Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(79)

He strode to the door and jerked it open.

“He asked me if you loved me,” she cried.

He halted, still and silent.

“I told him you did,” she whispered.

He walked out without answering and shut the door behind him.

Silence stared at her hands and then around the small, old room. She’d thought it homey once. Now it merely seemed dreary. She sat abruptly on a straight-backed chair. When she’d told Charming Mickey that her husband did indeed love her, he’d simply smiled and replied, If he loves you, he will believe you.

What a fool she was.

What a fool.

HE’D NEVER REALLY allowed himself to examine why he sought Marie’s killer, Lazarus reflected as he paced through the darkening streets the next night. St. John had told him he was obsessed, and Temperance had accused him of believing he was in love with Marie when he had no idea what love was, but was either right? Perhaps he simply was on a quixotic quest for no discernible reason. Perhaps his life was so barren that the violent death of a mistress was a welcome excitement.

Depressing thought.

She’d been seeing other men while living at his expense. The knowledge should’ve shocked him, made him angry, but his only emotion was curiosity: Had she needed more money than his generous allowance? Or had she needed the sexual coupling?

He stepped around a near-skeletal man, passed out or perhaps dead in the street. He was nearing St. Giles. The street was becoming narrower, more filthy and wretched. The channel in the middle of the street was clogged with noxious debris, the stench a miasma that seemed to cling to the skin.

He’d already found one of the men Faulk had named, a thin weaselly fellow who’d never once met his eyes as they’d talked. He couldn’t help but think the man needed to tie up his women in order to get the courage to become aroused. The thought was repugnant. Was that what he was? A coward unable to look a woman in the eye as he bedded her?

Except he could look Temperance in the eyes. He didn’t need the ropes and hood with her. She was a kind of freedom for him. A pleasant sort of normalcy.

Perhaps that was why his feet guided him to her even now.

Night had fallen fully, black and ominous, by the time he entered St. Giles proper. Lazarus grasped his stick more firmly, aware that he’d been attacked three times now in this area. He’d been intent on the hunt, on following the trail of blood, but perhaps he should look more closely at where and when he’d been attacked.

On why he’d been attacked.

Up ahead, a gang of men emerged around the corner. Lazarus faded back into a side alley and watched their approach warily. They were arguing over a gold watch and a curled wig—they’d obviously already preyed on at least one unlucky gentleman tonight.

Lazarus waited a moment after their voices had died into the night and then continued.

Ten minutes more and he stood outside Temperance’s kitchen door. The hour was late. He hesitated a moment, straining to listen for any sounds from within. When he could make out none, he twisted apart his stick, drawing out his short sword. He inserted the blade in the crack between the door and the frame. A moment of careful maneuvering and he’d lifted the bar.

Easing the door open, he glided inside and rebarred it. The kitchen fire was banked for the night. Perhaps she’d already gone to bed. He could sneak up the stairs, but he had no idea which room was hers. The risk of alarming the house was too big. Besides, a teapot sat on the table, a small, pitiful tin of tea beside it. Perhaps she meant to return for her midnight cup of tea.

He entered her little sitting room as he had on that first night he’d met her. The grate was cold, and he knelt to lay a fire, returning briefly to the kitchen for a spill. Then he sat and waited like a lovelorn swain. Lazarus laughed lightly under his breath. Wasn’t that what he was? A suitor waiting in bitter hope that his lady would grace him with her presence? It wasn’t even about the sex. He simply wanted to be with her. To watch the expressions flit across those extraordinary golden eyes. To listen to her voice.

Oh, he was pitiful.

He heard rustlings from the kitchen and he tilted his head, closing his eyes to listen. Was it her out there? He imagined so, seeing in his mind’s eye her pulling the kettle from the hearth and pouring the water over the tea leaves. He sat inert and called to her silently, his whole body longing for her.

The door creaked and he opened his eyes to see her staring at him. He smiled like a fool; he couldn’t help it.

“Oh,” she said, quite obviously nonplussed. “What are you doing here?”

“Calling on you,” he replied. “I fear I need to go into St. Giles tonight, and I need you with me.”

She stared at him a moment and then turned back into the kitchen. He followed to find her already putting on a cloak. “Why do you need me?”

“Because I plan to go back to Mother Heart’s-Ease.”

“Why?” She frowned at him over the ties to her cloak. “We’ve been there twice; surely we’ve learned all we can there?”

“It would seem so.” He ran a finger along the worn wooden kitchen table. “Except that I went to see one of Marie’s lovers. He says he met Marie at Mother Heart’s-Ease’s gin house.”

“What?” She stared at him. “But Mother Heart’s-Ease acted as if she’d never met Marie.”