Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(103)

“She killed Marie,” Caire said grimly. “And Marie’s brother, too, when he tried to blackmail her. She realized that we were getting close to discovering her, and she came here to kill Mrs. Dews, I think.”

Temperance looked at the gaunt woman with loathing. “All the children were inside the home as well. She would’ve killed many more than just me.”

“Yes. She didn’t care.” Caire nodded at St. John. “If we search her gin shop, we might find evidence of the murders.”

“No need,” St. John replied. He flipped back the ragged red man’s coat that Mother Heart’s-Ease wore. Beneath, rusty stains splashed across the bosom of her dress and down the front.

“Dear God,” Temperance whispered, covering her mouth with her hand.

It was apparently too much for Mother Heart’s-Ease. She lunged, shrieking obscenities like a madwoman, which, it was quite apparent, she was. Both footmen were hauled forward at the strength of her attack. Caire swung Temperance behind him and backed several steps, putting them both well out of Mother Heart’s-Ease’s reach.

“I’ll bring her to gaol in my carriage,” St. John shouted above the woman’s ravings.

Caire nodded. “Bind her well.”

“I will,” St. John replied. “I’m taking no chance of her escaping.”

The men set about their grim task.

“Come,” Caire whispered in Temperance’s ear. “You’re wet and cold and so am I. Let’s find a carriage to take us home.”

“But Winter…” Temperance glanced about and spotted her brother helping to herd the children.

Winter caught her look and raised his hand, jogging over. “I’m to help Lady Caire and Lady Hero to settle the children, especially the boys. They’ll be staying at the Duke of Wakefield’s house, and they’ll need supervision there.”

“I must help,” Temperance began.

Winter laid his hand on her shoulder. “No need. There’s enough people between the servants and Nell and me.”

Caire nodded above her. “I’m taking her home and giving her a warm bath.”

Winter eyed Caire without speaking. And then he stuck out his hand. “Thank you.”

Caire took his hand, shaking it firmly. “No need to thank me.”

Winter looked between Caire and Temperance, his brow arched, but he merely said, “Take care of her.”

Caire nodded. “I will.”

Winter bussed Temperance on the cheek and ran back to the children.

“Now to find a carriage,” Caire muttered, then grimaced. “Damn it, I forgot to thank St. John for capturing Mother Heart’s-Ease.”

“But he didn’t,” Temperance exclaimed.

He turned to look at her.

And she couldn’t help but laugh; it was such a silly thing after all that had happened. “The Ghost of St. Giles appeared with her while you were inside the house.”

“What, in front of everyone?”

“Yes. He marched right up to St. John and gave Mother Heart’s-Ease to him. I think we were all too stunned to detain him.”

“And St. John was there at the same time?”

“Yes.” She looked at him curiously.

Caire shook his head. “I wish I’d been there. I’d enjoy very much finding out who it is that hides behind that mask.”

Temperance wrapped her arm about his side as they started for the carriages. “I think that’s a mystery that we’ll have to save for another day.”

TEMPERANCE WOULD HAVE fallen asleep on the carriage ride to Caire’s house if she weren’t so nervous with anticipation. She had told Lazarus that she loved him, but there was still something yet—she needed to show him.

So when the carriage stopped outside his town house, she took his hand and led him silently inside.

“I smell of smoke,” he protested as they climbed the grand staircase together.

“I don’t care,” she replied. “I nearly lost you today.”

Her heart was leaping in her chest so violently that she thought she might well faint. She had a second chance. Dear God, Caire was giving her a second chance. Whatever she did, she mustn’t mess it up. She carefully closed his bedroom door behind them and then stood before him.

“I want to… no, I need to show you how much I love you,” she murmured. “I’ve been thinking about it for the last week. How you thought I felt I was degrading myself by making love to you.”

He started to speak, but she placed her forefinger across his lips.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Let me.” She inhaled to fortify her courage and deliberately trailed her finger across his lips, over his jaw, and down his neck. “Please let me.”

He held very still, barely breathing. She knew this caused him pain, but she did it anyway. She needed to teach him that touch—especially her touch—need not bring him pain, that it could be pleasurable as well, and the only way she knew to demonstrate the lesson was to show him.

“I want to see if I can find a way”—she held his gaze as she untied his cloak—“to do this without it hurting you.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”