Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(85)

Something crashed next door.

She ran from her room. Winter’s door was shut, of course, so she rapped on it. “Brother?”

No answer.

She rapped harder and when there was still no sound from within, she balled her hand into a fist and pounded. “Winter! Are you all right?”

She tried the door handle, but it was locked. His bedroom was the only room in the house where Winter might find a measure of privacy. She was just beginning to wonder how she might break the door down when it swung suddenly inward.

“It’s all right.” Winter stood in the doorway, but despite his soothing words, all was manifestly not right. Blood streaked his pasty face, running from a gash on his forehead, and he swayed where he stood.

Temperance wrapped her arms about her brother’s waist to keep him from falling. “What happened to you?”

He raised his hand to his face and then seemed startled when he saw the blood on his fingers. “I… I believe I fell.”

His hesitant tone alarmed her more. “You don’t know?”

“I can’t seem…” He trailed off and looked about his tiny, cell-like room. “Perhaps I should sit down.”

She helped him to sit on his bed—there was no room for even a chair—then stood over him anxiously. “Are you ill? When did you last eat?”

She tried to lay the back of her hand on his forehead, but with uncharacteristic irritation, he brushed her away. “I’m perfectly fine; I just—”

“Fell down and can’t remember why?” she said in exasperation. “What did you eat for dinner last night?”

His forehead creased. “Ah…”

“Oh, Winter! Did you eat anything at all?”

“Perhaps some broth,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

Temperance sighed. Winter had never learned how to lie effectively. “Stay here and I’ll fetch some breakfast and bandages.”

“But the school,” he said fretfully. “I must open it.”

“No.” She pushed him back onto his bed, for he’d tried to rise again. “The school can close for one day.”

“We’ll lose the tuition,” he said.

Temperance stared at him. It was true; if the school was not opened, then the students did not pay tuition for that day. “Surely we can afford one day closed?”

He shook his head, his complexion almost as white as his pillow. “We’ve used nearly all the money Lord Caire gave us.”

“What?” she asked, shocked.

“We owed the butcher and baker,” he whispered, “and we hadn’t paid the cobbler for the boys’ shoes this last November.”

Temperance looked about the small room, but there was no one else to make the decision for her. “We’ll be fine. Just don’t try to get up. Promise me, Winter?”

“Yes.” He nodded, and, indeed, his eyes were already closed when she left the room.

Dear God, she’d known they were in desperate straits, but she’d had no idea the depths to which they’d fallen. Temperance hurried down the stairs, trying to order her priorities, but she kept coming back to the fact that Winter was ill, and she just couldn’t run the home without him.

She walked into the big old kitchen, her mind in turmoil, but stopped when she saw who was within.

Polly stood next to Nell, and both women’s faces were fearful. Mary Whitsun huddled in a corner, her little face white. Polly held a still bundle in her arms.

“What is it?” Temperance whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Polly said. “She was suckling fine and then last night…” She pulled back a corner of the blanket. Mary Hope was within, her tiny face red and shining with moisture.

Polly looked up, her face white. “She has the fever.”

Chapter Sixteen

That night, Meg was led into a magnificent dining room. A feast was laid there, but the only one who sat at the table was the king with his little blue bird in its golden cage at his elbow.

The king dismissed the guards and indicated a chair at his right hand. “Come sit by me, Meg.”

Meg sat very carefully so as not to harm her lovely dress.

“Now, Meg,” King Lockedheart said as he took a gold plate and set meat and sugared fruit upon it.

“I have a question for you.”

“What is that, Your Majesty?”

The king set the plate he had filled with his own hands before her. “I wish to know what love is.”…

—from King Lockedheart

“The lighter wood, I think,” Lazarus said consideringly early that afternoon. “With the ivory inlay.”

He and Mr. Kirk, the piano maker, were in his study. Mr. Kirk had brought half a dozen different wooden boards, each intricately decorated. Lazarus ran his hand over the sample he’d chosen. It was feminine without being overornamented.

Like Temperance.

“A very nice choice, my lord.” Mr. Kirk gathered his samples into an especially made case. “I believe we have something nearly finished. Shall I deliver it to you in a fortnight?”

“No. It’s to be a present. I shall give you the address to deliver it to.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Kirk bowed, backing from the room obsequiously.

Lazarus leaned back in his chair feeling oddly light, almost carefree. He’d given presents to other women—payments for services rendered—but he’d never taken the trouble to pick out the gift himself. Frankly it hadn’t mattered, either to him or the woman. She would regard the trinkets and jewels he bestowed as insurance against the inevitable time when they would part, something easily converted to money. He hoped that Temperance would regard his gift in a more permanent light, that perhaps their relationship itself might one day become—