Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(21)

“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.