Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(28)

“Someone’s at the door!” One of the little boys scurried to the front door.

“Joseph Tinbox.” Temperance started after him into the front hallway. “Do not run. It hardly matters if—”

But Joseph Tinbox unlatched the door at that point and pulled it open, revealing not Lord Caire, but Silence.

Temperance halted. Her sister’s face was pale and she wore no cap. Her lovely russet hair was windblown, her hazel eyes tragic. Silence never even glanced at the beautiful cherry-red dress.

“Temperance.”

“What is it?” Temperance whispered.

Silence put her hand to the door frame as if to brace herself. “William’s cargo has been stolen.”

IT WAS PAST four by the time Lazarus’s carriage pulled up at the end of Maiden Lane. The lane itself was too narrow for the carriage, so he descended the steps and told the coachman and footmen to wait before walking to the door of Mrs. Dews’s foundling home. The sunlight hadn’t yet completely faded, but he was sure to keep his fist firmly on his ebony walking stick. He caught the movement of a shadow out of the corner of his eye, a strange flicker of black and red, but when he turned, the thing—a man?—was gone.

After two nights of rest, his shoulder felt even worse than it had the evening he was wounded. It throbbed with a low, continual beat of pain. At the sight of the wound this morning, Small had broken his usual reserve to suggest that his master might do well to spend the evening abed—a suggestion that Lazarus had discarded after only a moment’s consideration. He owed Mrs. Dews an event in which she might go hunting a patron for her home. In addition, he was oddly eager to see her again, a state of mind that a dark inner part of himself found vastly amusing. He’d nearly forgotten about the musicale invitation, but once remembered this morning, he knew it was one of the few events to which he might take Mrs. Dews.

Most of his invitations were considerably less benign than a musicale.

Lazarus used the head of his stick to rap upon the home’s wooden door. It was opened almost at once by a small female urchin with an abundance of freckles over her cheeks and snub nose. She stood back without a word and he entered the pitiful hallway. It was empty save for themselves.

He arched an eyebrow at the child. “Where is Mrs. Dews?”

The child stared back, apparently stricken mute by his presence in her home.

Lazarus sighed. “What is your name?”

There was another awkward silence during which the child inserted a thumb into her mouth, and then they were both rescued by the clicking of advancing heels.

“Mary St. Paul, please return to the kitchen and tell Nell she must bar the door well behind me,” Mrs. Dews said.

She was lit from behind by the light in the kitchen, and she seemed to come toward him in a glowing nimbus cloud. She wore a crimson frock, a startlingly bright color that contrasted to the severity of her usual attire. Her bosom was framed by a low, round neckline, the expanse of smooth white skin nearly glowing.

His groin had the predictable reaction.

He bowed. “Mrs. Dews.”

“Hmm?” Her gaze focused on him as if she’d only now noticed him, and his vanity reared in disbelief.

He straightened, deliberately holding out his arm for her. It was expected, of course, the offering of his elbow to a lady, an everyday polite gesture. For him, however, with his peculiar aversion to touch, it’d always been a source of discomfort and thus avoided if at all possible. But right now he seemed to yearn for her touch. Odd, that. She placed her fingers on his sleeve. He felt the jolt, even through the stiff fabric, but whether it was of pain or some more indefinable sensation, he was unable to tell.

Interesting.

“Shall we?” he asked rhetorically.

But she seemed to hesitate, glancing back toward the home’s kitchen. “I think… Yes, I think so.” She looked at him squarely for the first time, and he thought he detected a faint flush high on her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”

He nodded and escorted her out the door. The night was chill, and she drew a thin wrap about her shoulders. The wrap was gray and coarse, obviously more her usual style, and looked even poorer contrasted to the rich red of her silk dress. Lazarus frowned, wondering where she’d gotten the dress. Had she always had it, saving it for special occasions, or had she been forced to purchase it for this evening?

Mrs. Dews cleared her throat. “Your letter said that it is a musicale we’ll be attending.”

They’d drawn abreast of the carriage, and one of the footmen had already jumped down to set the step. Lazarus took Mrs. Dews’s fingers in his gloved hand, assisting her into the carriage.

He didn’t know if he was glad to have her no longer touching him or not. “The hostess is Lady Beckinhall, a veritable lioness in London society. There should be many wealthy guests at her house tonight.”

Mrs. Dews settled herself on the cushions across from him. Lazarus knocked on the roof and took his own seat.

She was frowning down at her lap. “You make me sound mercenary.”

“Do I?” He tilted his head, studying her. She was nervous and distracted tonight, but he didn’t think it was at the prospect of attending such a rarefied social event. What had upset her? “I don’t mean to, I assure you.”

She turned to look out the darkened windows, staring at her own reflection, perhaps. “I suppose I am mercenary, but it’s for the home.”