Wicked Intentions
Page 44

“Yes, indeed.”
Temperance bid Polly good night and closed the door to her room gently behind her. When she looked up, she saw Mary Whitsun watching her.
“Will the baby live, ma’am?”
Temperance smiled. “I think so, Mary.”
“I’m very glad,” Mary said somberly.
They clattered down the rickety stairs and out the front door of Polly’s rooming house. Temperance glanced uneasily at the sky. The sun was beginning to set. “We need to hurry home before dark.”
Mary hurried beside her. “Is it true that the Ghost of St. Giles comes out after dark and hunts girls?”
“Where did you hear that?”
Mary ducked her head. “The butcher’s boy. Is it true?”
Temperance frowned. “Some girls have been hurt, yes. But you needn’t worry so long as you stay at the school, especially at night.”
“Will you stay home?”
Temperance glanced at Mary. The girl had her eyes fixed on the ground as they walked. “I need to do errands, naturally—”
“But if another baby needs help at night?” Mary was biting her lip.
“My job is to help orphaned babies in St. Giles,” Temperance said gently. “Where would Mary Hope be if I hadn’t gone after her?”
Mary said nothing.
“But I hardly ever have to make trips after dark,” Temperance said briskly. “Really, there’s no need to worry.”
Mary nodded, but she still looked troubled.
Temperance sighed, wishing she could set Mary’s mind at ease, but as long as the murderer was loose, that would be hard to do.
When they reached the home, yet more work waited and Temperance sent Mary Whitsun to supervise the littler girls in washing the hall walls.
By the time Temperance climbed the stairs to her room that night, it was quite late. The preparations for opening the home for viewing were exhausting. Every time she thought they were nearly done, another job would rear its head and she’d have to somehow see to it.
She turned the corner on the rickety stairs, examining the banister. It was in need of a polish, but would making it look better merely persuade any potential patron that the home wasn’t really in need of funds? This was the dilemma with all the decisions she made to neaten and clean the home. Every decision she second-guessed, even when Winter told her in his quiet voice that she was doing a fine job and not to worry so much. And beneath all her worries was a nagging sadness. Put simply, she missed Caire. She found herself wondering what he’d think of her decisions, wanting to discuss her problems and small joys with him. She wanted to be with him.
But she’d pretty well fouled those waters, hadn’t she? Her shoulders slumped at the thought as she rounded the final twist in the old staircase, coming at last to the uppermost floor of the home. He thought she’d wanted him only for a crass sexual relationship, and while she certainly longed to embrace him again, there was so much more to her emotions.
She halted, there at the top of the stairs, a single candle wavering in her hand to give her light, as she finally acknowledged what she’d known all along. She felt much more for Caire than lust.
A sob caught in her throat before she could stifle it. She’d been so lonely before he’d come into her life. His absence now only highlighted just how alone she was. Oh, she had her brothers and sisters, the children and Nell, but even with her own family, she was apart. Only with Caire was she herself, flaws and all. He saw her sexual need, her sometimes un-Christian urges and emotions and, wonder of wonders, liked her just the same. Wanted her just the same. It was so freeing, simply being with him! Knowing that she could be herself—all of herself—and he would not turn away.
She looked about the dim, squalid hallway. Alone. She was so alone.
IT WASN’T UNTIL half an hour into the viewing that Temperance decided that the event was going quite well, all things considered.
They’d had a rather rocky start when their first visitors—a lady with an enormous plume in her hair accompanied by a stout gentleman in a full-bottomed wig, improbably dyed an inky black above his elderly face—arrived a bit early at just before five of the clock. Joseph Tinbox had been the only one to hear the knock at the door, and when he’d answered it, had at first refused them entry on the grounds that they were “too early and ought to go away and come back at the proper time.”
Fortunately, Nell had gone looking for Joseph Tinbox at that moment and found him about to shoo their visitors away. Profuse apologies, and the application of two cups of Mr. St. John’s punch, had done much to soothe the couple’s indignation. After that, a steady stream of gentlepersons had arrived. So many, in fact, that at one point their grand carriages had clogged the end of Maiden Lane, much to the interest of the usual inhabitants. Some had, in fact, taken out chairs and sat along the street to watch the parade of nobility go by.
Yes, all was going quite well, and if the punch held out and she could keep Winter from engaging in a political discussion with a rather loud young gentleman in an atrocious yellow coat who insisted on saying the most idiotic things, they might actually live through this day.
Temperance smiled and shook the hand of a vivacious lady in a plum-colored dress as the lady exclaimed about the “poor little wretches.” She was leaving and, despite her rather unfortunate choice of words, seemed genuinely moved by the orphanage.
“Who is that?” Nell muttered behind Temperance.
“I don’t know, but she’s quite enthusiastic,” Temperance whispered back.
“No, not her. Her.”
Temperance looked over their guest’s head to see Lady Caire picking her way across the cobblestones, her mouth twisted in distaste. She wore an entirely inappropriate gold and blue brocade dress and held the hand of a gentleman in a ginger wig and lavender coat. The Maiden Lane spectators were quite taken with her, many elbowing their neighbor as she passed. Fortunately, Mr. St. John had seen her approaching and intercepted her, apparently pointing out the home’s rather sad architecture. He couldn’t hold her off forever, though.
“Oh, no!” Temperance groaned.
“What? What?” Nell hissed, all agog.
“It’s Lady Caire,” Temperance murmured. “She’s quite horrible.”
A muffled giggle came from behind them.
Temperance turned and to her horror saw that they weren’t alone. Lady Hero, in a striking silvery-blue dress, had somehow entered the little hallway and, what was worse, had obviously heard her.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Temperance muttered, beginning a curtsy and then changing her mind halfway down and popping back up too fast. “I didn’t mean… that is… uh…”
“She is rather horrible,” Lady Hero said, smiling faintly. “But if you will credit it I’ve heard her discuss the plight of poor children before.”
“Really?” Temperance asked faintly. She darted another look at the street. Lady Caire had stopped to argue about something with her escort. She turned back to Lady Hero. “So she might actually be interested in our home?”
“I think so, yes. As am I,” Lady Hero said almost diffidently. “I was orphaned at the age of eight, you know.”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t.”
Lady Hero waved aside her apology. “It was a long time ago now. But there are any number of ladies who are interested to one degree or another with the welfare of poor infants.”
“Oh,” was Temperance’s not very eloquent reply. It hadn’t occurred to her to seek a patroness. Somehow she had been thinking all along about a patron who would be like Sir Stanley Gilpin—older, wealthy, and male—when perhaps she should’ve been focusing merely on the wealthy bit. She smiled at Lady Hero. “How wonderful!”
Lady Hero smiled. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to show me about your home.”
“Of course,” Temperance said, but Winter descended the stairs at that moment.
“Sister, have you seen Mary Whitsun?” Winter had a line between his brows.
“Not since this morning.” She turned to look at Nell.
The maidservant shrugged. “Shall I look for her?”
“If you don’t mind, Nell,” Winter said.
Nell hurried up the stairs.
“You must be Mr. Makepeace,” Lady Hero said.
“This is Lady Hero Batten, Winter,” Temperance said.
“An honor to meet you, ma’am.” Winter bowed.
“I was just telling Mrs. Dews—” the lady began, but Nell came rushing back in the room again. She held Joseph Tinbox by one arm.
“Tell her what you’ve told me,” Nell demanded of Joseph. “Tell her where Mary Whitsun went!”
“She left,” Joseph said succinctly. His brown eyes were wide, his face so pale the freckles stood out. “She said it was all right. She said everyone was too busy.”
Temperance felt ice form in her breast. “Too busy for what?”
“A woman came and said there was a babe what needed fetching,” Joseph said. “Mary went with her.”
Temperance glanced out the door. The sky had already begun to darken, night slinking into St. Giles like an alley cat.
Dear God. Mary Whitsun was out in St. Giles at night with a mad killer on the loose.
LAZARUS DRIFTED THROUGH the late afternoon streets of St. Giles. The sun was beginning to set, the feeble rays withdrawing swiftly from tall buildings, overhanging eaves, and a myriad of swinging signs. Lazarus leapt over the corpse of a cat in the gutter and continued on his way.
He was close, very close, to finding Marie’s murderer. Again and again he’d come back to St. Giles, and this trip he felt might very well be the last one—for better or worse. Danger was lurking here, sharpening its claws, waiting for him to make a false move.
Danger or not, something deep inside him felt it only right to balance the scales. He needed to see that Marie’s murderer was punished before he could move on with Temperance. And he needed to see Temperance again. Badly. He had no doubt that the breath would stop in his chest if he could no longer touch her, speak to her, and watch those amazing golden-flecked eyes reflect her true emotions.
But first he had to find Marie’s murderer.
To that end, he’d tried speaking to Tommy Pett thrice in the last week—the boy must know something about the connection between Mother Heart’s-Ease and his sister. But each time Lazarus had called at Mrs. Whiteside’s establishment, Tommy had been unaccountably absent. Perhaps a late daytime call would find him in.
In another fifteen minutes, he turned into Running Man Lane, following its twists and turns until it spilled into the courtyard where Mrs. Whiteside’s whorehouse was. But as he neared, he could hear bawling and raised voices. His last few steps were made at a run.
The sight that greeted him in the courtyard was an odd one: the ladies—and boys—of the night all seemed to be standing in the courtyard, many holding candles or lanterns. Some argued, some wept, and some simply stood stunned. At that moment, Pansy walked out of the whorehouse with her hulking guard, Jacky, behind her. Lazarus began pushing through the crowd, even as Jacky raised his massive hands above his head and clapped them together, effectively silencing the courtyard.
“The house has been searched. No one lurks within. The danger is gone,” Pansy said in her deep voice. “Now I want all of you to go back inside.”
Jacky clapped his hands together again, and one by one, the whores moved reluctantly inside.
A big woman in purple silk braced her hands on her hips. “An’ ’ow are we to know it’s safe in there?”
Pansy shot her a stern look. “Because I say ’tis.”
The woman turned red-faced and shuffled inside.
Lazarus stepped forward and Pansy caught sight of him. She jerked her chin. “You’re not wanted here.”