hope in her arms and a shawl thrown over her shoulder. “Come in, Mrs. Dews, Mary Whitsun. It’s that glad I am to see you.”

“Is Mary Hope any better?” Temperance whispered the question as she stepped into the crowded little room. A glance showed her Polly’s own babies sleeping together on the bed. Mary Whitsun tiptoed over to replace the blanket one of the children had kicked off.

“Aye, she is.” The wet nurse beamed as she looked down at the baby. “The fever’s left and she’s sucking strong. I think she might just live, ma’am.”

“Oh, thank God.” Temperance closed her eyes in relief. The babies died so often. It was a welcome surprise to find one who struggled through fever so young.

Not that Mary Hope was entirely out of the woods yet. “And your own babies?”

“They never got the fever, thank the Lord,” Polly replied. “Healthy as young puppies, they are.”

“Thank you, Polly.” Temperance made a mental note to reward the wet nurse.

“Will you hold her?” Polly asked. “She’s just now fallen to sleep, and I haven’t had a moment to put myself to rights.”

She held out the babe, and Temperance remembered Lazarus’s words—that he’d seen her refuse to touch the baby. She hesitated only a second before taking the warm little bundle into her arms. Mary Whitsun peered over her arm, and they both looked down with wonder at the tiny delicate fingers that splayed against one pink cheek. Temperance’s eyes stung with tears.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Polly asked with concern as she tucked her shawl into her bodice.

“Yes,” Temperance murmured as she wiped her cheek against her shoulder. “It’s just that it was so close.”

“That it was,” the wet nurse said comfortably, taking back the baby.

“There’s no use not loving them, is there?” Temperance whispered. She glanced at Mary Whitsun, who was still enthralled by the baby’s tiny face.

“Aye, I’m afraid ’tis silly to even bother,” Polly replied. “One look in their wee faces and we’re all lost, aren’t we?”