Wicked Intentions

  She quickened her steps in irritation. “You consider yourself an authority on emotion, my lord?”

  “Not at all,” he murmured. “I rarely feel anything. But like the legless man, I’m unaccountably fascinated by those who can dance.”

  She turned the corner, thinking. They were walking away from the home now. “You don’t feel anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  She paused to look up at him curiously. “Then why spend so much time searching for the murderer of your mistress?”

  His mouth curved cynically. “I wouldn’t read too much into that. A whim, merely.”

  “Now who lies?” she whispered.

  He looked away as if in irritation. “I notice we’re not going toward your home.”

  She was oddly disappointed at his deflection of the subject. If he truly felt no emotion, then why spend months looking for a murderer on a “whim”? Did Lord Caire feel more than he would admit? Or was he really the cold, uncaring aristocrat he painted himself?

  But he was silent, obviously waiting for her reply. Temperance sighed. “I’m taking you to Hangman’s Alley, where Martha Swan supposedly lives.”

  “Won’t your brother worry for you if you don’t return home?”

  “If we can go and come back in the next hour, I’ll say that I was checking on the other wet nurses,” Temperance muttered, setting off again.

  “Tsk, Mrs. Dews, lying to your own brother?”

  This time she simply ignored him. Night had fallen fully now, the streets emptying as the hunters came out, and she was glad she’d brought the pistol, tucked into a bag hanging beneath her skirts. Half an hour later, they turned into Hangman’s Alley, a gathering place for footpads, thieves, and pickpockets. She wondered if Lord Caire knew just how dangerous this area was. When she looked at him sideways, she noticed that he walked with a predator’s grace, his ebony stick held in one fist like a club.

  He caught her glance. “What a lovely neighborhood.”

  “Humph.” But despite her dismissive tone, Temperance was relieved that he looked so formidable. “There ’tis.”

  She pointed to a worn sign depicting a shoe. Mother Heart’s-Ease had said that Martha Swan lived over a cobbler’s shop. The building was dark, the alley before it deserted. Temperance pulled her cloak closer about herself, feeling surreptitiously for the pistol under her skirts. They should have stopped for a lantern.

  Lord Caire stepped forward and knocked against the door with his stick. It echoed hollowly, but no movement came from within.

  “If she’s a pickpocket or a prostitute, she may be out,” Temperance said.

  “No doubt,” Lord Caire replied, “but having come so far, I suggest we at least look.”

  She frowned, about to protest, but over his shoulder, she saw a movement in the shadows. Her breath caught on a scream as three figures scuttled from an alley, moving fast.

  Moving with obvious deadly intent.

  She would’ve called a warning to Lord Caire, but there was no need. His eyes sharpened on her face. “Run!”

  And then he was whirling, putting her behind him near the building as he faced the attackers. They spread as they came at him, the outer two men going to either side of Lord Caire, the center man raising a knife. Lord Caire hit the center man’s wrist with his stick, deflecting the first blow. He withdrew a short sword from his stick, and then they were on him in a flurry of rapid blows and kicks, three against one.

  It was only a matter of time until Lord Caire went down, even armed.

  She had her pistol. Temperance hauled up her skirts, fumbling for the sack. She withdrew the pistol, letting her skirts drop.

  She looked up in time to see Lord Caire grunt and half turn as if he’d been hit. One of the men staggered away, but the remaining closed in. She brought the pistol up, but the combatants were too close together. If she fired, she might hit Lord Caire.

  And if she didn’t, the assailants might kill him.

  As she watched, one of the men feinted with a dagger on one side of Lord Caire while another raised a knife on his other side. She couldn’t wait any longer. They were going to kill him.

  Temperance fired.

  Chapter Four

  Once a year, it was King Lockedheart’s custom to give a speech to his people. But because he was a man more used to wielding a sword than a pen, the king made a habit of practicing his speech. Thus one morning, King Lockedheart paced the balcony of his magnificent palace, declaiming his speech to the open air and the caged blue bird.

  “My people,” the king declared, “I am proud to be your leader, and I know that you are proud to live under my rule. Indeed, I know that I am beloved of you, my people.”

  But, sadly, here King Lockedheart was interrupted—by a giggle….

  —from King Lockedheart

  The pistol shot came from behind him. A wild fury filled Lazarus’s chest at the sound. They couldn’t, they hadn’t the right to hurt the little martyr. She was his plaything.

  He lunged in vicious anger at the attacker to his right, driving his sword deep into the other’s gut. He saw the man’s eyes widen in shocked surprise, and at the same time Lazarus sensed the rush from his left. He whirled, leaving his sword behind, and slammed the other half of his stick against his attacker’s wrist. The man howled, cradling his injured wrist as the knife spun out of his hand. Unarmed, the attacker realized his vulnerability. He swore and skipped back, darting down an alley. He was gone as suddenly as he’d appeared. Lazarus turned to the third man, but he had disappeared as well. Suddenly the night was quiet.

  Only then did he look behind him at his little martyr. His Mrs. Dews.

  She stood still and prim, a pistol in one hand by her side.

  Not hurt, then. Not killed. Thank God.

  “Why the hell didn’t you run?” he asked very softly.

  She tilted her chin, damn her, in obstinate martyrish dignity. She was quite composed, not a hair out of place—and her mouth was red and inviting. “I couldn’t leave you.”

  “Yes,” he said as he advanced on her, “you could have and you should have. I ordered you to run.”

  She seemed completely unmoved by his ire, looking down as she shoved her enormous pistol into a pathetic sack. “Perhaps I don’t take orders from you, my lord.”

  “Don’t take orders,” he sputtered like an overwrought old woman. One part of his brain was amused at what an ass he was being, while another part found it very, very important that she know that she had to obey him. “Let me tell you—”

  He moved to take her arm, but she jerked it away. Pain flamed up his shoulder. “God’s blood!”

  Her brows knit. “What is it?”

  Where his concern had driven her away, his weakness pulled her closer. Contrary creature. “Nothing.”

  “Then why did you cry out in pain?”

  He looked up impatiently from peering under his cloak. “Because, Mrs. Dews, I seem to have received a knife wound.” He could feel hot blood soaking his coat now.

  She gasped, visibly paling. “Oh, dear Lord. That’s not nothing! Why didn’t you say so? Perhaps you should sit and—”

  “Who’s there?”

  They both turned to see a crooked little woman peering from the door to the cobbler’s shop. She squinted and cocked her head. “I heard a pistol shot.”

  Lazarus stepped toward her, but at his movement, she made as if to withdraw inside. Not damned likely. Lazarus reached around her and shut the door swiftly, cutting off her escape. “We came to see Martha Swan.”

  The woman shrank back at the name. “Who are you?” she cried, peering from one side to the other. She was obviously blind or near blind. “I’ll have no truck with—”

  Mrs. Dews took one of her hands. “We mean you no harm. We were told Martha Swan lives here.”

  Mrs. Dews’s touch seemed to calm her, but the woman’s thin chest still heaved as if she’d take flight if she could. “Martha lived here, aye.”

  Mr
s. Dews looked disappointed. “Then she’s gone?”

  “Dead.” The woman cocked her head again. “She was found dead just this morn.”

  “How?” Lazarus narrowed his eyes. His arm was soaked now with blood, but he needed this information.

  “They say she was slit open,” the woman whispered. “Slit from top to bottom, her innards all strewn about.”

  “Dear God,” Mrs. Dews gasped. Her grasp on the woman’s hand must have loosened. The little woman turned and opened the door, darting into the house.

  “Wait!” Mrs. Dews cried.

  “Leave her,” Lazarus said. “She’s told us what we needed anyway.”

  Mrs. Dews opened her mouth as if to argue, but then closed it into a flat line. He waited a moment to see if her ire would win out over her control, but she simply stared at him.

  “Someday you’ll break,” he murmured. “And I pray to God I’m there when it happens.”

  “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do.” He turned and placed his boot deliberately on the chest of the man he’d stabbed. With a grunt of pain, Lazarus withdrew his short sword from the body. The man lay facing upward, the light from a nearby window reflecting off his open, sightless eyes. He wore a leather patch over the place his nose should’ve been. Had he thought that the day might end with him lying dead in the filth of a street gutter? Doubtful.

  But then only a fool mourned the death of his own assassin.

  Lazarus bent to wipe the blade on the man’s coat before sheathing it in the other half of his black walking stick. He glanced at Mrs. Dews. She stood watching his movements with concern in her wide eyes. “Best we get you back to the relative safety of your home, madam.”

  She nodded, falling into step beside him. Lazarus walked rapidly, his stick held firmly in his right hand. He had no desire to look like an easy mark to their attackers should they return—or to any other predators who might be prowling the streets of St. Giles. The night was black as pitch, clouds hiding the moon. He made his way by instinct and the inconsistent light of the buildings they passed. Mrs. Dews was a slim shadow by his side, her pace not slowing him. He had a reluctant admiration for her. She might’ve refused his command earlier, but she hadn’t flinched at either the fight or the news that he was wounded. In fact, she’d had the forethought to bring along a weapon, even if it had been useless.

  “You need to practice if you’re to carry a gun to protect yourself,” he said. He felt her stiffen beside him.

  “I think I was quite capable when I fired.”

  “You missed.”

  Her face swiveled toward him, and even in the dark, he could sense her outrage. “I fired into the air!”

  “What?” he halted, catching her arm.

  She tried to jerk away again and then seemed to remember his wound. Her mouth thinned with irritation. “I fired into the air because I feared hitting you should I aim at your assailants.”

  “Fool,” he hissed, his heart speeding again with fear. Silly little martyr.

  “What?”

  “Next time—if there is a next time—aim at the attackers and damn the cost.”

  “But—”

  He shook her arm. “Do you have any idea what they would’ve done to you had I failed in driving them off?”

  Her head cocked in disbelief. “You’d rather I shoot and possibly hit and kill you?”

  “Yes.” He let her go and continued down the alley. His shoulder was throbbing with pain now, and his shirt was growing cold from the wet blood.

  She skipped to remain by his side. “I don’t understand you.”

  “Not many do.”

  “My life can’t possibly be worth more than yours.”

  “What makes you think my life is worth anything at all?” he inquired politely.

  That seemed to silence her, at least for the moment. They tramped through an alley and to a wider street.

  “It’s very strange,” Mrs. Dews muttered.

  “What is?” Lazarus was careful to keep his head up, his eyes alert.

  “That Martha Swan should be killed in the exact way your mistress was.”

  “It’s not strange at all if the killer is the same person.” He felt more than saw her quick glance.

  “Do you think it was the same murderer?”

  He shrugged, and then had to bite back a gasp as his shoulder shrieked with pain. “I don’t know, but it would be very odd if there were more than one murderer in St. Giles with that particular method of killing women.”

  She seemed to think for several minutes and then said slowly, “My maidservant, Nell Jones, says that the Ghost of St. Giles disembowels his victims.”

  Lazarus laughed despite the growing ache in his shoulder. “Have you seen this ghost, Mrs. Dews?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I think this ghost is merely a tale told to frighten little children on dark nights. The man I look for is of flesh and blood.”

  They walked in silence for what seemed like a very long time before the back door to the foundling home came within sight.

  Lazarus grunted, relieved and light-headed at the same time. “There you are. Make sure you bar the door behind you when you’re inside.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” She caught his good arm.

  For a moment he froze. His sleeve shielded his flesh from her hand, but no one touched him without his permission. He usually reacted with sarcasm, with violence and rejection. With her he didn’t know what to do.

  While he stood there, stunned, Mrs. Dews had set down her sack, brought a key out from somewhere under her cloak, and unlocked the back door to the home. “We have to see to your wound.”

  “There’s no need,” he began drily.

  “Now,” she said, and somehow he found himself inside the old kitchen. He’d stolen through it the other night when he entered her little sitting room. Then it had been empty and dark save for the embers of the fireplace. Now it was lit with a roaring fire and occupied by a swarm of urchins of all sizes.

  And one man.

  “Oh, ma’am, you’re home!” the eldest girl exclaimed.

  At the same time, the man rose from the kitchen table, looking quizzical. “Temperance?”

  “Winter, you’ve returned early,” she said distractedly. “Yes, I’m home again, Mary Whitsun, all safe and sound, but I’m afraid I can’t say the same for his lordship. Can you please fill a bowl with hot water from the hearth? Joseph Tinbox, bring me the rag bag. Mary Evening, can you please clear a space at the table? And you sit here.”

  The last command was directed at Lazarus. He chose the better part of valor and sank meekly into the indicated chair. Mrs. Dews’s brother eyed him sharply, and Lazarus attempted to look weak, wounded, and helpless, though he had a feeling it didn’t quite convince the man.

  The kitchen was hot, the low, plastered ceiling reflecting the heat of the blazing fire. He saw now that the children must’ve been in the midst of making some type of meal. There was a huge kettle over the fire, tended by one of the older girls, and there was some type of dough on the table. All the children were busy except for one small boy who stood on one foot, staring at him with a limp black cat over his arm.

  Lazarus arched an eyebrow at the urchin, and he scuttled to hide behind Mrs. Dews’s skirts, cat and all.

  “Who is this gentleman, Temperance?” Winter Makepeace asked mildly.

  “Lord Caire,” Mrs. Dews said as she helped the child named Mary Evening remove a bowl with flour from the table. The urchin mirrored her moves, always mostly hidden in her skirts. “He’s wounded.”

  “Indeed?” Makepeace asked, only a little more sharply. “And how did that happen?”

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second—so briefly that perhaps only Lazarus saw it—and darted a glance at him.

  He smiled, baring his teeth. He had no urge to help her out of her obvious dilemma when her explanation might be so much more interesting.

&
nbsp; Mrs. Dews pursed her lips. “Lord Caire was attacked but a quarter of a mile from here.”

  “Yes?” Makepeace tilted his head in a familiar gesture, waiting for the rest of his sister’s explanation.

  “And I brought him home so we could tend to him.” She smiled swiftly and blindingly at her brother.

  But the man was more used to her charming wiles than Lazarus. He merely raised his eyebrows. “You simply happened upon Lord Caire?”

  “Well, no…”

  Mrs. Dews must indeed be a favorite of God. The small boy she’d sent for the “rag bag” returned at that moment, saving the need for an explanation.

  “Oh, good, Joseph Tinbox. Thank you.” She took the bag and placed it on the table next to the steaming bowl of water the girl called Mary Whitsun had provided. Then she turned stern eyes on him. “Take it off.”

  He raised his eyebrows, mimicking her brother. “I beg your pardon?”

  Oh, there were gods who would punish him for his delight. Her cheeks darkened to a pretty rose.

  “Take off your, er, upper garments, my lord,” she said through gritted teeth.

  He hid a grin as he took off his hat and bent to unfasten his cloak. He threw the cloak off and had to bite back an oath at the stab of pain the movement gave his shoulder.

  “Let me help.” She was suddenly by his side, helping him ease out of his coat and waistcoat. Her proximity was distracting, and oddly sweet. He found himself leaning toward her as they both worked, drawn perhaps by the tender curve of her neck, the faint scent of lavender and woman.

  He raised his arms grudgingly, letting her pull his shirt over his head, and then he was nude to the waist. When he looked up, a ring of curious small children surrounded him. Even the urchin had emerged from her skirts.

  The boy held the cat by its upper body, its lower limbs stretched and hanging. It looked dead, except for the fact that it was purring. “His name is Soot.”

  “How fascinating,” Lazarus replied. He hated cats.

  “Mary Whitsun,” said Makepeace, “kindly take the younger children into the dining room. You may hear them recite their Psalms.”