Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(74)

After a bit she inhaled. “He still hasn’t come out.”

St. John crossed his arms. “He will.”

“Did you know her?” she asked suddenly. “Marie?”

Mr. St. John’s cheekbones were high and sharp, and she saw them pinken slightly now with flags of color. “No, I never met her.” The color deepened. “He kept—keeps—that part of his life well hidden.”

“And he’s never married?”

“No.” He frowned, thinking. “As far as I know, he’s never even been interested in a respectable woman.” He looked up at her. “At least not until now.”

It was her turn to examine her hands while her cheeks heated.

She felt more than saw St. John sit a little forward. “Look here. He may seem hard and cynical and, well, brutal sometimes. But remember, there’s a part of him that’s vulnerable. Don’t hurt him.”

Her head jerked up, appalled at the very thought. “I would never hurt him.”

But he was already shaking his head. “You say that now, it’s natural, but keep it close to your heart. He can bleed. Don’t make him.”

The carriage rocked as Lord Caire threw open the door and entered.

St. John shot her a warning look, then sat back against the squabs. “Did you get what you wanted?”

“Indeed.” Caire thumped against the roof and settled himself beside St. John. “Faulk knows of at least three other men.”

St. John raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “It’s not much to go on.”

“But it’s more than I had before,” Caire replied.

St. John scoffed. “And how do you propose going about finding these fellows?”

“I’ll inquire,” Caire said loftily.

“Dear God, inquire.”

They were bickering, but Temperance had the idea that both men enjoyed it, thought they’d die a thousand deaths before admitting it. She looked out the window and half drifted as she thought about what St. John had said earlier. Surely he must be mistaken? How could a man like Caire have any vulnerabilities at all? She glanced at him from under lowered lids. His attention was on some point he was making to St. John, but he caught her look nevertheless. His eyelids drooped and a corner of his mouth curled sensually even as he argued with his friend.

Temperance caught her breath and hastily looked away. Dear God. If he could affect her with a mere look, surely it was she who should be warned?

They pulled up at St. John’s house shortly thereafter.

“Good night, Caire, Mrs. Dews.” St. John nodded.

Temperance inclined her head.

“Good night and thank you,” Caire said.

St. John shrugged. “Any time.”

The door closed behind him and then the carriage jerked into motion again. Temperance half expected Caire to cross and sit beside her, but he seemed content to watch her from across the carriage. She fidgeted a moment under his eyes, and then a question that had been hovering at the back of her mind for days now tumbled out.

“Did you know she saw other men?”

The question was abrupt, she knew, but he had no trouble following her train of thought. “No.”

“But”—she frowned down at the folds of her cloak, rubbing at a spot on the edge—“she was your mistress. Surely you expected fidelity?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” Her voice verged on the strident, but she didn’t moderate it. How could he not care?

“She was my paid mistress,” he said coldly, “nothing more.”

“For how long?”

“Nearly two years.”

“And how often did you see her?”

He stirred impatiently. “It was my habit to visit her twice a week.”

She stared at him, a rising tide of some emotion swelling in her breast, threatening to break the barrier of her silence. “You saw Marie for twice a week for two years. You made love to her hundreds of times—”

“What we did was not making love,” he cut in sharply.

She waved away the interruption. “You once said you didn’t love her, but you must have felt something for her.”

He simply looked at her.

“You’ve gone to great trouble and risked your life on more than one occasion to find her killer.” She smacked her open palm against her seat. “She must’ve meant more to you than a mere mistress.”

“So you believe I must have loved her?” he asked softly.

She leaned forward, enraged for no discernible reason. “I believe that you wanted to love Marie—that you’re enamored by the idea of love—but that you have no concept what love is. I think that’s what you’re searching for in St. Giles—some source of emotion, some inkling of what human feeling really is.”

“How terribly perceptive of you, Mrs. Dews,” he drawled horribly. “You’ve known me less than a month and you’ve already plumbed the depths of my soul.”

All her anger left her instantly. “Lazarus…”

“What?” A muscle twitched on his jaw. “What do you want me to say?”

She closed her eyes. “Something. Anything. Tell me she was the love of your life. Explain to me how it is she was your mistress, but you had no idea she had other lovers or even a brother. Tell me something, Caire. Feel something.”