Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(55)

“No. Well, yes.” Caire scratched his chin. “At least I assume they were whores, but that is nothing new. No, I made the acquaintance of the infamous Ghost of St. Giles.”

“Did you, now?” St. John busied himself rearranging the papers on his desk.

When he glanced up again, Caire was looking at him thoughtfully. He placed his posy on a table. “A man in a harlequin’s tunic, a floppy hat with a scarlet feather, and a black half-mask. Oh, and he was brandishing both a long and a short sword. Rather overly flamboyant, in my opinion.”

St. John snorted. “As if you’re one to critique the flamboyance of others.”

Caire ignored him. “I think it was the scarlet feather that was too much.”

St. John sighed. “And what was the Ghost doing?”

“Saving my hide, if you must know.”

“What?”

“I was attacked by five thugs last night. The ghost rather fortuitously intervened.”

“Was Mrs. Dews with you?” St. John asked softly.

Caire turned and looked at him silently.

“Damn it!” St. John pushed away from the desk. “Why do you persist in pursuing that lady? You’re placing her in danger.”

“I dislike that fact as much as you. I’ve decided that I can no longer take her into St. Giles without a guard of some sort.” He shook his head. “I haven’t yet decided how to continue my inquiries with her.”

“You should leave her be entirely.”

Caire’s mouth twisted humorlessly. “I find I cannot.”

“Why?” St. John shook his head. “She isn’t even your type.”

“What is my type?”

St. John glanced away. They both knew well enough the kind of women Caire favored.

“Whores?” Caire asked softly. “Women who can be bought by jewels?”

St. John looked at him helplessly.

Caire was pacing the room. “Perhaps I tire of my type. Perhaps I wish to be in the company of a different sort of woman.”

St. John sat forward, his voice low and intense. “Then why her? There are innumerable ladies of our own social rank, intelligent, witty, and beautiful, who would be more than happy to have you call upon them.”

“And each would be mentally assessing my annual income and my ancestry.” Caire smiled a bit sadly. “Perhaps I want a woman who cares naught for either. Perhaps I want a woman who, when she looks at me, sees nothing but a man.”

St. John stared.

“There’s something about her,” Caire said in a low voice. “She cares for everyone about her, yet neglects herself. I want to be the one who cares for her.”

“You’ll ruin her,” St. John said.

“Will I? The lady is not unwilling no matter your protests. Cut line, Godric. Why does she bother you so much?”

St. John was silent, a long-held sorrow welling in his chest.

“She reminds you of Clara, doesn’t she?” Caire asked quietly.

“Damn it.” St. John’s eyes were stinging. “Does she remind you of Clara?”

“No.” Caire touched the bouquet of daisies with one fingertip. “Clara was always yours, right from the very start. I never thought of her as anything but a dear friend. I confess I cannot say the same for Mrs. Dews.”

St. John stared at his hands, clenched on his desk. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I think I’ve acted out of jealousy.” St. John closed his eyes. “You have a healthy, strong lady.”

“No, it is I who should apologize. Your burden is heavy.”

St. John bent his head, unable to speak.

“You know I would give my own life if I could take away her disease,” Caire whispered.

Caire’s steps moved away and St. John heard the door close gently.

St. John inhaled, opening his eyes. They were wet and he blotted them irritably upon his sleeve. Then he rose and crossed to the flowers Caire had brought. There were at least two dozen, bright white and gold daisies.

He picked them up and carried them out of his study.

Daisies were Clara’s favorite flower.

IT WAS LATE that afternoon when Silence set out. If this Charming Mickey person was a thief who worked at night, it stood to reason that he’d not be in the best of moods in the morning.

And she wanted to see him when he was in a good mood.

She walked quickly along the narrow street, taking care not to meet the eyes of any of the other people who roamed this area of London. Most were street hawkers, returning home after a long day calling their wares in more prosperous parts. They pushed wheelbarrows with wilting vegetables or carried trays empty now of pies and fruit. These people she did not fear. But there were others she did—short men with shifting, mean eyes. Women in gaudy dresses, standing in doorways and at the entrance of alleys, lifting one side of their skirts as the men passed by to advertise their profession. These last two groups Silence hurried away from.

She was aware that her plain woolen skirt and simple lace cap were of far better quality than that worn by the other people around her. She’d dressed neatly for this interview, wanting to impress without standing out, but even her second-best skirt drew looks from the whores on the corners. She pulled her cloak more firmly about her and ducked her head, walking quickly.