Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(17)



The chairmen halted and Lazarus descended. The town house he’d bought for his mother was small but fashionable. She’d complained—still complained—when he’d forced her to move out of Caire House, but he’d be damned if he’d live with the woman.

Inside, the butler escorted Lazarus to an outrageously gilded sitting room. There he sat for a good half hour, contemplating the golden curlicues on the top of the Corinthian columns guarding the door. He would’ve left but then he’d merely have to repeat this farce another day. Best to get it over with.

She entered the room as she always did—pausing just a fraction of a second inside the doorway to let the full impact of her beauty fill those within with awe.

Lazarus yawned.

She tittered, the sound not quite hiding the anger beneath. “Have you lost all sense of propriety, my son? Or is it fashionable now to no longer rise on a lady’s entrance?”

He rose with just enough languor to make the movement an insult, and then bowed as briefly as possible. “What do you want, my lady?”

Which was a mistake, of course. Showing his impatience only gave her reason to draw this meeting out.

“Oh, Lazarus, must you be so rude?” She lowered herself to carefully lounge on one of the delicately painted settees. “It becomes tiresome. I’ve ordered tea and cakes and such”—she waved a hand vaguely—“so you must stay for that at least.”

“Must I?” he asked softly, the edge in his voice making the two words grit.

A fleeting look of uncertainty crossed her beautiful face, but then she said firmly, “Oh, I think so.”

Lazarus sat back down, conceding for the moment to his lovely, vapid mother. He watched her as they waited for the promised tea. He hated tea, always had. Did she not know or—more likely—did she serve it to him merely to provoke?

Lady Caire had been a famous beauty in her youth, and time had been gracious to her. Her face was a perfect, serene oval, her neck long and graceful. Her eyes were like his, a clear blue, faintly tilted at the corners. The forehead above was white and unmarred. Her hair was the same startlingly premature white as his own, but instead of trying to dye it or wearing a wig, she flaunted the unusual color. She favored dark blue gowns to highlight the white and wore black or dark blue caps, decorated with lace and jewels.

She had always known how best to draw the eye.

“Ah, here’s the tea,” his mother said as two maids entered bearing trays. Was there relief in her voice?

The servants set the repast silently and then quietly left. Lady Caire straightened to pour. Her hand hesitated over the teacup. “Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“Of course.” Her aplomb was restored. She handed him the cup. “I remember now—neither sugar nor cream.”

He raised his brows and set aside the teacup untasted. What game was she playing?

She seemed not to notice his lack of enthusiasm for the tea, resuming her languid pose with her own cup. “I hear you’ve been seen with the elder Miss Turner. Have you interest in that direction?”

He blinked for a moment, truly surprised, and then burst out laughing. “Have you decided to matchmake for me now, ma’am?”

A line of irritation appeared between her brows. “Lazarus—”

But he interrupted her, his words quick and light, belying the edge they held. “Perhaps you’ll vet and approve a select group of fillies, line them up for my inspection. Of course, it might be difficult, what with the rumors of my… proclivities flying about London society. All but the most mercenary families make sure to keep their virgins away from me.”

“Don’t be crude.” She set down her teacup with a moue of distaste.

“First rude, then crude,” he drawled. His patience had worn out. “Really, madam, it is a wonder you can stand my company at all.”

She frowned at that. “I—”

“Are you in need of funds?”

“No, I—”

“Have you any other pressing matter to discuss with me, then?”

“Lazarus—”

“No worry over business?” he interrupted. “Your lands or servants?”

She simply stared at him.

“Then I fear I must go, Lady Caire.” He rose and bowed without meeting her eyes. “I bid you good morning.”

He was already at the door when she said, “You don’t know. You don’t know what it was like.”

His back was to her, and he didn’t turn to acknowledge her before closing the door behind him.

MARY HOPE WAS not improving.

Temperance watched anxiously as the wet nurse, Polly, tried once again to get the infant to latch on to her nipple. The baby’s tiny, lax mouth opened about the tip of the nipple, but she lay unresponsive, her eyes closed.

Polly tched and looked up, her face sad. “She’s not suckin’, ma’am. I can ’ardly feel her on me.”

Temperance straightened, wincing at a crick in her back. She’d been hovering over Polly and the baby for what seemed like hours now. Polly sat in an old armchair with the infant. The chair was the nicest piece of furniture in her little rented room—Temperance had given it to Polly when she’d hired her as one of the foundling home’s wet nurses. The wet nurses didn’t live in the home. Instead they took their tiny charges to their own homes, whatever that may be.

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