Wicked Intentions 1 (14 page)

Lazarus kept his eyes on his little martyr as she used all of her Christian wiles to seduce Lambert and Easton into supporting her foundling home. “I have no idea to what you refer.”

St. John snorted softly and half turned so as to be heard only by Lazarus. “She’s obviously as respectable as you claim, which means that you’re either using her for some ends of your own or your debauchery has descended to the rape of innocents.”

“You hurt me, sir,” Lazarus drawled, placing his fingertips over his heart. He knew he looked ironic—jaded, even—but oddly, inside his chest, he did feel a twinge of something that might’ve been hurt.

St. John had leaned close to whisper, “What do you want from her?”

Lazarus narrowed his eyes. “Why? Will you play her gallant knight and steal her away from my dastardly arms?”

St. John cocked his head, his normally mild gray eyes sharpened to granite. “If need be.”

“Think you that I’d truly allow you to take from me something I wanted?”

“You talk of Mrs. Dews as if she’s a plaything.” St. John’s expression had turned analytical. “Would you break her in a fit of spoiled temper?”

Lazarus smiled thinly. “If I wanted.”

“Come,” St. John murmured. “You are not so lost to humanity as you sometimes like to play.”

“Aren’t I?”

Lazarus no longer smiled. He glanced at Mrs. Dews, discussing her charity home with earnest enthusiasm. Had she made the slightest sign of acquiescence in the carriage, she might at this moment be accepting his cock into her sweet saintly mouth. Wasn’t the debauchery of a saint the work of a devil? He looked back at St. John, the only man in this world who he might call a friend. The room had grown damnably hot, and his shoulder sent sharp shards of pain down his arm.

“A word to the wise: make no wagers on my humanity.”

St. John arched an eyebrow. “I’ll not sit back and watch you hurt an innocent. I will take her away from you if I think she needs my help.”

The anger shot through him so quickly Lazarus had bared his teeth before he realized.

St. John must’ve seen the murder in his eyes. He actually stepped back. “Caire?”

“Don’t,” Lazarus hissed. “Not even in jest, St. John. Mind your own lady. Mrs. Dews is mine to do with as I please.”

The other man’s glance flicked between him and Mrs. Dews. “And does she have no say in this matter?”

“No,” Lazarus growled, aware that he sounded like a dog standing guard over a bone.

St. John raised his eyebrows. “Does she know your intent?”

“She will.” And Lazarus turned and caught Mrs. Dews’s arm, interrupting her in midspeech. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I wish to find Mrs. Dews the best seat possible.”

“Of course,” Sir Henry murmured, but Lazarus was already steering her away from the others.

“What are you about?” Mrs. Dews looked none too pleased with him. “I had just begun discussing the amount of fresh vegetables we buy every month for the home.”

“A most interesting topic, I have no doubt.” He needed to sit down, to rest a bit. Damn the wound in his shoulder.

Her brows knit. “Was I boring them? Is that why you intervened?”

His mouth twitched in amusement. “No. They seemed more than happy to listen to you lecture them on clothing and feeding urchins for the rest of the night.”

“Humph. Then why did you take me away?”

“Because ’tis always better to leave the buyer wanting,” he whispered into the dark hair over her ear. The silly red ribbon twined in and out of the glossy locks, and for a wild moment, he wanted to tug it free. To watch as her hair came tumbling down about her shoulders.

She turned and looked up, so close he could see the flecks of gold in her light brown eyes. “And have you sold very many things, Lord Caire?”

She was teasing him, this proper Christian woman.
Did she have no fear of him? Did she not sense the darkness that bubbled deep within him?

“Not things so much as… ideas,” he drawled.

She cocked her head, those gilded eyes curious. “You’ve sold
ideas
?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said as he guided her toward two chairs at the end of a row near the front. “I belong to a number of philosophical and scientific societies.” He seated her and flicked apart the skirts of his coat to sit beside her. “When one argues a point, one is in effect selling it to the opposition, if you understand me.”

He didn’t mention the other type of “selling” he did—the luring of sexual partners into performing actions they would in other circumstances never contemplate.

“I think I comprehend your meaning.” Mrs. Dews’s eyes lit with amusement. “I confess, I’d not seen you in the role of idea merchant, Lord Caire. Is that what you do with your days? Argue with other learned gentlemen?”

“And translate various Greek and Latin manuscripts.”

“Such as?”

“Poetry, mostly.” He glanced at her. Did she really find this interesting?

But her golden eyes sparkled as she cocked her head. “You write poetry?”

“I translate it—quite different.”

“Actually, I would think it somewhat similar.”

“How so?”

She shrugged. “Don’t poets have to worry over meter, rhyme, and the proper words?”

“So I’m told.”

She looked at him and smiled, making him catch his
breath. “I would think the translator would have to worry over those things as well.”

He stared. How did she know, this simple woman from another walk of life entirely? How had she with one sentence articulated the passion he found in his translations? “I suppose you have a point.”

“You hide a poet’s soul well,” she said. “I would never have guessed it.”

She was definitely teasing him now.

“Ah.” He stretched his long legs before him. “But then there’s quite a lot you don’t know about me, Mrs. Dews.”

“Is there?” Her gaze skipped over his shoulder, and he knew she looked at his mother in conversation with Lady Beckinhall in the corner. “Such as?”

“I have an unnatural fondness for marzipan sweetmeats.”

He felt more than heard her giggle, and the small, innocent sound sent a frisson of warmth through him. She hid her emotions so well usually, even the joyous ones.

“I haven’t had marzipan sweetmeats in ages,” she murmured.

He had a sudden urge to buy her a boxful just to watch her eat them. Her red lips would become sprinkled with the sugar and she’d have to lick them clean. His groin tightened at just the thought.

“Tell me something else about yourself. Something true.” She watched him, those pale brown eyes mysterious. “Where were you born?”

“Shropshire.” He looked away, watching as his mother made some comment to another lady. The jewels in her white hair sparkled as she tilted her head. “My family’s seat is near Shrewsbury. I was born at Caire House, our
ancestral home. I’m told that I was a puling, weakly babe, and my father sent me away to the wet nurse with little hope that I would live out the sennight.”

“It sounds as if your parents were worried for you.”

“No,” he said flatly, the knowledge as old as his bones. “I stayed with my nurse for five years, and in that time, my parents saw me only once a year, on Easter day. I remember because my father used to scare me witless.”

He had no idea why he told her this; it hardly showed him in a heroic light.

“And your mother?” she asked softly.

He glanced at her curiously. “She accompanied my father, of course.”

“But”—her brows knit together again as if she were trying to puzzle something out—“was she affectionate?”

He stared. Affection? He looked again at his mother, now making her way to a seat. She moved gracefully, the embodiment of cold elegance. The thought of her showing affection for anyone, let alone him, was ludicrous.

“No,” he said patiently, as if explaining the intricacies of the English monetary system to a Chinaman. “They didn’t come to express affection. They came to see if their heir was being adequately fed and housed.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice small. “And your nurse? Was she affectionate toward you?”

The question sent a nasty wave of pain through him, the sensation exquisitely awful, and his shoulder throbbed in the aftermath.

“I don’t remember,” he lied.

She opened her mouth as if to question him further, but he’d had enough. “And you, Mrs. Dews? What was your upbringing like?”

She pursed her lips for a moment as if she wouldn’t let him lead her into a different conversational avenue. Then she sighed. “I was born here in London, not far from the foundling home, actually. Father was a brewer. There are six children in my family: Verity; Concord, who runs the brewery now; Asa; myself; Winter; and my youngest sister, Silence. Father met the acquaintance of Sir Stanley Gilpin when I was quite young, and with his patronage, Father established the foundling home.”

“A pretty tale,” Lazarus drawled, watching her face. She’d recited the story almost by rote. “Yet, it tells me very little about you.”

She looked startled. “But there isn’t much to tell beyond that.”

“Oh, I think there is,” he murmured softly. The chairs about them were beginning to fill, but he was loath to give up this discussion so soon. “Did you work in the home as a child? Were you schooled at all? And where and when did you meet your husband?”

“I spent my childhood at home mostly,” she said slowly. “Mother schooled me until she died when I was thirteen years of age. Thereafter, my elder sister, Verity, took over the chore of raising us younger children. The boys were sent to school, of course, but there wasn’t enough money to send the girls. I fancy, though, that our education was quite adequate.”

“No doubt,” he said. “But you haven’t mentioned the late Mr. Dews. In fact, I’ve never heard you speak of your husband.”

She looked away, her face paling, a reaction he found infinitely fascinating.

“Mr. Dews—Benjamin—was a protégé of my father’s,”
she said quietly. “Benjamin had studied for the church but decided to join Father in his work to help the orphans of St. Giles instead. I met him when I was seventeen, and we married shortly thereafter.”

“He sounds like quite the saint,” Lazarus said, irony dripping from his words.

Mrs. Dews was somber, though. “Yes, he was. He worked incredibly long hours at the foundling home. He was always gentle and patient with the children; he was kind to everyone he knew. I once saw him take off his own coat and give it to a beggar who had none.”

Lazarus gritted his teeth, leaning close to hiss, “Tell me, Mrs. Dews, do you have a shrine in your rooms to commemorate your dead saint?”

“What?” She turned a shocked face to him.

It only inflamed his urge to hurt her more. To make her feel so that he could revel in her reflected emotions. “Do you kneel before his shrine and genuflect? Does his memory keep you warm in your lonely bed at night? Or do you have to resort to other, less spiritual means of satisfaction?”

“How dare you?” Her eyes sparked at his crude insinuation.

His corrupted heart crowed at the sight of the rage his words had provoked. She made to stand, but he caught her arm in a hard grip, forcing her to remain seated.

“Hush, now,” he crooned. “The music is about to begin. You wouldn’t want to storm out now and destroy all the progress you made earlier with Captain Lambert and Sir Henry, would you? They might think you a fickle creature.”

“I loathe you.” She pressed her lips together, turning her face away as if the very sight of him revolted her.

But despite her words, she remained by his side, and that was all that mattered in the end. He cared not a whit if she loathed him, even wanted him dead, as long as she felt something for him. As long as he could keep her close.

H
OW DARE HE?

Temperance stared at her balled hands in her lap as she struggled not to show her rage. What had provoked Lord Caire’s disgusting attack on her and the memory of Benjamin? They’d been having a simple conversation about everyday things and suddenly he’d erupted. Was he insane? Or was he so jealous of a normal man—a man who could feel kindness and sympathy—that he must lash out at merely the thought?

Lord Caire’s hand still gripped her elbow, hot and hard, and he tightened it at her shiver. “Don’t even think of it.”

She didn’t bother replying to him. The truth was that a part of her anger had dissipated when she thought of his loveless childhood.

Not, of course, that she meant to tell him that.

Temperance looked away from him, watching as the guests found seats. Lady Caire let herself be seated by a handsome gentleman in a bag wig. The man was obviously younger than she, but he attended her quite tenderly. Temperance wondered suddenly if they were lovers. What odd morals the aristocracy had. Her gaze wandered to where Sir Henry sat beside a stout matronly lady, obviously his wife. She looked like a pleasant lady.

Temperance caught a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye, and her head turned to follow the movement. Her breath caught. The elegant young lady from the retiring room was strolling toward the chairs. She seemed to
be all alone, her pale green and silver gown a perfect foil for her bright red hair and graceful, long white throat. All eyes were upon her as she neared the chairs, but she seemed unaware as she sank into a seat.

“Who is that?” Temperance whispered, forgetting for the moment that she wasn’t talking to Lord Caire.

“Who?” the impossible man drawled.

How could he not know? Half the room was gawking at her. “The lady in silver and green.”

Lord Caire twisted his neck to look and then leaned unnecessarily close. Heat seemed to radiate off his body. “That, my dear Mrs. Dews, is Lady Hero, the sister of the Duke of Wakefield.”

“The sister of a duke?” Temperance breathed. Goodness! What a very good thing she hadn’t known that when the lady had been helping her.

She’d once stood on a corner for three hours just to catch a glimpse of His Majesty’s carriage in a procession, but that had been years ago. Besides, all she’d seen was a bit of white wig that may have—or may not have—been the king’s head. Lady Hero was right here in the same room.