She’d been happy enough in her marriage, hadn’t she? Surely she had because Benjamin was a good man, a likable man. And he’d been gentle in their marriage bed—the few times he’d been passionate. Benjamin believed that physical love was a holy act between a man and wife. Something to be done thoughtfully and not too often. In fact, the only time he’d come close to sounding vexed with her was when she’d suggested that perhaps they might practice their physical bond more often. He’d made it quite plain that a woman who sought out sex was to be pitied.
She’d known, even then, that something was wrong about her makeup. That she had urges that needed to be watched. And yet when temptation had presented itself, she’d fallen with hardly a struggle. John had been a young lawyer renting a room next to their house. Temperance frowned. Now when she tried to recall what he’d looked like, all she could remember was how hairy the backs of his hands had been. At the time, to her younger self, that had seemed like an exciting sign of male virility. She’d thought herself passionately in love, with a tragic fatefulness that had been all-consuming at the time and now was only dimly remembered. The afternoon she’d fallen, Temperance remembered thinking that she would die—physically fall ill and die—if she did not lay with John.
So she had and her life had crumbled apart.
She’d returned from the dingy room John had rented to find Benjamin—grave, handsome Benjamin—breathing his last. His chest had been crushed by the wheels of a huge brewer’s cart. He hadn’t even regained consciousness before dying. Temperance didn’t remember much after that. Her family had taken care of Benjamin’s funeral, had cared for and comforted her. Weeks later, she found out that John had left his rented rooms without ever saying good-bye to her.
She hadn’t cared.
Ever since, she’d worked to hide her sin—and the temptation of lust. Had she in the process become a hypocrite? She’d wanted the comfort of Caire’s arms, but she was so wrapped up in her own demons that she hadn’t even thought about his feelings.
Caire was right. She’d used him. The thought made her squirm, made her want to lash out—blame Winter for his collapse, blame John for seducing her so long ago, blame Silence for her foolish bravery, blame Caire for his advances—blame, in fact, anyone but herself. She hated the knowledge that she was so base. He was right. She’d used him for sexual pleasure and hadn’t even the courage to acknowledge the fact to herself.
And somehow in the process of using him, she’d so hurt him that he believed she thought sex with him was degrading.
It was a temptation to make excuses for herself. But she fought down all her prevarication, her lies and evasions. She swore to herself two things: one, that she would save the home. And two, she would find a way somehow to heal the hurt she’d caused Lazarus. She’d find a way to open herself to him, even at the risk of hurting herself, because she owed him that. Because if she didn’t, she would never be able to get him back. Could she admit how she felt to him? She was no longer sure. The mere thought of expressing aloud her feelings made sweat start at the small of her back.
But there was something she knew she could do.
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 v
isited 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.”
“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.
Wicked Intentions Page 28
