Wicked Intentions 1 (7 page)

Silence felt the ripple of quiet joy spread through her at just the mention of her husband’s name. William had been away at sea for months, captaining the
Finch
, a merchant ship returning from the West Indies.

She ducked her head as she replied to her sister. “He’s due any day now. I hoped that when he returns, you and Winter would come and sup with us in celebration.”

When Temperance didn’t respond immediately, Silence looked up. Her sister was frowning down at a pile of turnips on the table.

“What is it?” Silence asked.

“What?” Temperance glanced up quickly, her face smoothing. “Oh, nothing, dear. You know Winter and I would be pleased to dine with you and Captain Hollingbrook. It’s just that we’re so busy with the home right now….” Her words trailed away as she looked about the big kitchen.

“Perhaps, then, it is time to hire more help. Nell works hard, but she’s only one woman.”

Temperance laughed, but the sound was hard and short. “If we had a patron to supply the home with money, we would. As it is, we were just able to finally pay this month’s rent and last’s today. If we’re late again, Mr. Wedge may well evict us.”

“What?” Silence sank into a kitchen chair. “I have nearly a pound left from my grocery money. Would that help?”

Temperance smiled. “No, dear. That would only help us for a little while, and I don’t want to take Captain Hollingbrook’s money. I know how you and he scrimp and save.”

Silence colored a little. William was a wonderful husband, but a merchant ship’s captain didn’t make all that much, especially when he had a wife and an elderly mother and spinster sister to keep.

“What about Concord?”

Temperance was shaking her head. “Winter says the brewery has lost money since Father’s death. And besides, Concord has his own family to take care of.”

Silence shook her head. She’d had no idea Concord was in financial straits, but then the men of the family didn’t always like to talk business with their women. Concord and his wife, Rose, had five adorable children and another on the way.

She looked up. “And Asa?”

Temperance grimaced. “You know Asa has always been scornful of the home. I think Winter hates the thought of going to him again with hand outstretched.”

Silence pulled the turnip toward herself and picked up a knife to chop off the greens. “Winter is the least prideful man I know.”

“Yes, of course, but even the most humble of men have just a touch of pride. Besides, even if Winter did ask Asa, there’s no guarantee he would help.”

Silence wanted to protest that of course Asa would help if he could, but the truth was that she was uncertain. Asa had always walked apart from their family, secret and alone.

“What shall you do?” Silence began dicing a turnip, her little pieces more odd lumps than squares. She’d never been very good at dicing.

Temperance took up another knife but she hesitated. “As to that, I already have a plan.”

“Yes?”

“You must promise not to tell our brothers.”

Silence looked up. “What?”

“Or Verity either,” Temperance said. Verity was the eldest of the Makepeace family.

Silence stared. What secret would Temperance want to keep not only from their brothers, but also their sister?

But Temperance’s expression was almost fierce. If Silence wanted to know, she’d have to promise. “Very well.”

Temperance set down the knife and leaned close to whisper, “I’ve met someone who will introduce me to the influential and wealthy people of London. I’m going to find a new patron for the home.”

“Who?” Silence knit her brows.

Their family was a humble one. Father had been a beer brewer, and on their father’s death, Concord had taken over the family business. Father had believed deeply in learning and had seen to it that all her brothers were very well educated in religion, philosophy, and Greek and Latin. She supposed in that way they might be called intellectuals, but that didn’t take away from the fact that they worked for their living. The kind of people Temperance was talking about were well out of their league.

“Who is this powerful friend?” Silence saw the moment when something shifted behind her sister’s eyes. Temperance was a wonderful person, which was perhaps why she was also a terrible liar. “Temperance, tell me.”

Her sister tilted her chin. “His name is Lord Caire.”

Silence’s brows furrowed. “An aristocrat? How in the world did you find an aristocrat to help you?”

“Actually, he found me.” Temperance pursed her lips,
her eyes firmly fixed on the growing mound of chopped turnip roots. “Do you think anyone really likes turnips?”

“Temperance…”

Temperance poked the tip of her knife into a white cube and held it up. “They are very filling, of course, but really, when was the last time you heard someone say, ‘Oh, I’m so very fond of turnips’?”

Silence set down her knife and waited.

The lid of the pot over the fire rattled, and Temperance’s knife thunked against the table for perhaps a half minute before she broke.

“He followed me home the night before last.”

“What?” Silence gasped.

But her sister was speaking rapidly. “That sounds worse than it is. He was quite harmless, I assure you. He merely asked me for my help in speaking to some people in St. Giles. In return, I requested that he introduce me to the people he knew who were wealthy. It’s a very practical arrangement, truly.”

Silence eyed her sister skeptically. The picture Temperance drew was altogether too rosy. “And I suppose this Lord Caire is an ancient gentleman, white-haired and bony-kneed?”

Temperance winced. “His hair
is
white, actually.”

“And his knees?”

“I hope you don’t think I stare at a gentleman’s knees.”

“
Temp
erance…”

“Oh, very well, he’s a young and rather handsome man,” Temperance said not very graciously. Her cheeks had pinkened.

“Dear Lord.” Silence stared with concern at her sister. Temperance was a widow of eight and twenty,
but sometimes she behaved with all the circumspection of a silly girl. “Think. Why would Lord Caire pick you in particular to lead him about St. Giles?”

“I don’t know, but—”

“You must tell Winter. This thing sounds like a made-up story to entice you. Lord Caire might have dreadful plans for you. What if he lures you into debauchery?”

Temperance wrinkled her nose, drawing attention to a speck of soot at the tip. “I hardly think that’s likely. Have you looked at me recently?”

She spread her arms wide as if to emphasize the ridiculousness of an aristocrat wanting to seduce her. Silence had to admit that standing in her kitchen, her hair half down, and with soot on her nose, Temperance certainly didn’t look like someone particularly tempting to a seducer.

But she replied loyally. “You’re quite pretty and well you know it.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” Temperance let her arms drop. “You’ve always been the beauty of the family. If a dastardly lord were to corrupt anyone, it would be you.”

Silence looked sternly at her sister. “You’re trying to distract me.”

Temperance sighed and sank into a kitchen chair. “Don’t tell anyone, Silence, please don’t. I’ve already accepted Lord Caire’s money to pay the rent—that is how we paid off our debt.”

“But Winter is sure to find out eventually. How did you explain paying the rent to him?”

“I told him that I sold a ring that Benjamin had given me.”

“Oh, Temperance!” Silence covered her mouth in horror. “You lied to Winter?”

But Temperance shook her head. “It was only a small lie. This is the only hope we have for the home. Think what it would do to Winter should the home close.”

Silence glanced away. Of all their brothers, Winter had been the most devoted to their father and his charitable works. It would disappoint him terribly to have the home fail under his watch.

“Please, Silence,” Temperance whispered. “For Winter.”

“Very well.” Silence nodded once. “I won’t tell our brothers—”

“Oh, thank you!”

“Unless,” Silence continued, “I feel you are in danger.”

“I won’t be. That I can promise.”

L
AZARUS WOKE ON
a silent scream. His eyes opened wide, and for a moment he simply lay there and looked about the room, straining to remember where he was. Then he recognized his own bedroom. The walls were a dark brown, the furniture old and impressive, and his bed hung with dark green and brown curtains. His father had slept here before him, and Lazarus hadn’t bothered changing anything when he’d inherited the title. He felt each muscle in his body slowly relax as he glanced at the window. The light there was a pale gray; dawn couldn’t be too far away—and he never went back to sleep after a nightmare. He stretched and rose, nude, then padded to the tall dresser to splash cold water on his face. He donned a yellow brocaded banyan and sat at the elegant cherrywood desk in the corner—the only piece of furniture in the room that he’d brought with him. His father would’ve disapproved heartily of writing in dishabille.

Lazarus grinned at the thought. Then he uncapped his inkwell and began work on his current translation project. Catullus was particularly scathing of Lesbia in this poem. He wanted to find the right word—the
perfect
word—that, when correctly set, would shine like a diamond in an exquisite ring. It was exacting, meticulous work, and it could consume him for hours at a time.

His valet, Small, entered sometime later, and Lazarus looked up to see that the room was bright with sunshine.

“Your pardon, my lord,” Small said. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“It’s of no consequence,” Lazarus replied, his gaze back on his translation. The words were calling him, but he hadn’t quite found the right arrangement yet.

“I’ll ring to have your breakfast sent up, shall I?”

“Mmm.”

“And if you’re ready for your toilet?”

Bah! The thing was lost now. Lazarus threw down his pen impatiently and leaned back in his chair. Small immediately laid a steaming cloth over the lower half of his face. The valet’s movements were quick and efficient, his hands delicate like a woman’s.

Lazarus closed his eyes, relaxing as the moist heat soaked into his skin. He remembered Mrs. Dews’s light brown eyes last night. The way they’d closed in bliss when he’d fed her the plum tart. The way they’d narrowed in anger when he questioned why she wouldn’t take it from him initially. For one such as he—a man who could not feel emotion—her moods were irresistibly alluring. The flare of her temper had created a heat he could almost feel. He’d been drawn to it as surely as a cat was to the warmth of a hearth. Her emotion was foreign, wild and
exciting, and entirely fascinating—and she tried so very hard to hide it. Why? He wanted to spend time with the source of such powerful emotion. Wanted to experiment, poke and prod, see what else made her cheeks flush, her breath come fast. What would make her laugh? What frightened her? How would her eyes look at the point of orgasm? Would she try to hold back, or would the bodily sensation overwhelm her defenses?

The thought was oddly arousing this early in the morning. He’d never cared one way or the other about a woman’s response. She was but the vessel for his own lust. But with Mrs. Dews, it was the woman herself who was the interesting part.

Small removed the cloth and brushed warm lather over Lazarus’s jaw. Lazarus kept his eyes closed, refusing to flinch at the first scrape of the razor against his bare cheek. Surreptitiously he gripped the arms of the chair. To let another touch him was a ghastly physical trial, which was part of the reason he permitted this ordinary intimacy each morning. It gave him a kind of satisfaction to confront this most basic fear and overcome it daily.

The valet finished his left cheek, and Lazarus tilted his head to receive the razor on the right, repressing a shudder of revulsion. He’d had this loathing of another’s touch for as long as he could recall. No. That wasn’t correct. Lazarus couldn’t repress a wince as Small ran the razor over his upper lip. Once upon a time, when he’d been a very small child, there had been a touch that did not cause him fear and loathing and outright pain.

But that was long ago and that person long dead.

Small wiped the last of the soap foam from Lazarus’s face, and Lazarus opened his eyes. “Thank you.”

If the valet had any idea of the pain he’d caused his master, the knowledge did not show in his placid expression. “What shall you wear today, my lord?”

“The black silk breeches and coat with the silver worked waistcoat.”

Lazarus stood and dropped the banyan to the chair. Small handed him the clothing and he dressed himself—there was a fine point between endurance and self-torture.

“My stick as well,” Lazarus said as he allowed the valet to club back his hair with a black velvet ribbon.

“Of course, my lord.” Small looked doubtfully at the window. “You have an appointment so early?”

“I’m to visit my mother.” Lazarus smiled without humor. “And that is a task best done as early as possible.”

He took the stick that Small proffered and strode from the room without waiting for the valet’s reply.

The master bedroom led out into a wide upper hall paneled in dark, intricately carved wood. This town house had been in the Caire family since his grandfather’s time. It wasn’t in the most fashionable part of London anymore, but it was big and grand and fairly reeked of old money and power. Lazarus descended the stairs, trailing his hand down the pink banister. The stone was imported from Italy, carved and polished until it shone nearly like a mirror. He should feel something touching the cold, smooth stone, he knew. Pride perhaps? Or nostalgia? But instead he felt as he always did.

Nothing at all.

He reached the lower hall and took his cape and tricorne from the butler. Outside it was windy, the chairmen shivering a bit as they waited for him. His sedan chair was
new, especially built for his height, the outside enameled in black and silver, the inside fitted with plush crimson cushions. One of the men held the top open as Lazarus stepped between the rails to enter. The front door was shut and latched and the top lowered. The men hefted the chair, and then they were jogging through the London streets.