Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(72)

“Oh.” She felt heat creep up her neck. He would talk bluntly about the matter! “I’m well. Thank you.”

“And your sister?”

She frowned, the tears too close to the surface. “We haven’t heard anything else.”

“Ah.”

She peeked through her lashes, trying to read his expression in the dim light. He sounded as if he might be worried for her. Did he intend to repeat the events of the night before? Or was it a one-time thing best forgotten? But surely if he was not interested in her, he would not have dragged her along on this ride. Temperance felt heat pool low in her belly at the thought of his hands caressing her breasts again. Of his lips against her neck.

The carriage shuddered to a halt and she looked up quickly. “Where—”

She didn’t have time to finish the question, because the carriage door opened at that moment and a tall man in a gray wig and half-moon spectacles entered.

“Mrs. Dews, perhaps you remember my friend Mr. St. John?” Caire asked smoothly.

“Of course,” she replied, trying to hide her confusion.

Mr. St. John inclined his head. “Ma’am.”

“St. John has kindly consented to join us in our investigations this evening,” Caire said.

St. John snorted softly, making Temperance wonder how his kind consent had been obtained. She stared curiously between the two men. Caire and St. John didn’t seem likely friends. Caire was so carefree—but with an air of danger—while St. John looked grave and scholarly.

“May I inquire as to how you two became friends?” she asked.

It was Caire who replied. “St. John and I met at Oxford, where I was spending my time drinking bad wine, and he was attempting to translate obscure Grecian philosophers and arguing politics with other boring fellows.”

St. John interjected another snort here, but Caire continued, oblivious to the interruption. “One night I came across him in the midst of six vulgar toughs who were in the process of pounding him into a sort of puree. I’m afraid I took offense at their chosen pursuit.”

Temperance waited, but both men merely looked at her as if their story was done.

She blinked. “So you met in a tavern brawl?”

Caire looked at the ceiling consideringly. “More a street fight.”

“Or melee.” St. John shrugged.

“And you became friends,” she finished for them.

“Yes,” Caire said while St. John shrugged again, as if the outcome was self-evident.

“I don’t understand,” Temperance muttered under her breath.

Caire must’ve had acute hearing. “I think it was the blow St. John received to the crown of his head,” he said kindly. “Blood all over the place. It has a kind of bonding effect.”

She blinked again. “And you were untouched?”

That presumption was too much for St. John. “He had his nose broken and both eyes blacked,” he said with what sounded very much like satisfaction. “And his lip swelled so much he talked with a lisp for a month.”

“A sennight,” Caire interjected.

“Six weeks at the very least,” St. John shot back without heat. “You were still lisping on May Day when we, ah…”

“Rowed down the Isis dead drunk at dawn,” Caire said. “With the don’s stolen pug.”

“Quite,” St. John murmured.

Temperance’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

Caire’s mouth cocked up. “So you see why I brought him when I thought we might need another.”

“Oh, yes,” Temperance said weakly.

“I spent the next two years at Oxford trying to get him to drink more wine and study less,” Caire.

“And I spent those two years attempting to keep you from succumbing to your worst urges,” St. John said far less lightly. He glanced at Caire. “At one point, I was certain you had a death wish.”

“Maybe I did, ” Caire whispered. “Maybe I did.”

The carriage jolted and stopped.

Caire glanced out the window, immediately sobering. “And here we are.”

AFTER THAT LAST attack in St. Giles, Lazarus had vowed never again to put Mrs. Dews at risk. Yet, at the same time, he needed an excuse that required her continued presence in his life. His inquiries, while dangerous, were perfect.

Hence St. John’s appearance tonight.

Lazarus admitted to himself wryly that a male duenna—whom he’d provided himself—made his pursuit of Temperance somewhat comical. But he’d not compromise either her safety or his… courtship of her.

The word gave him pause. Was that what this was? A courtship? Perhaps. It was the first time that he’d pursued a female without the lure of money. It was a strangely humbling thought: She’d come to him with no regard for what he could give her. He had to use his charm alone.

And that was often in short supply.

“Who is the man we see tonight?” St. John asked as they descended the carriage. He might be a scholar, but Lazarus knew from those days at Oxford that the man could fight if need be.

“George Eppingham, Lord Faulk,” Lazarus said, looking at the crumbling town house in front of them. They were in Westminster. The area had once been fashionable, but now most of the wealthy former citizens had fled west. “He’s fond of blindfolds.”