Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(94)

“Is it?” she asked. “What do you feel?”

The king frowned. “Loss. Emptiness.”…

—from King Lockedheart

“Then you think we can do it?” Mrs. Dews leaned forward, her face bright, her extraordinary brown eyes eager.

St. John nodded, amazed by her vitality. How could he not be? She was in such extreme contrast to Clara’s still form upstairs.

He shoved the awful thought aside and focused on answering her instead. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve already had my secretary send out the invitations to view the foundling home.”

Mrs. Dews bit her lip. “How many did you invite?”

“A little over a hundred people.”

“Oh!” She sat very still, her eyes wide, but her hand crept out to seize the wrist of her maidservant, a woman named Nell.

St. John had been taken aback by the presence of the maid on this, Mrs. Dews’s second visit to his house. On the first, she’d arrived alone and nearly vibrating with the excitement of her idea: to open the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children for viewing in the hopes of catching the interest of a prospective patron for the home. It was a daring scheme, but one that was shrewd as well. Viewing the unfortunate, whether at prisons, hospitals, or houses for the hopelessly mad, was fashionable in London at the moment. Most came merely to stare and titter at the antics of those poor souls, but many would also pledge monies to the charities they viewed.

“That’s quite a lot of people,” Mrs. Dews said, letting go of her maid.

“Yes, but they are all of the best families—ones to whom charity is now in fashion.” St. John arched a significant eyebrow.

“Quite. Yes, of course.” Mrs. Dews smoothed her black skirts with one hand. It trembled slightly, and St. John had a wild urge to cross the room and comfort her.

“Do you think you’ll be ready in time?” he inquired, clasping his hands behind his back.

“I believe so,” she said, looking a bit relieved at the change of subject. “We’ve already scrubbed the walls and floors, Winter has been listening to the children recite various poems by heart, and Nell has been busy mending the children’s clothes.”

“Good, good. I’ll have my cook make a quantity of punch and some gingerbread the day before to be delivered quite early on the set morning.”

“Oh, but you’ve done so much already,” Mrs. Dews exclaimed. “I don’t wish you to go to the expense on my account.”

“It’s for the children,” St. John reminded her gently. “I’d feel quite the lackwit if I didn’t contribute to our little plan. Please, don’t mention it.”

“In that case…” She smiled shyly at him, her eyes so alive.

How Caire could’ve let this woman slip through his hands was beyond him. He turned quickly, pretending to study the china clock on his mantelpiece. “If that is all today?”

“Oh! Oh, of course,” she said from behind him, sounding a little hurt. “I don’t mean to take up your time, Mr. St. John. You have been of such great help to me and our home.”

He clenched his jaw to prevent himself from stuttering apologies. Instead he bowed a bit stiffly. “Good day, Mrs. Dews.”

She left then, after a graceful curtsy, and only the maid shot him a curious look over her shoulder. He waited until the door to his library shut before walking to the window that overlooked the street below. He watched as she crossed the street, her stride light and graceful, one hand on her bonnet, for it was a windy day. The maid walked by her side instead of behind, and they seemed to be conversing. Her black-clad figure grew small, and in another moment she’d disappeared into the London crowd.

St. John let the curtain fall from his fingers.

He looked about his library, but despite the books and news sheets and clutter, it seemed barren and lonely after her visit. He left the room and mounted the stairs, climbing two floors up. He didn’t visit Clara often at this hour; she usually slept in after what was invariably a restless night. But today he found himself unable to keep away. In the back of his mind, he knew that there would come a day—perhaps soon—when he would no longer be able to climb the stairs and see her.

St. John tapped at her door and then cracked it open. The old maid who was Clara’s constant companion looked up from her chair by the bed, then rose and crossed to tend the fire.

He approached the bed and looked down. Clara must’ve just had her hair washed, for it was spread, a bright banner, over her white pillow. The locks were a deep brown with bits of red in them, now streaked with strands of gray. He found himself stroking her hair. She’d once told him it was her best feature, and he’d been amazed that ladies categorized their person thusly. Amazed and fondly amused.

“Godric,” she whispered.

He looked down and saw her brown eyes watching him. Once they had been as beautiful as Mrs. Dews’s. Now they were always pain-filled.

He bent and brushed a careful kiss across her wide forehead. “Clara.”

She smiled, her pale lips curving just slightly. “To what do I owe this visit?”

He whispered in her ear, “A deep and abiding longing to see the most beautiful woman in the world.”

She laughed, as he’d intended, but then the gentle sound turned to a hacking cough that shook her frame. The nurse hurried over.