Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(59)

—from King Lockedheart

“Then you mean to see him again?” Winter asked quietly that night.

“Yes, I do.” Temperance finished braiding Mary Little’s fine flaxen hair and smiled down at the girl. “There, all done. Now off to bed with you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Mary Little curtsied as she’d been taught and skipped out of the kitchen. Later, when all the children were settled in their beds, Winter would come up to hear their prayers.

“Now you, Mary Church.” The girl turned her back and Temperance took up the brush, concentrating on taming the thick, brown curls without pulling too much.

The remaining three Marys sat before the fire in their chemises, their hair drying as they bent their heads over their samplers. Bath day was always quite a chore, but Temperance enjoyed it nonetheless. There was something wonderfully soothing about all the children being clean and neat at once.

Or at least this time should be soothing.

She sighed. “I need to go tonight.”

All the girls could hear their argument, even though both she and Winter took pains to keep their voices even and polite, but the main child she worried over was Mary Whitsun. That Mary sat beside her, combing out the curls of two-year-old Mary Sweet. Mary Whitsun kept her eyes on her task, but she had a frown between her brows.

Temperance sighed. Pity she couldn’t have this discussion in private, but if she was going to attend the ball Caire had promised to take her to tonight, she would have to get the children safely to bed and then rush to dress in Nell’s lent gown. She wished it were merely for the home that she looked forward to the evening. Already her heartbeat had quickened at the thought of seeing Caire again. She glanced worriedly at the old clock on the mantel. She’d be cutting things perilously close as it was.

“I’m sorry, but I hope to see a certain gentleman tonight.”

Winter turned from staring into the fireplace. “Who?”

Temperance frowned over a tangle in Mary Church’s hair. “He’s a gentleman Caire introduced me to at the musicale, Sir Henry Easton. He seemed quite interested in our home—he asked me about apprenticing out the boys and the clothing we provide. Things like that. I’m hoping to convince him to help the home.”

Winter glanced at the girls, all avidly listening. “Indeed? And what assurance do you have that he’ll do as you hope?”

“None.” Temperance pulled overhard on Mary Church’s hair and the girl yelped. “I’m sorry, Mary Church.”

“Temperance—” Winter began.

But she spoke, quick and low. “I have no assurances, but I must go nonetheless. Can’t you see that, brother? I must at least grasp at possibilities, even if they prove to be false hopes.”

Winter’s thin lips compressed. “Very well. But be sure to stay by Lord Caire’s side. I dislike the thought of you at one of these aristocratic balls. I’ve heard”—he glanced at the girls and appeared to modify his words—“about events that can take place at such balls. Be careful, please.”

“Of course.” Temperance smiled at Winter and then transferred the smile to Mary Church. “All done.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Mary Church took Mary Sweet’s hand, for the toddler was properly braided as well, and led her from the kitchen.

“Well, then, only three little heads and six little braids to go.” Winter smiled at the remaining girls by the fire.

They giggled at him. While Winter was always gentle, he didn’t often speak in such light tones.

“I’ll go up and begin reading the Psalm for the night,” Winter said.

Temperance nodded. “Good night.”

She felt his hand, briefly laid on her shoulder as he passed, and then she breathed a sigh of relief. She hated his disapproval more than that of her other brothers. Winter was the brother closest to her in age, and they’d become closer still by running the home together.

She shook her head and quickly finished braiding the other little girls’ hair and sent each on their way until only Mary Whitsun remained. It was something of a ritual between the two of them that Mary Whitsun was the last to have her hair braided at night. Neither spoke as she worked the comb through the girl’s hair, and it occurred to Temperance that she’d been doing this for nine years—since Mary had come to the home. Soon they’d find an apprenticeship for Mary, though, and their nights together by the fire as she braided the girl’s hair would be over.

Temperance’s breast ached at the thought.

She was tying a bit of ribbon to Mary’s braid when a knocking came at the front door.

Temperance rose. “Who can that be?” It was still too early for Lord Caire.

She hurried to the door, Mary Whitsun at her heels, and unbarred it. On the step was a liveried footman, holding a large covered basket.

“For you, miss,” he said, and thrust it into her hands before turning away.

“Wait!” Temperance called. “What is this for?”

The footman was already several yards away. He half turned. “My lord says you’re to wear it tonight.”

And then he was gone.

Temperance closed and barred the door, and then took the basket into the kitchen. She set it on the table and pulled back the plain linen covering it. Underneath was a bright turquoise silk gown embroidered with delicate posies of yellow, crimson, and black. Temperance drew in her breath. The gown made Nell’s wonderful scarlet dress look like a sack in comparison. Underneath the gown were fine silk stays, a chemise, stockings, and embroidered slippers. Nestled in the silk was a small jeweler’s box. Temperance picked it up with trembling fingers, not daring to open it yet. Surely she couldn’t accept such a gift? But, then, if she was going to a grand ball with Lord Caire, she didn’t want to shame him with the modesty of her toilet.