Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(10)

“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 and 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!”