Wicked Intentions

  “You worry too much.”

  “Yes.” Temperance braced as the carriage swung hard around a corner. “Yes, I do.”

  She bit her lip. Because despite her light words, she knew her worry was well founded. She very much feared Lord Caire’s wound was infected.

  And infection could kill a man.

  Chapter Seven

  At Meg’s words, all within the room gasped.

  “Nonsense!” the king roared. “I am beloved by my people. Everyone tells me this is so.”

  Meg shrugged. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but they have lied to you. You may be feared but you are not loved.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “I will prove to you that I am loved by my people, and when I have done so, I will have your head to decorate my palace gates. Until then, you may reside in my dungeons.”

  And with a wave of his hand, Meg was dragged away….

  —from King Lockedheart

  Infection could kill within days—hours if the wound turned putrid rapidly.

  Temperance couldn’t keep the morbid thought from her mind as Lord Caire’s carriage rumbled through the dark London streets. She didn’t even know where he lived or if they had a long ride or one of only minutes. Perhaps she should’ve insisted he stay at Lady Beckinhall’s town house, despite his obvious desire to conceal his illness.

  “You’re very quiet, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire said slowly from across the carriage. “I vow, it makes me nervous. What plots have you worked for me in that Puritanical mind of yours?”

  “I only wondered how soon we would arrive at your house.”

  He rolled his head, squinting out the window as night lights flashed by. After a bit, he closed his eyes again. “I can’t tell where we are. Halfway to Bath, for all I know. But never fear, my coachman is a humorless man. He’ll see us safely home.”

  “Of course.”

  “D’you like dancing as well?” he asked suddenly.

  Was he delirious? “I don’t dance.”

  “Naturally not,” he murmured. “Martyrs dance only upon crosses. I’m surprised you let yourself enjoy even something as innocent as piano music.”

  “I used to have a spinet as a young girl,” she said absently. Surely they must be nearly there?

  “And you played.”

  “Yes.” She remembered suddenly the feel of the smooth, cool piano keys beneath her fingers, the sheer joy of producing music. That time seemed so innocent and far away now.

  His eyes cracked lazily. “But you no longer play?”

  “I sold the spinet after my husband’s death.” She waited for him to make a cutting remark about Benjamin again.

  “Why?”

  The simple question startled her enough that she glanced at him. He was watching her through slitted eyes, the blue of his irises glittering even in the dim carriage.

  “Why what?”

  “Why sell the piano you so obviously treasured? Did you fear you’d be tempted by the small pleasure of the music? Or was it something else?”

  Temperance clenched her hands together in her lap, but her voice was calm as she replied with a half-truth. “We needed the money for the home.”

  “No doubt you did,” he murmured, “but I don’t think that’s why you sold your spinet. You enjoy punishing yourself.”

  “What a nasty thing to say.” She turned her face away from him, feeling the heat in her cheeks. Prayed he couldn’t see her in the dim carriage.

  “Yet you don’t deny the accusation.” He grunted in pain as the carriage rocked.

  She glanced swiftly at him, only to inhale as she met his sharp gaze. Even in his weakened state, she felt as if she were pinned by a predator.

  “What imagined sin do you punish yourself for?” he asked softly. “Did you covet another female’s bonnet once as a child? Gorge yourself on sweetmeats? Felt a naughty thrill at a lout brushing up against you in the street?”

  Raw rage, sharp and unexpected, washed over her, making Temperance shake. She restrained herself from shouting a retort only with difficulty. Instead, she breathed deeply, staring at her fists in her lap. To let herself speak now would be the height of stupidity. She’d say too much, reveal too much. He was perilously close to her secret shame as it was.

  “Or,” Lord Caire’s obnoxiously calm voice drawled, “perhaps the sin was more grave than those I cite.”

  She remembered that long-ago thrill when she’d catch sight of a certain man, his crooked smile making her heart leap so unbearably. The memories were shadows of her ancient emotions and desires, still lurking long after their progenitor had died.

  Temperance lifted her head, staring into his wicked blue eyes, her jaw clenched. A slight smile played about his wide mouth, sensuous and seductive. Did he torture her out of curiosity? Did he enjoy her pain?

  The carriage halted and Lord Caire broke their stare. “Ah. We’ve arrived. Thank you for accompanying me home, Mrs. Dews. Once I alight, the coachman will take you to your own home. I bid you good night.”

  She was terribly tempted to simply leave him here. He’d taunted and prodded her like a little boy poking sticks at a caged monkey, purely for his own amusement. And yet when he stood and swayed, half slumping against the carriage doorway, she jumped up.

  “I loathe you, Lord Caire,” Temperance said through gritted teeth as she took his arm.

  “So you’ve informed me already.”

  “I am not finished.” She staggered as he leaned heavily against her. A young footman opened the carriage door, and he immediately took Lord Caire’s other arm to help him down. “You’re an impossibly rude man, without morals or even manners, as far as I can see.”

  “Oh, stop, I beg you, Mrs. Dews.” Lord Caire grunted. “You’ll turn my head with this flattery.”

  “And,” Temperance continued, ignoring his words, “you’ve behaved abominably to me since the moment we met—when you broke into my home, might I remind you.”

  Lord Caire had made it to the street, where he paused, panting, his hand on the shoulder of the young footman who gaped at the two of them. “Is there a point to this diatribe, or are you merely venting your spleen?”

  “I have a point,” Temperance said as she helped him up the steps to his imposing town house. “Despite your treatment of me and your own foul personality, I intend to stay with you until a doctor sees to you.”

  “Flattered though I am by your martyrish impulses, Mrs. Dews, I have no need of your help. Bed and a brandy will no doubt see me right.”

  “Really?” Temperance eyed the idiot man, swaying on his own doorstep. Sweat dripped down his reddened face, the hair at his temples was plastered to his head, and he literally shook against her.

  In one swift move, Temperance elbowed him in his wounded shoulder.

  “God’s blood!” Lord Caire doubled over, choking.

  “Send for a doctor,” Temperance ordered the butler, who was standing wide-eyed at the door next to another footman. “Lord Caire is ill. And you two”—she jerked her chin at the footmen—“help Lord Caire to his bedroom.”

  “You,” gasped Lord Caire, “are a vindictive harpy, madam.”

  “No need to thank me,” Temperance said sweetly. “I’m merely doing my Christian duty.”

  The sound he made at her words might’ve been either a laugh or a grunt of pain; it was hard to tell. In any case, Lord Caire made no more argument as the footmen helped him up the stairs to his room.

  Temperance followed behind, and although her motives for making sure that Lord Caire was properly seen to were almost entirely altruistic, she still couldn’t help herself from noting his home. The staircase they mounted was marble, but even more grand than the one at Lady Beckinhall’s town house. It curved elegantly into the upper floor. Huge portraits of men in armor and haughty women in fabulous jewels lined the walls, their eyes seeming to examine with disapproval her intrusion into this home. Beneath her feet, a lush crimson carpet lined the stairs, cushioning their footsteps. In the upp
er hallway, life-sized marble statues peered eerily out of niches along the walls. Tall double doors were thrown wide as their procession neared. A slight servant of middling years stood anxiously by as they entered Lord Caire’s rooms.

  Temperance turned to him as the footmen took Lord Caire to the massive bed in the center of the room. “You’re Lord Caire’s valet?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looked between her and Lord Caire. “My name is Small.”

  “Good.” Temperance turned to the footmen. “Fetch some water, as hot as possible, and clean cloths, please. Also, a bottle of strong spirits.”

  The footmen left hurriedly.

  “Just let me be, man!” Lord Caire’s irritable voice rose from the bed.

  Temperance turned to see the valet backing away from his master. Lord Caire sat on the side of the bed, his head hanging, his body listing against the green and brown embroidered bed curtains.

  “But, my lord… , ” the poor valet protested.

  She sighed. What a very exasperating gentleman Lord Caire was!

  She advanced on the bed with determination. “Your wound has grown foul, my lord. You must let Small and me help you.”

  Lord Caire swung his head sideways and glared at her out of the corner of his eye like a wild thing. “I’ll let you take care of me, but Small must leave the room. Unless you enjoy an audience?”

  “Don’t be disgusting,” she said, far too gently, as she raised his uninjured arm and drew the coat sleeve off him. She frowned at the stain on his right shoulder. “This will be painful, I’m afraid.”

  Lord Caire had closed his eyes but he smiled crookedly. “All touch gives me pain. And besides, I have no doubt that any pain you cause me will at least bring you vast amusement.”

  “What a terrible thing to say.” Temperance was unaccountably wounded. “Your pain brings me no joy.”

  She gently eased the coat sleeve from his shoulder, but despite her efforts, he hissed.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered as Small deftly unbuttoned Lord Caire’s waistcoat. Caire seemed to have forgotten that he’d ordered the manservant to leave, and she was relieved—undressing him would be hard enough with just the two of them.

  “Don’t be,” Lord Caire murmured. “Pain has always been my friend. It reminds me when I venture too near the edge of reason.”

  He sounded delirious. Temperance frowned as she examined his shoulder. His wound was seeping and the poisonous fluids had glued his shirt to his body. She looked up to meet the gaze of the valet. From the manservant’s anxious expression, he’d seen the problem as well.

  The footmen returned with the hot water and cloths at that moment, trailed by the short, stout butler.

  “Set it there,” Temperance directed, pointing to a table by the bed. “Has the doctor been sent for?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the butler said in a sonorous voice.

  Small cleared his throat, and when Temperance looked at him, he whispered, “We’d best not wait for the doctor, ma’am. He’s unreliable after seven of the clock.”

  Temperance glanced at the elegant gold clock on the bedside table. It was nearing eight at night. “Why not?”

  “He drinks,” Lord Caire slurred from the bed. “And his hands shake. Don’t know if I’d let the blighter near me in that state in any case.”

  “Well, isn’t there another doctor we can send for?” Temperance asked. For goodness’ sake! Lord Caire was wealthy. He should have plenty of people to look after him.

  “I’ll make inquiries, ma’am,” the butler said, and left.

  Temperance took up one of the clean linens, soaked it in the near-boiling water, and gently placed it on Lord Caire’s shoulder.

  He jerked as if she’d laid a white-hot poker against his bare skin. “God’s blood, madam, do you mean to parboil the flesh from my bones?”

  “Not at all,” Temperance replied. “We need to loosen your shirt from the wound so we don’t tear open the stitches when we remove it.”

  He swore rather foully.

  Temperance chose to ignore that. “Is it true what you said before?”

  “What?”

  “That all touch pains you?” Terrible of her to take advantage of his condition to quiz him, but she was curious.

  He closed his eyes. “Oh, yes.”

  For a moment, Temperance stared at him, this wealthy, titled aristocrat. How could the touch of another human being possibly hurt him? But perhaps the pain he spoke of wasn’t purely physical.

  She shook her head and looked at the valet. “Is there anyone we should send for? A relative or a friend of Lord Caire’s?”

  The valet hummed under his breath and his eyes slid from hers. “Ah… I’m not sure…”

  “Tell her, Small,” Lord Caire rumbled. His eyes were closed, but his hearing apparently was quite acute.

  Small gulped. “No, ma’am.”

  Temperance frowned, rinsing out the linen and applying it afresh. “I know you’re estranged from your mother—”

  “No.”

  She sighed. “Surely there’s someone, Caire?”

  Both men were silent. Oddly the valet seemed more embarrassed than Lord Caire. Caire merely looked bored.

  “What about, er”—Temperance kept her eyes on the hot linen she was holding to his shoulder, the heat rising in her cheeks—“a… a female you might be close to?”

  Lord Caire chuckled softly and opened his eyes. They were far too bright. “Small, when was the last time you saw a female other than a maidservant step foot in this house?”

  “Never.” The valet’s eyes were fixed on his shoes.

  “You’re the first lady to cross my threshold in ten years, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire drawled. “The last one was my mother, the day I ushered her from my home. On the whole, I think you ought to be flattered, don’t you?”

  LAZARUS WATCHED AS pink suffused Mrs. Dews’s face. The color was becoming, and even in his weakened state, he felt a stirring in his loins, a longing that was more than sexual. For a moment, there seemed to be a twinge in his breast, a strange wish that his life, his person, could in some way be different. That he could somehow deserve a woman such as her.

  Mrs. Dews took away the cloth from his shoulder, wrung it out, and replaced it, the sharp sting of the heat rousing him from his reverie. His head ached, his body felt weak and hot, and his shoulder was on fire. He wished to simply lie down and sleep, and if he never awakened… well, would that be such a very great loss to the world?

  But Mrs. Dews had no intention yet of letting him escape. “You have no one at all to take care of you?”

  She touched, whether by accident or design, his hand, and he felt the familiar burning pain. He kept his hand still only with an effort of will. Perhaps with repeated applications, he might become used to the pain of her touch—like a dog so often cuffed he no longer flinched at the blow. Perhaps he might even come to like the sensation.

  Lazarus laughed, or at least tried to. The sound emerged more like a croak. “On my word, Mrs. Dews, no one. My mother and I talk as little as possible, I count but one man I could call a friend, and he and I fell out recently—”

  “Who?”

  He ignored the question—damned if he’d send for St. John tonight. “And despite your romantic notions, even if I had replaced my mistress, I’d not call her to my sickbed. The ladies I employ thus have other, ah, uses. As I’ve said before, I do not bring them into my home.”

  She pressed her lips together at that information.

  He eyed her sardonically. “I am at your tender mercy, I fear.”

  “I see.” She frowned down at him as she took off the cloth and tested the shirt beneath.

  He hissed as the material pulled away from his wound.

  “It has to come off,” she murmured to Small, as if Lazarus was an infant they were taking care of between them.

  The valet nodded and they took off his shirt—an excruciating operation. By the time they’d finished, Lazarus was panting. He did
n’t need to look at his bare shoulder to know that the thing was gravely infected. It pulsed and boiled against him.

  “Ma’am, the doctor,” one of the footmen said from the door.

  Behind him the quack swayed, his greasy gray bob wig sliding off the back of his shaved head. “My lord, I came as soon as possible.”

  “Lovely,” Lazarus murmured.

  The physician approached the bed with the overly careful gait of a man drunk. “What have we here?”

  “His wound—can you help him?” Mrs. Dews began, but the doctor brushed past her to peer closely at the wound.

  The stink of cheap wine washed over Lazarus’s face.

  The doctor straightened abruptly. “What have you done, woman?”

  Mrs. Dews’s eyes widened. “I… I…”

  The doctor snatched the bit of rag she’d been using from her fingers. “Interfering with the natural healing process!”

  “But the pus—” Mrs. Dews began.

  “Bonum et laudabile. Do you know what that means?”

  Mrs. Dews shook her head.

  “Good and laudable,” Lazarus muttered.

  “Quite right, my lord. Good and laudable!” the doctor cried, nearly tipping himself over with his vigor. “’Tis well known that the pus is what heals the wound. It must not be interfered with.”

  “But he is feverish,” Mrs. Dews protested.

  Lazarus closed his eyes. What mattered the method of physicking as long as it ended soon. He’d let his martyr and the quack argue it out.

  “I shall let some blood and thus draw away the heat in his body,” the doctor pronounced.

  Lazarus opened his eyes to watch as the doctor fished in his bag. He produced a lancet and turned toward Lazarus, holding the sharp instrument in a palsied hand. Lazarus swore, struggling weakly to stand. Bloodletting was one thing, but to allow a drunk to wield a knife against his person was tantamount to suicide.

  Damn it, the room was spinning about him. “Send him away.”

  Mrs. Dews bit her lip. “But…”

  “Might as well throw me to the lions yourself as put me in his tender mercies!”

  “Now, my lord…” The doctor had turned conciliatory.