Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(24)

“There. Almost done,” she murmured, as much to herself as to the man she tended.

He made no comment, sitting as still as a statue as she opened the small jar of greasy salve. But when she dabbed the salve on his wound—lightly, with one finger—he shuddered. She snatched her hand away, startled, and her gaze flew to his face.

His brow shone with sweat. “Finish it.”

She hesitated, but she could hardly leave the wound undressed. Biting her lip, she spread the salve as swiftly as possible, aware that his breathing had quickened. She drew a large piece of old cloth from the rag bag and folded it into a pad, then began winding a long length about his chest. This required that she lean close to him, wrapping her arms about his torso. Lord Caire drew in a breath and seemed to hold it, turning his face away as if her proximity revolted him.

His obvious distress should’ve dulled her own body’s reaction to his nearness, but it did not. The warmth of his skin, the pulse that beat at the side of his neck, even his male odor all combined to arouse her old demons. Temperance was trembling again by the time she tied the bandage off.

The minute she turned away, Lord Caire was up and out of his chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Dews.”

She stared. “But your shirt—”

“Is a rag now for your bag.” He grimaced as he swung his cloak over his naked shoulders and grabbed his tricorne. “As are my waistcoat and coat. Again, Mrs. Dews, I thank you and bid you good night. Mr. Makepeace.”

He nodded briefly to them both before striding to the back door.

Temperance straightened, an odd panic in her throat. Surely he wasn’t going to journey home in the dark? “You’re wounded, my lord, and alone. Perhaps you should consider spending the night with us here?”

He pivoted, his black cape swirling about his legs, and touched the tip of his black walking stick to the brim of his hat. She noticed for the first time that the silver head of his cane was worked into the shape of a perched hawk. “Your concern is flattering, madam, but I do assure you that I can make it home to my own bed safely.”

And with that he was gone.

Temperance let out a sigh, feeling oddly deflated.

That is, until Winter slowly turned in his chair, making it creak. “I think I need an explanation, sister, as to how you came to know the infamous Lord Caire.”

HE WAS A creature of the night, unfit for the company of humans.

The gloom of the St. Giles night enveloped Lazarus as he strode rapidly away from Maiden Lane and Mrs. Dews’s innocent little home for children. He was no more suited to that place than a falcon was a dovecote. He leapt over the stinking channel that ran down the middle of the street and turned down another smaller lane, heading west. What must she think of him, a wretched twisted animal that couldn’t even stand the touch of his own kind? A shadow moved in a doorway ahead and he charged toward it, welcoming the possibility of violence. But the shadow separated from the darkness about it, and a slight figure fled away into the night.

Lazarus slowed his steps to a walk again, cursing the missed opportunity for distraction. He felt a trickle of moisture tickle his side—he’d reopened the wound with his exertion. But that wasn’t why he looked for diversion.

He was hard and throbbing and had been ever since Mrs. Dews had touched his bare skin with her slim, pale hands. Her touch had brought not only desperate mental pain, but also an erotic lust so intense that it lasted into the coldness of the night. He laughed silently. The little martyr would no doubt be disgusted if she knew what she’d done to him. She’d be even more appalled if she knew his preferred method for easing such bodily urges. If the blood wasn’t soaking into his breeches, he’d find a female amenable to his demands. He’d take his selection to some rooms nearby and…

The image of his last lover pushed itself into his head. Marie. Marie was dead, her body torn into a grotesque pile of offal. She’d been murdered in the rooms he’d rented for her here in St. Giles. The place had been at her insistence, and at the time—two years ago now—he hadn’t thought much about the location beyond the fact that it was rather inconvenient for himself. But now it was evident that St. Giles held the key to her murder. It wasn’t only because of his wound that he didn’t take the time to relieve the lust Mrs. Dews had engendered—he’d been targeted tonight. The assassin with the leather nose patch had been at Mother Heart’s-Ease’s last night. Perhaps he’d merely been a footpad intent on a purse, but Lazarus didn’t think so.

Someone didn’t want him to find Marie’s murderer.

“YOU KNOW LORD Caire?” Temperance stared at her brother.

He arched a brow. “I may be a mere schoolmaster, sister, but even I hear the gossip in St. Giles.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her hands as she automatically cleaned and put away her needle and scissors. Her mind had gone completely blank except for the thought that everyone seemed to have heard of Lord Caire save herself.

Winter sighed and got up. He crossed to a cupboard and took down two glasses. They were fragile things that had once belonged to their mother, two of what had originally been a set of six. He brought them to the table and carefully poured two small glasses of the red wine.

Then he sat and took a sip, closing his eyes as he swallowed. He tilted back his head, the lines about his mouth deepening. “This wine is atrocious. I’m surprised Lord Caire didn’t dash it against the wall.”