Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(44)

“No one.”

Silence stared at her own plate, no longer hungry. “What shall we do, William?”

“I don’t know,” her husband replied. “I don’t know. The owners are saying now that I must have had a hand in the theft.”

“That’s ridiculous!” William was one of the most honest men Silence had ever known. “Why are they accusing you?”

He closed his eyes wearily. “I left the ship early the night we docked. Left it with only two guards. They say I must’ve been bribed to help.”

Silence clenched her fists under the table. William had left the ship early to return to her. Guilt made her chest ache.

“They need a scapegoat, I fear,” William said heavily. “The owners are talking about prosecuting me for theft.”

“Dear God.”

“I’m sorry, my dear.” William had finally opened his sad green eyes. “I brought this catastrophe upon us.”

“No, William. Never.” Silence laid her palm on her husband’s hand. “This is not your fault.”

He laughed again, that horrible croaking sound she was beginning to hate. “I should’ve put more men on to guard the cargo, should’ve stayed to make sure the cargo was safe. If not my fault, then whose is it?”

“This Charming Mickey’s, that’s who,” Silence said in sudden anger. “He’s the one who makes his living off the backs of honest men. He’s the one who stole this cargo out of greed.”

William shook his head, withdrawing his hand from hers as he rose from the table. “That may be, but we have no way of seeking redress from the man. He has no care for us or anyone else.”

He stood a moment looking at her, and for the first time, Silence saw hopeless despair in his face. “We are doomed, I fear.”

He turned and left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Silence stared at the pitiful meal she’d prepared. She wanted to sweep the old dishes, the burnt meat, and mushy carrots to the floor. She wanted to scream and cry, to pull at her hair and let the world know her despair. But she didn’t do any of that. None of those actions would help the man she loved. If William was correct, no one she knew could help them. She and William were on their own. And if she couldn’t find a way to get the cargo back from Charming Mickey, then William would either die in prison or be hanged as a thief.

Silence squared her shoulders. She would never let that happen.

IT TOOK A week for Lazarus to recover from his wound. At least it was a week until he felt well enough to seek out Mrs. Dews. He’d been out of bed for days before that, but he was damned if he’d let the little martyr see him so weak again. So he’d bided his time, patiently eating the pap Small insisted was fit for the sickroom. Another doctor was called for, but Lazarus shouted at him when the quack started mumbling about bloodletting. The man beat a hasty retreat, but not before leaving a bottle of noxious liquid “medicine.” Lazarus threw the bottle out, uncaring that he’d no doubt be billed for the elixir later.

He spent the rest of his confinement chafing at the delay in seeing Mrs. Dews again. Somehow the woman had crept into his blood as surely as the poison from his wound. During the day, he reviewed conversations they’d had, remembering the look of hurt in her gilded eyes when he’d said something particularly crass. The pain he’d caused her provoked a strange tenderness. He wanted to heal the hurt and then hurt her again just to make it better. It was impossible to keep thoughts of her gentleness, her wit, and her acerbity from his mind. His dreams at night were far more basic. Even with his illness, he woke each morning with the flesh between his legs straining for her.

Perhaps he should’ve let the quack bleed him. Perhaps then his body would rid itself of not only the poison, but also of Mrs. Dews.

He considered abandoning her help and not seeing her again, but the thought was fleeting. On the night Small deemed him recovered, Lazarus prowled the alley behind the foundling home.

He’d not sent word ahead for her to expect him, and he felt an uncharacteristic uncertainty of his reception. The night was dark and cold, the wind blowing his cloak about his legs. Lazarus hesitated in the fetid alley. He laid a hand against the wood of the kitchen door as if in this way he could feel the woman within.

Nonsense.

He contemplated stealing in as he had before, but in the end, prudence made him rap sharply on the door. It was thrown almost immediately open. Lazarus stared down into light brown eyes gilded with golden stars. Mrs. Dews looked startled, as if she’d not expected him at the door, and indeed her hair was down about her shoulders, curling damply in the heat of the kitchen.

“You were washing your hair,” he said stupidly. The thought of such a mundane intimacy stirred a longing not only at his groin but in his chest as well.

“Yes.” Pink was suffusing her cheeks.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, because her hair was beautiful, thick and nearly to her waist. It waved and curled with reckless abandon. How she must hate that.

“Oh.” She glanced down and then over her shoulder. “Won’t you come in?”

His lips twitched in amusement at her unease, but he said as gently as was possible for him, “Thank you.”

The foundling home kitchen was humid and hot tonight. The fire was banked below a blackened kettle. Mrs. Dews’s regular acolyte, Mary Whitsun, frowned at him over a basin of water at the table, while beside her stood a small boy. A plump young woman with a cheery red face and white-blond hair sat in the corner nursing a tiny infant. She looked up at his entrance and casually pulled a scarf over her exposed breast.