Wicked Intentions
Page 37

“I don’t know.” He set a quick pace, making sure to keep her close to his side. “Perhaps someone at Mother Heart’s-Ease’s saw us there. Someone who didn’t want us to investigate. Perhaps Marie met whoever this person is at Mother Heart’s-Ease’s shop.”
She shot him a doubtful look. “Or perhaps this is all just coincidence.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Lazarus was damnably aware of Temperance’s heat next to him, of her vulnerability. Perhaps he shouldn’t have brought her along, but the more he thought about it, the more sure he was: The answer somehow lay at Mother Heart’s-Ease’s gin shop. And Temperance was his key to getting people to talk there.
Fifteen minutes later, they entered the dingy room, and at first the shop seemed the same as the first two times they’d been there. The gin shop was crowded and hot, the fire wasn’t drawing well, and smoke hung about the blackened rafters. Lazarus began pushing his way to the back, toward Mother Heart’s-Ease’s rooms.
Temperance caught his arm, halting him. He bent down so she could murmur close, “Something’s not right. The room is too quiet.”
He lifted his head to see that she was right. There was no drunken singing from the table of sailors in the corner, no arguments or loud discussions from the rest of the company. In fact, the customers huddled together. No one met his eyes.
Lazarus looked at Temperance. “What’s happened?”
She shook her head, her beautiful golden-flecked eyes puzzled. “I don’t know.”
The one-eyed serving girl emerged from the curtained back hall. Before the curtain fell, Lazarus counted three men in the hall. What had made Mother Heart’s-Ease triple her guard? The girl’s head was down, her face tear-streaked. She caught sight of them and ducked her head, sidling to the side.
Temperance hurried to her without any urging from Lazarus. He watched as she seemed to plead with the girl, following as she shook her head and turned away. Temperance laid a hand on the barmaid and the girl shook it off, saying something sharply. Temperance straightened abruptly, her eyes wide.
Lazarus was at her side in a second. “What is it?”
She shook her head. “Not here.”
Temperance led him back outside the gin shop, looking fearfully around. He drew her close, under his cloak, wrapping his arms about her. “Tell me.”
She looked up at him, her face a pale oval in the night. “She wouldn’t even discuss Marie. There’s been another murder—a prostitute. She was found bound to her bed and her belly…” She gasped, unable to finish the sentence.
“Shh.” His heart was beating fast, his senses alert to every tiny movement, every small sound in their vicinity. “I have to get you back to the home.”
She clutched at him. “They’re saying it was the Ghost of St. Giles.”
“What?”
“Some think him a phantom, some think him a real man, but in either case they believe he’s the murderer.”
He shook his head and began walking. “Why?”
“They don’t know. There’s speculation that he’s seeking revenge of some sort, that he’s been sent to punish the sinful or that he simply enjoys killing.” She shivered again. “It doesn’t make any sense, does it? If he was the murderer, if he wanted us dead, he wouldn’t have joined you in defeating those attackers.”
“No,” he murmured, “it doesn’t make sense.”
It was another ten minutes before they were at her door again, and Lazarus was never so happy to see the home. When she unlocked the door, he followed her into the kitchen.
He watched as she filled her little kettle and hung it over the hearth before stirring up the banked fire. “What evidence is there that the Ghost is the murderer? Did the barmaid say?”
She shot him a perplexed look as she set out her tea things. “She didn’t seem to know. She was just repeating what everyone else said.”
“Hmm.” He tapped his fingers on the kitchen table. “I wonder, then, if someone is spreading this rumor.”
“But who?”
He shook his head. “In any case, I can no longer take you into St. Giles. Not while this murderer is at large.”
She nodded silently, her brows knit at his pronouncement. Was she that docile to his command, or would she disobey him later? The thought made him restless—that he had no real power over this woman. She could do as she pleased no matter what he thought or how he worried.
The kettle came to a boil after a bit and she filled her teapot. He followed her into her little sitting room, squatting to make up the fire there as she sat on her stool. Then he lounged in the chair and watched, ridiculously content, as she poured herself a cup of tea and added sugar. It occurred to him that he wouldn’t mind spending every evening for the rest of his life thus, watching her take her first sip of hot tea, considering the way she half closed her eyes in relaxation.
“How is your sister?” he asked after a bit.
She looked up quickly, perhaps surprised, and that irritated him.
He raised his eyebrows. “Silence, I think? Has she recovered from her confrontation with O’Connor?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I haven’t heard from her at all. Winter won’t talk to me; he simply goes about his work without discussing anything. Concord is quite angry—or perhaps disapproving is a better word.”
“And the children?” he asked. “How fare they?”
She cradled her cup between her hands. “Mostly they seem the same as usual. Mary Whitsun follows me about the house like a shadow, though, as if she fears I’ll disappear if she loses sight of me.”
He nodded, unsure of what to say to all this. His experience with families—indeed, with feelings—was woefully inadequate.
She inhaled. “And you? How is your shoulder?”
“Almost as good as new.”
She was silent for several seconds, and then she asked quietly, “Why do you think Marie never told you about her brother?”
“Perhaps because I never asked her about her family.” He shrugged. “The fact of the matter is that we hardly talked at all. There wasn’t a need to in our relationship.”
“So, when you saw her, you’d simply…”
“Fuck. Yes.” He watched her, waiting for her revulsion. “I didn’t want or need anything else from her.”
“And me?” she whispered.
He inhaled. “From you I want much, much more.”
Chapter Fifteen
Now Meg sat all alone in her tiny dungeon cell that day, for no one came to visit her. She busied herself tidying the cell and then washed herself in the bucket of water and combed out her long golden hair. She’d almost resigned herself to going to bed when there was a tap at the door to her cell. In came three lady’s maids and one very elegant hairdresser, and before she knew it, Meg was arrayed in a sparkling blue gown, her hair dressed with pearls, and fine heeled slippers on her feet.
“Why, what is the meaning of this?” she cried in astonishment.
The hairdresser bowed and replied, “Tonight you are to dine with the king himself.”…
—from King Lockedheart
Temperance watched him, this exotic creature, this man from a foreign world, saying that he wanted more from her. How much more? She wanted to ask but feared the answer.
So instead she set down her teacup. “Very well.”
He nodded, staring into the flames of the fire. He seemed content with their pact, whatever it was, but she felt heat unfurling in her belly. She wanted more as well.
“You haven’t told me about your family.”
He shook his head irritably. “That’s not true. I’ve told you about my sister, about my mother.”
“But not about your father,” she said in a low voice. She didn’t know where it came from, this sudden need to know all his secrets. Perhaps it was the knowledge that a murderer stalked the streets of St. Giles; perhaps it was the subtle brush with death. All she knew was that she wanted to know him, this man she’d taken into her body.
He stiffened. “My father was an aristocrat. There’s nothing more to tell of him.”
She cocked her head, watching him. His eyes were back on the fire, and there was quite obviously much more to tell.
“What did he look like?”
He glanced at her, startled. “He was… a big man.”
“Taller than you?” she asked.
“Yes.” He frowned. “No, that’s not true. I was taller by the time I returned from Oxford. He just seemed… large.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” he said abruptly.
“But you want more from me,” she said. “Shouldn’t I, in turn, want more from you?”
He smiled crookedly. “You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Dews. What do you want to know of me?”
“Maybe I want to know everything,” she said boldly.
“Ah, can anyone ever know everything about another person?”
“Probably not,” she said, rising.
He stilled, watching as she took two steps to stand in front of him.
“Probably we remain separate, lonely individuals for all of our lives,” she murmured, perching on his spread knee. She touched the folds of his neckcloth and then began unwrapping it. “We can never know another truly. Isn’t that what you want me to say?”
He cleared his throat. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Of course you have,” she mocked gently. “You’re a gentleman of intellect, a very cynical one. I think you spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about the world and how very alone you are in it.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving beneath her fingers. “Aren’t I?”
“Perhaps.” She flicked a look at him, then concentrated on slipping off his neckcloth. “Is that why you tie them?”
“Who?”
“Tsk. I never thought you a coward, Lazarus.”
He sighed and closed his eyes. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
She began on the buttons of his waistcoat. “You don’t know why you tie them, or you don’t want to admit it?”
“How very stern you are, madam.” His voice held a hint of warning.
“Yes.” She nodded, her eyes on her work. “But I think I would never get any answer from you otherwise. Does their nearness give you pain? Does the thought of how apart you are from them—from everyone—cause you the anguish you feel when others touch you?”
“Your perception terrifies me.” He helped her remove his waistcoat. “I don’t know why I feel pain.”
“Is the pain physical or mental?”
“Both.”
She nodded as she began to unbutton his shirt. She could feel the heat of his skin, and his dark chest hair was shadowy beneath the fine linen. She felt her insides clench. “Then perhaps you tie them so they will not cause you pain.”
“Perhaps.”
“Or”—she lifted her eyes to meet his—“perhaps you tie them so that you have no need to acknowledge their humanity.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that make me the devil?”
“Would it?” she asked softly.
His eyes slid away from hers.
“Are you afraid of their gaze? Is that what the blindfold is for? So you can’t see their eyes?”
“Perhaps I don’t wish them to see my eyes.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps I don’t want them to see the black at the center of my soul.”
She stared into his amazing blue eyes a moment, and he let her as if he was telling her something silently.