“This is the baby you rescued tonight?” Winter asked softly.
Temperance nodded mutely. The little girl looked even more frail next to the thriving baby boy.
But Winter merely touched the baby’s hand with a gentle finger. “How do you like the name Mary Hope?”
Temperance swallowed past the thickness in her throat. “’Tis most apt.”
Winter nodded and with a last caress for the tiny babe, left the room. The next door led to the boys’ dormitory. Four beds held thirteen boys, all below the age of nine—nine was when they were apprenticed out. The boys lay, limbs sprawled, faces flushed in sleep. Winter smiled and pulled a blanket over the three boys nearest the door, tucking in a leg that had escaped the bed.
Temperance sighed. “One would never think that they spent an hour at luncheon, hunting for rats in the alley.”
“Mmm,” Winter answered as he closed the door softly behind them. “Small boys grow so swiftly to men.”
“They do indeed.” Temperance opened the last door—the one to the girls’ dormitory—and a small face immediately popped off a pillow.
“Did you get ’er, ma’am?” Mary Whitson whispered hoarsely.
She was the eldest of the girls in the foundling home, named for the Whit Sunday morning twelve years before when she’d been discovered on the home’s step. Young though Mary Whitson was, Temperance had to sometimes leave her in charge of the other children—as she’d had to tonight.
“Yes, Mary,” Temperance whispered back. “Nell and I brought the babe home safely.”
“I’m glad.” Mary Whitson yawned widely.
“You did well watching the children tonight,” Temperance whispered. “Now sleep. A new day will be here soon.”
Mary Whitson nodded sleepily and closed her eyes.
Winter picked up a candlestick from a little table by the door and led the way out of the girls’ dormitory. “I shall take your good advice, sister, and bid you good night.”
He lit the candlestick from his own and gave it to Temperance.
“Sleep well,” she replied. “I think I’ll have one more cup of tea before retiring.”
“Don’t stay up too late,” Winter said. He touched her cheek with a finger—much as he had the babe—and turned to mount the stairs.
Temperance watched him go, frowning at how slowly he moved up the stairs. It was past midnight and he would rise again before five of the clock to read, write letters to prospective patrons, and prepare his school lessons for the day. Then he would lead the morning prayers at breakfast, hurry to his job as schoolmaster, work all the morning before taking one hour for a meager luncheon and then work again until after dark. In the evening he heard the girls’ lessons and read from the Bible to the older children. Yet when she voiced her worries, Winter would merely raise an eyebrow and inquire who would do the work if not he?
Temperance shook her head. She should be to bed as well—her day started at six of the clock—but these moments by herself in the evening were precious. She’d sacrifice a half hour’s sleep to sit by herself with a cup of tea.
So she took her candle back downstairs. Out of habit, she checked to see that the front door was locked and barred. The wind whistled and shook the shutters as she made her way to the kitchen, making the back door rattle. She checked it as well and was relieved to see the back door still barred.
Temperance shivered, glad she was no longer outside on a night like this. She rinsed out the teapot and filled it again. To make a pot of tea with fresh leaves and only for herself was a terrible luxury. Soon she’d have to give this up as well, but tonight she’d enjoy her cup.
Off the kitchen was a tiny room. Its original purpose was forgotten, but it had a small fireplace and Temperance had made it her own private sitting room. Inside was a stuffed chair, much battered, but refurbished with a quilted blanket thrown over the back. A small table and a footstool were there as well—all she needed to sit by herself next to a warm fire.
Humming, Temperance placed her teapot and cup, a small dish of sugar, and the candlestick on an old wooden tray. She picked it up and because both her hands were full, she backed into the door leading to her little sitting room. Which was why she didn’t notice until she turned that the sitting room was already occupied.
There, sprawled in her chair like a conjured demon, sat Lord Caire. His silver hair spilled over the shoulders of his black cape, a cocked hat lay on one knee, and his right hand caressed the end of his long ebony walking stick. This close she realized that his hair gave lie to his age. The lines about his startlingly blue eyes were few, his mouth and jaw firm. He couldn’t be much above five and thirty.
He inclined his head at her entrance and spoke, his voice deep and smooth and quietly dangerous.
“Good evening, Mrs. Dews.”
* * *
SHE STOOD STRAIGHT and tall, this respectable woman who lived in the sewer that was St. Giles. Her eyes had widened at the sight of him, but she made no move to flee. Indeed, finding a strange man in her pathetic sitting room seemed not to frighten her at all.
Interesting.
“I am Lazarus Huntington, Lord Caire,” he said.
She blinked. “I know. What are you doing here?”
He tilted his head, studying her. She knew him, yet did not recoil in horror? Yes, she’d do quite well. “I’ve come to make a proposition to you, Mrs. Dews.”
Still no sign of fear, though she eyed the doorway. “You’ve chosen the wrong woman, my lord. The night is late. Please leave my house.”
No fear and no deference to his rank. An interesting woman indeed.
“My proposition is not, er, illicit in nature,” he drawled. “In fact, it’s quite respectable. Or nearly so.”
She sighed, looked down at her tray, and then back up at him. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
He almost smiled. Tea? When had he last been offered something so very prosaic by a woman? He couldn’t remember.
But he replied gravely enough, “Thank you, no.”
She nodded. “Then if you don’t mind?”
He waved a hand to indicate permission.
She set the tea tray on the wretched little table and sat on the padded footstool to pour herself a cup. He watched her. She was a monochromatic study. Her dress, bodice, hose, and shoes were all flat black. A fichu tucked in at her severe neckline, an apron, and a cap—no lace or ruffles—were all white. No color marred her aspect, making the lush red of her full lips all the more startling. She wore the clothes of a nun, yet had the mouth of a sybarite.
The contrast was fascinating—and arousing.
“You’re a Puritan?” he asked.
She stirred a large lump of sugar into her cup. “No.”
“Ah.” He was interested in her religious beliefs only as they impacted his own mission.
She took a sip of tea. “How do you know my name?”
He shrugged. “Mrs. Dews and her brother are well known for their good deeds in St. Giles.”
“Really?” Her tone was dry. “I was not aware we were so famous beyond the boundaries of St. Giles.”
She might look demure, but there were teeth beyond the prim expression. And she was quite right—he would never have heard of her had he not spent the last month stalking the shadows of this poor district.
Stalking fruitlessly, which was why he’d followed her home and sat before this miserable fire now.
“How did you get in?” she asked.
“I believe the back door was unlocked,” he replied smoothly.
“No, it wasn’t.” Her brown eyes met his over her teacup. They were an odd light color, almost golden. “Why are you here, Lord Caire?”
“I wish to hire you, Mrs. Dews,” he said softly.
She stiffened and set her teacup down on the tray. “No.”
He tilted his head. “You haven’t heard the task I wish to hire you for.”
She sighed. “It’s past midnight, my lord, and I’m not inclined t
o games even during the day. Please leave or I shall be forced to call my brother.”
He didn’t move. “Not a husband?”
“I’m widowed, as I’m sure you already know.” She turned to look into the fire, presenting her profile to him.
He stretched his legs in what room there was, his boots nearly in the fire. “You’re quite correct, I do know. I also know that you and your brother have not paid the rent on this property.”
She said nothing, merely sipping her tea.
“I’ll pay handsomely for your time,” he murmured.
She looked at him finally, and he saw a flame in those pale eyes. “You think all women can be bought?”
He rubbed his thumb across his chin, considering the question. “Yes, I do, though perhaps not strictly by money. And I do not limit it to women—all men can be bought in one form or another as well. The only trouble is in finding the applicable currency.”
She simply stared at him with those odd eyes.
He dropped his hand, resting it on his knee. “You, for instance, Mrs. Dews. I would’ve thought your currency would be money for your foundling home, but perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps I’ve been fooled by your plain exterior, your reputation as a prim widow. Perhaps you would be better persuaded by influence or knowledge or even the pleasures of the flesh.”
“You still haven’t said what you want me for.”
Though she hadn’t moved, hadn’t changed expression at all, her voice had a rough edge to it. He caught it only because he had years of experience at the chase. His nostrils flared involuntarily as if the hunter within was trying to scent her. Which of his list had interested her?
“A guide.” His eyelids drooped as he pretended to examine his fingernails. “Merely that.”
He watched her from under his brows and saw when that lush mouth pursed. “A guide to what?”
“St. Giles.”
“Why do you need a guide?”
Ah, this was where it got tricky. “I’m searching for… something in St. Giles. I would like to interview some of the inhabitants, but I find my search confounded by my ignorance of the area and people. Hence, a guide.”
Her eyes had narrowed as she listened, her fingers tapping against the teacup. “What do you search for?”
He shook his head slowly. “Not unless you agree to be my guide.”
“And that is all you want? A guide?”
He nodded, watching her.
She turned to look into the fire as if consulting it. For a moment the only sound in the room was the snap as a piece of coal fell. He waited patiently, caressing the silver head of his cane.
Then she turned to face him fully. “You’re right. I’m not tempted by your money. It’s a stopgap measure that would only delay our eventual eviction.”
He cocked his head, feeling the beat of the pulse beneath his skin, his body’s response to her feminine vitality. “What do you want, then, Mrs. Dews?”
She met his gaze levelly. “I want you to introduce me to the wealthy and titled people of London. I want you to help me find a new patron for our foundling home.”
Lazarus kept his lips firmly straight, but he felt a surge of triumph as the prim widow ran headlong into his talons.
“Done.”
Elizabeth Hoyt, To Desire a Devil
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends