Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(73)

Lazarus felt St. John’s quick glance, but he ignored it as he rapped on the door. There was a long pause.

“How did you find this man?” St. John asked stiffly.

Lazarus smiled humorlessly. “A brothel madam recommended him to me.”

He caught St. John studying Temperance, but before he could voice a possible concern, the door to the house was opened.

A slatternly maid stood gaping at them.

“May we see your master?” Lazarus asked.

She gulped, scratched at one arm, and turned without replying. The maid led them into a house that obviously had once been better maintained. The worn wooden floor was dull. Dust had settled into the dark corners. A room was off the hall, and she opened the door without preamble. Faulk was seated inside at a desk, attired in a frayed brown banyan and soft cap to keep his shaved head warm. He wore fingerless gloves on his hands to write, and Lazarus noticed that his fire was meager. In fact, the whole house was chill.

“Who was it, Sally?” Faulk asked before belatedly looking up. He stared at them for a moment, and Lazarus thought his eyes iced over. “I have no monies to give you.”

Lazarus arched an eyebrow. “We’re not bill collectors.”

“Ah.” Faulk showed no sign of embarrassment. “Then what is your business, if I may ask?”

“I wished to ask you about a mutual friend.”

Faulk arched a single eyebrow. He was younger than Lazarus had first taken him for—perhaps no more than forty. He was handsome, but want or hard living had etched lines in his face, and his jawline sagged. In another year or so, his good looks would be gone.

“Do you know Marie Hume?”

“No,” Faulk replied promptly. His gaze never wavered, but his hand fisted on top of the desk.

“A fair woman with a round, red birthmark by the corner of her right eye?” Lazarus asked gently. “She was found dead in St. Giles almost two months ago.”

“Many whores die in St. Giles,” Faulk said.

“Yes,” Lazarus said, “but I never said she was a whore.”

Faulk’s expression blanked.

In the silence, Lazarus took Temperance’s arm and pulled her to sit next to him on a listing settee. St. John remained standing by the door.

Faulk flicked his eyes to Temperance and St. John and then seemed to disregard them.

“What is this about?” he asked Lazarus.

“Marie was a friend of mine,” Lazarus replied. “I’m interested in finding the man who murdered her.”

Faulk’s sallow skin turned waxen. “She was murdered?”

Could a man pretend a change in skin color? Lazarus thought not. “She was found bound to a bed, her belly cut open.”

Faulk stared at him and then abruptly shifted his weight in his chair, slumping back. “I didn’t know.”

“You saw her?” Lazarus asked.

Faulk nodded. “A half dozen times or more. But I wasn’t the only man she entertained.”

Lazarus waited, not saying anything.

Faulk’s color—what there was of it—was returning to his face. “She had several callers. She was willing to do, ah, unusual things.”

He looked knowingly at Lazarus, as if they shared a dirty secret. Except Lazarus had held his “secret” so many years he’d lost any shame he’d once had in it.

He stared back stonily at the man. “Do you know the names of any of her other callers?”

“Perhaps.”

Lazarus studied the man a moment, and then said without looking at St. John, “Take Mrs. Dews to the carriage, please.”

Temperance tensed beside him, but she went without protest as St. John led her from the room. He shut the door behind them.

Lazarus hadn’t taken his eyes from Faulk the entire time. “Now. Tell me.”

* * *

“SHOULD WE LEAVE him alone with that man?” Temperance whispered anxiously to Mr. St. John.

He didn’t break stride as he descended the town house steps. “Caire knows what he’s doing.”

“But if Lord Faulk should call more servants? What if he overwhelms Lord Caire?”

Mr. St. John handed her into the carriage and then sat across from her. “I expect Caire can handle himself. Besides, it didn’t look like Faulk had any more servants than that half-witted girl.”

Temperance gazed nervously out the window, not exactly convinced by this vague reassurance.

“You worry about him,” St. John said softly.

She looked at him in surprise. “Well, of course I worry about him.”

She saw suddenly by the satisfaction on his face that worry had a far more significant meaning for him.

She looked down at her hands and repeated more softly, “Of course I worry for him.”

“I’m glad,” he said. “No one has worried about him for a very long time, I think.”

“Except for you,” she said quietly.

He frowned a little, and she noticed for the first time that his thoughtful gray eyes were rather lovely in a remote sort of way. “I worry about him, but it isn’t the same, is it? I have my own family.” He blinked suddenly and his head jerked as if he’d remembered something. “Or I had one, at least.”

There was an awkward silence then, for he was obviously suffering from some kind of grief and just as obviously didn’t want to discuss it.