Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(22)

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.

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.”

“Yes, sir,” the child said, and herded her brethren from the room.

Mrs. Dews cleared her throat. “Perhaps you should oversee them, Winter. I can manage here by myself.”

The man smiled far too benevolently. “Mary Whitsun will do well enough on her own, I believe, sister.”

Makepeace resumed his seat across the table from her, but as she turned her back to rummage in a cupboard, he shot a look at Lazarus—one that Lazarus had no difficulty in reading. Winter Makepeace might be ten years his junior and have the appearance of an aesthetic monk, but if Lazarus harmed his sister, Makepeace would do his damnedest to send him to hell.

TEMPERANCE TURNED BACK from the cupboard with the jar of salve in her hands. She tried not to wince at the sight of Lord Caire’s wound. Blood painted his shoulder and trailed in trickles down to his wrist, startlingly crimson against his white skin. Fresh blood dripped down his chest from where they’d reopened the wound when they removed his shirt. Her eyes followed the bloody trail helplessly, down over his surprisingly muscled chest, lightly sprinkled with black hair, over the shocking brown of his nude nipple, to a line of black hair that began at his navel and disappeared into the waistband of his breeches.