Wicked Intentions

  Temperance yanked her hood over her head. “I very much doubt Lord Caire is interested in doing anything at all to me—terrible or not—and besides, I’ve brought the pistol.”

  Nell moaned. “He’s not like other gentlemen, ma’am.”

  Temperance hefted the soft bag that concealed the pistol. “You’ve made these mysterious hints before. Tell me now—in what way is Lord Caire different from other men?”

  Nell bit her lip, stood on one foot and then the other, and finally squeezed her eyes shut and said quickly, “His bedsport.”

  Temperance waited, but no other explanation was forthcoming from the maidservant. Finally she sighed, keeping a firm rein on the part of her that had leapt at the word bedsport. “The home is in danger of closing. I can’t let what Lord Caire does in his bedchamber keep me from using his assistance.”

  Nell’s eyes popped wide in alarm. “But, ma’am—”

  Temperance opened the back door. “Remember: If Winter asks, I’ve gone to bed early. And if he presses, tell him it’s a female matter. That’ll stop any questions.”

  “Be careful, ma’am!” Nell called as Temperance pulled the door closed behind her.

  A blast of wind whistled around the corner. Temperance shivered and pulled her cloak tighter, turning to go down the alley. A broad male chest loomed suddenly in front of her.

  “Oh!”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire drawled in his dark, ominous manner. His cloak swirled about his legs in the wind.

  “Please don’t do that,” Temperance said, rather too sharply.

  But he only looked amused. “Do what?”

  “Pop out at me like a footpad.” She glared up at him, watching as his wide mouth curled at the corner. She had a ridiculous urge to smile back at him, but she suppressed it ruthlessly. Tonight his silver hair was contained in a queue under a black cocked hat. Her belly trembled and she couldn’t help but wonder in exactly what way Lord Caire was different in the bedroom.

  But he’d turned and begun striding down the alley. “I do assure you that I’m no footpad, ma’am.” He glanced over his shoulder, and she saw the flash of his blue eyes as she hurried to catch up. “If I had been, you’d be dead by now.”

  “You’re not giving me any encouragement to come with you,” Temperance muttered.

  He stopped suddenly and she nearly ran into him again. “You’re here, are you not?”

  Wretched man! “Yes, I am.”

  He bowed extravagantly, his silver-tipped walking stick in his outstretched hand, his black cloak sweeping the filthy ground. “Then lead on, fair lady.”

  “Humph.” Temperance faced forward and began trotting down the alley, aware that he followed close behind her, a large dark presence.

  “Where will you take me tonight?”

  Was it her imagination or did she feel his hot breath on the back of her neck?

  “It was rather hard to decide, since you refused to tell me much of anything about who it is you’re looking for.”

  She waited for an explanation, but he didn’t comment.

  Temperance sighed. “You said only that you were searching for someone, which, I must tell you, my lord, was no help at all.”

  “Yet I sense you still have a destination in mind,” Lord Caire murmured.

  “I do.” They’d come to the end of the alley, and she ducked through a crumbling archway into an even narrower alley.

  “And that is?” There was a trace of amusement in Lord Caire’s voice.

  “Right here,” she said with some satisfaction. Really she was rather pleased with herself for coming up with a source for him on such little information.

  They stood in front of a building without any windows. Only a swinging wooden sign with a painted candle on it indicated that this was a chandler’s shop. Temperance pushed open the door. Inside, the shop was tiny. A counter ran along one side. The goods were displayed here and there, in heaps and piles and hanging on the walls. Candles, tea, tin cups, salt and flour, string, lard, a few knives, a ragged fan, some new brooms, buttons, one little plum tart, and, of course, gin. At the far end of the counter, two women huddled over their cups. Behind the counter stood Mr. Hopper, a small, dark man who might’ve grown to his exact size so that he might fit inside his shop.

  Selling gin without a license was illegal, of course, but licenses were exorbitantly dear and few could afford them. Besides, the magistrates relied on paid informers to bring unlicensed gin sellers to the courts—and no informer would dare set foot in St. Giles. The last had been attacked by a mob, dragged through the streets, savagely beaten, and finally left to die of his injuries, poor man.

  “What might I do for you t’night, Mrs. Dews?” Mr. Hopper asked.

  “Good evening to you, Mr. Hopper,” Temperance replied. “My friend is looking for someone, and I wonder if you might help him?”

  Mr. Hopper squinted at Lord Caire suspiciously, but he said cheerfully enough, “Aye, I might. Who be you lookin’ for?”

  “A murderer,” Lord Caire replied, and every head in the room swiveled toward him.

  Temperance caught her breath. A murderer?

  The gin drinkers silently slipped out of the shop.

  “Nearly two months ago, a woman was murdered in her rooms in St. Giles,” Lord Caire continued, unperturbed. “Her name was Marie Hume. Do you know anything about her?”

  But Mr. Hopper was already shaking his head. “Don’t have no truck with murder. An’ I’ll thank you to take this gentleman out of here, Mrs. Dews.”

  Temperance bit her lip, glancing at Lord Caire.

  He didn’t seem particularly put out. “A moment, please,” he said to the shopkeeper.

  Mr. Hopper reluctantly looked at him.

  Lord Caire smiled. “Might I have that tart?”

  The shopkeeper grunted and handed him the plum tart, pocketing tuppence in return before pointedly turning his back. Temperance sighed, feeling rather irritable. It was obvious that she’d have to find another informant for Lord Caire.

  “You could’ve warned me,” she muttered outside the shop. The wind blew her words back in her face and she shivered, wishing she were by her own cozy fire.

  Lord Caire seemed unaffected by the cold. “What difference would it have made?”

  “Well, for one, I wouldn’t have tried Mr. Hopper.” She stomped across the street, making sure to dodge the sludge in the channel.

  He easily caught up with her. “Why not?”

  “Because Mr. Hopper is respectable and your inquiries obviously aren’t,” she said in exasperation. “Why ever did you buy that tart?”

  He shrugged. “I’m hungry.” He bit into the pastry with relish.

  She watched him lick purple syrup from the corner of his mouth and swallowed in reaction. The tart did look awfully good.

  “Would you like a bite?” he asked, his voice deep.

  She shook her head firmly. “No. I’m not hungry.”

  He cocked his head, eyeing her as he swallowed another mouthful. “You’re lying. Why?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she snapped, and began walking.

  He cut in front of her, making her come to an abrupt halt or run the risk of running into him. “It’s a plum tart, Mrs. Dews, not riches or drink or any other decadent sin. What can it hurt? Have a bite.”

  And he broke off a piece, holding it with his fingers to her lips. She could smell the sweet fruit, almost taste the flaky pastry, and before she knew it, she had opened her lips. He fed her the bite, the plum tangy on her tongue, the syrup sugary sweet, exquisitely delicious here in the dark St. Giles street.

  “There,” he whispered. “Tasty, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes snapped open—when had she closed them?—and she stared in near horror at him.

  His lips quirked. “Where to now, Mrs. Dews? Or was Mr. Hopper and his shop your only source?”

  Temperance lifted her chin. “No. I have another idea.”

  She stepped around him an
d began walking swiftly, the taste of sweet plums still on her tongue. This part of St. Giles was one of the worst, and she wouldn’t have dared to come here during the day, let alone at night, if it weren’t for the presence of the large male trailing silently behind her.

  Twenty minutes later, Temperance stopped before a crooked door, set two steps down.

  Lord Caire looked at the door, his blue eyes narrowed with interest. “What is this place?”

  “This is where Mother Heart’s-Ease does business,” Temperance replied just as the crooked door popped open.

  “Out wi’ ye!” a tall, gaunt woman bawled. She wore an old red army coat over leather stays so filthy they were black. Beneath was a black-and-red-striped linsey-woolsey petticoat, the hem ragged and caked with mud. Behind her, dim firelight flickered, giving her the appearance of standing at the mouth of hell. “No coin, no drink. Get out of me ’ouse, then!”

  The object of her ire was a thin woman who might’ve been pretty had it not been for her blackened teeth and an open sore on one cheek.

  The pitiful creature cringed and held up her arms as if to ward off a blow. “I’ll gi’ ye a penny an’ a ha’penny tomorrow. Just gi’ me the gin tonight.”

  “Go an’ earn yer pennies,” Mother Heart’s-Ease said, and shoved the unhappy woman into the alley. She turned and propped her large, red-knuckled fists on her hips, looking Lord Caire up and down with greedy eyes. “Now, then, what’re ye doin’ here, Mrs. Dews? I don’t reckon this’s yer part of St. Giles.”

  “I wasn’t aware St. Giles was divided into territories,” Temperance replied stiffly.

  Mother Heart’s-Ease flicked beady eyes at her. “Weren’t you?”

  Temperance cleared her throat. “My friend would like to ask you some questions.”

  Mother Heart’s-Ease grinned at Lord Caire, revealing missing front teeth. “Best come inside, ’adn’t you, then?”

  She didn’t glance at Temperance again, her avarice obviously focused on Lord Caire. Nevertheless, he stood back to allow Temperance entrance first. She ducked inside the door and descended the steep wooden steps leading to a cellar.

  The front room was low, long, and dark, lit only by a fire roaring in the rear. Above, the rafters were blackened by smoke. To one side, a warped board was thrown over two barrels to make a counter. Behind it stood a one-eyed girl, the only barmaid. Here Mother Heart’s-Ease sold her namesake: gin, a penny and a half a cup. A score of soldiers in tall meter hats were laughing drunkenly at a table in the corner. Beside them, two shady-looking fellows hunched their shoulders as if trying to become invisible. One wore a triangular leather patch to hide a missing nose. Across the room, a quarrel had broken out between three sailors playing cards, while nearby, a solitary man in a too-large wig smoked serenely. A man and a woman sat together against the wall on the bare dirt floor, their small tin cup cradled in their hands. They might sleep the night here—if they each paid Mother Heart’s-Ease another five pence for the privilege.

  “Now, then, ’ow can I ’elp a fine-lookin’ gent like yerself?” Mother Heart’s-Ease shouted over the din of the arguing sailors. She rubbed her fingers together suggestively.

  Lord Caire took a purse from beneath his cloak and opened it. He smiled as he extracted a half crown and placed it in the woman’s hand. “I’m interested in the murder of a woman in St. Giles. Her name was Marie Hume.”

  Mother Heart’s-Ease had lost her smile, her lips pursing thoughtfully. “That kind o’ information will cost ye just a bit more, m’lord.”

  Did she know Lord Caire, or was the woman merely flattering a potential money source?

  Lord Caire raised his eyebrows at the demand but silently fished another half crown from his purse. He tossed the coin to Mother Heart’s-Ease, and it disappeared along with its mate down the top of her stays.

  “’Ave a seat, m’lord.” Mother Heart’s-Ease gestured to an empty chair, a rickety wooden thing. “It’s a murdered woman, you say?”

  Lord Caire ignored the attempt at hospitality. “She was thirty years or so, blond hair, fair of face and form but with a red birthmark the size of a penny just here.” He tapped the outer corner of his right eye. “Do you know her?”

  “Well, now, there’re quite a lot of pretty wenches about, and a birthmark might be hidden,” the woman said. “Anything else particular about her?”

  “She was gutted,” Lord Caire said.

  Temperance inhaled sharply, all of Nell’s warnings flooding back. Dear God.

  Even Mother Heart’s-Ease blinked at the blunt choice of words. “Gutted like a pig,” she muttered. “That one I remember. Fancy sort, wasn’t she? Found in a bare little room in a house in Tanner’s Court, the flies abuzzin’ in her black blood.”

  If Mother Heart’s-Ease’s words were meant to shock Lord Caire, they failed. His expression remained curious, amused, even, as he cocked his head. “Yes. That’s the one.”

  Mother Heart’s-Ease shook her head in mock sorrow. “I can’t help you with that, then, m’lord. I didn’t know the wench.”

  Lord Caire held out his hand. “Give me back my coins.”

  “Hold up there, m’lord,” the woman said hastily. “I don’t know about the murder, but I know who might.”

  Lord Caire stilled, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he’d sighted prey. “Who?”

  “Martha Swan.” Mother Heart’s-Ease smiled a twisted, evil smile and crooned, “The last woman to see her alive.”

  THE WIND TOOK away her breath as Temperance climbed back up Mother Heart’s-Ease’s outer steps. Lord Caire was behind her, eerily silent. Who was the murdered woman? And why was he asking about her murder? She shuddered, remembering the way he’d described the woman as “gutted.” Dear Lord, what had she involved herself in?

  “You are unusually quiet, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire observed in his deep voice.

  “How would you know what is usual with me, my lord?” she asked. “You hardly know me.”

  He breathed a soft chuckle behind her. “And yet I sense that you are a loquacious woman when you are with those you are comfortable with.”

  She halted and turned, arms crossed to hold in her heat, but also perhaps to reassure herself. “What type of game are you playing with me?”

  He’d stopped as well, much too near to her. His queue was coming undone, and strands of his long silver hair blew across his face. “Game, Mrs. Dews?”

  “Yes, game.” She glared, refusing to be afraid of him. “You tell me that you’re searching for someone in St. Giles, but when I take you to Mr. Hopper’s shop, you ask about a murdered woman, and now at Mother Heart’s-Ease’s, you ask about a gutted murdered woman.”

  He shrugged, broad shoulders moving under his cape. “I did not lie to you. I do seek someone—her murderer.”

  Temperance shivered as the wind blew icy droplets of rain against her frozen cheeks. She wished she could see his eyes, but they were hidden under the brim of his hat. “Who was she to you?”

  His wide, sensuous mouth curled up into a half smile. He did not answer.

  “Why me?” she muttered low, a question she realized belatedly that she should’ve asked the night before. “How did you find me? Why did you choose me?”

  “I’ve seen you about,” he said slowly, “as I’ve searched in St. Giles. You were always hurrying, always in black, always so very… determined. When I saw you last night, I followed you to your home.”

  She stared. “That’s it? You chose me on a whim?”

  “I’m a whimsical man. You are cold, Mrs. Dews. Come.”

  And he set off again, this time leading the way, his steps assured.

  “Where are we going?” she called after him. “Don’t you want to find Martha Swan?”

  He halted and turned toward her. “Mother Heart’s-Ease said she frequented Hangman’s Alley. Do you know the direction?”

  “Yes, but it’s half a mile or more that way.” She gestured behind them.

  He nodded. “Then we’
ll save Mistress Swan for another night. It’s late and it’s time you were home.”

  He started off again without waiting for her answer.

  Temperance trotted after him like an obedient terrier. He’d answered her questions but in a way that made new ones crop up in their place. There were hundreds of women in St. Giles. Granted, many were prostitutes or engaged in other illicit activities. But had he wished, he could’ve found a dozen or more willing women to lead him about. Why had he chosen her? Temperance frowned and hurried to keep step with him. He might be a stranger with dark secrets, but she still felt safer walking these alleys with him by her side.

  “I don’t know that we can trust Mother Heart’s-Ease,” she said, gasping a bit as the cold wind snatched away her words.

  “You doubt there is a Martha Swan?”

  “Oh, she’s probably real enough,” Temperance muttered. “But whether she actually has any information is a different matter.”

  “How is it you know Mother Heart’s-Ease?”

  “Everyone knows Mother Heart’s-Ease. Gin is the demon of St. Giles.”

  He glanced back at her. “Indeed?”

  “Young and old drink it. Some make it their only meal.” Temperance hesitated. “But that is not the only reason I know her.”

  “Tell me.”

  She raised a hand to pull her hood more closely about her face. “Nine years ago, when I first came to the home, Mother Heart’s-Ease sent us a message. She had a young girl of about three years of age. I don’t know where she got the child from, but it was certainly not hers.”

  “And?”

  “She offered to sell the toddler to us.” Temperance paused, for her voice had begun to shake—not from fear or sorrow, but from rage. She remembered her hot anger, her contempt at Mother Heart’s-Ease’s mercenary cynicism.

  “What happened?” Lord Caire’s voice was soft, but she heard it clearly. It almost vibrated in her bones.

  “Winter and Father were against buying the child. They said it would only encourage Mother Heart’s-Ease to sell more orphaned children.”