To Desire a Devil (40 page)

Off the kitchen was a tiny room. Its original purpose was forgotten, but it had a small fireplace and Temperance had made
it her own private sitting room. Inside was a stuffed chair, much battered, but refurbished with a quilted blanket thrown
over the back. A small table and a footstool were there as well—all she needed to sit by herself next to a warm fire.

Humming, Temperance placed her teapot and cup, a small dish of sugar, and the candlestick on an old wooden tray. She picked
it up and because both her hands were full, she backed into the door leading to her little sitting room. Which was why she
didn’t notice until she turned that the sitting room was already occupied.

There, sprawled in her chair like a conjured demon, sat Lord Caire. His silver hair spilled over the shoulders of his black
cape, a cocked hat lay on one knee, and his right hand caressed the end of his long ebony walking stick. This close she realized
that his hair gave lie to his age. The lines about his startlingly blue eyes were few, his mouth and jaw firm. He couldn’t
be much above five and thirty.

He inclined his head at her entrance and spoke, his voice deep and smooth and quietly dangerous.

“Good evening, Mrs. Dews.”

* * *

S
HE STOOD STRAIGHT
and tall, this respectable woman who lived in the sewer that was St. Giles. Her eyes had widened at the sight of him, but
she made no move to flee. Indeed, finding a strange man in her pathetic sitting room seemed not to frighten her at all.

Interesting.

“I am Lazarus Huntington, Lord Caire,” he said.

She blinked. “I know. What are you doing here?”

He tilted his head, studying her. She knew him, yet did not recoil in horror? Yes, she’d do quite well. “I’ve come to make
a proposition to you, Mrs. Dews.”

Still no sign of fear, though she eyed the doorway. “You’ve chosen the wrong woman, my lord. The night is late. Please leave
my house.”

No fear and no deference to his rank. An interesting woman indeed.

“My proposition is not, er,
illicit
in nature,” he drawled. “In fact, it’s quite respectable. Or nearly so.”

She sighed, looked down at her tray, and then back up at him. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

He almost smiled. Tea? When had he last been offered something so very prosaic by a woman? He couldn’t remember.

But he replied gravely enough, “Thank you, no.”

She nodded. “Then if you don’t mind?”

He waved a hand to indicate permission.

She set the tea tray on the wretched little table and sat on the padded footstool to pour herself a cup. He watched her. She
was a monochromatic study. Her dress, bodice, hose, and shoes were all flat black. A fichu tucked in at her severe neckline,
an apron, and a cap—no lace or ruffles—were all white. No color marred her aspect, making the lush red of her full lips all
the more startling. She wore the clothes of a nun, yet had the mouth of a sybarite.

The contrast was fascinating—and arousing.

“You’re a Puritan?” he asked.

She stirred a large lump of sugar into her cup. “No.”

“Ah.” He was interested in her religious beliefs only as they impacted his own mission.

She took a sip of tea. “How do you know my name?”

He shrugged. “Mrs. Dews and her brother are well known for their good deeds in St. Giles.”

“Really?” Her tone was dry. “I was not aware we were so famous beyond the boundaries of St. Giles.”

She might look demure, but there were teeth beyond the prim expression. And she was quite right—he would never have heard
of her had he not spent the last month stalking the shadows of this poor district.

Stalking fruitlessly, which was why he’d followed her home and sat before this miserable fire now.

“How did you get in?” she asked.

“I believe the back door was unlocked,” he replied smoothly.

“No, it wasn’t.” Her brown eyes met his over her teacup. They were an odd light color, almost golden. “Why are you here, Lord
Caire?”

“I wish to hire you, Mrs. Dews,” he said softly.

She stiffened and set her teacup down on the tray. “No.”

He tilted his head. “You haven’t heard the task I wish to hire you for.”

She sighed. “It’s past midnight, my lord, and I’m not inclined to games even during the day. Please leave or I shall be forced
to call my brother.”

He didn’t move. “Not a husband?”

“I’m widowed, as I’m sure you already know.” She turned to look into the fire, presenting her profile to him.

He stretched his legs in what room there was, his boots nearly in the fire. “You’re quite correct, I do know. I also know
that you and your brother have not paid the rent on this property.”

She said nothing, merely sipping her tea.

“I’ll pay handsomely for your time,” he murmured.

She looked at him finally, and he saw a flame in those pale eyes. “You think all women can be bought?”

He rubbed his thumb across his chin, considering the question. “Yes, I do, though perhaps not strictly by money. And I do
not limit it to women—all men can be bought in one form or another as well. The only trouble is in finding the applicable
currency.”

She simply stared at him with those odd eyes.

He dropped his hand, resting it on his knee. “You, for instance, Mrs. Dews. I would’ve thought your currency would be money
for your foundling home, but perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps I’ve been fooled by your plain exterior, your reputation as a prim
widow. Perhaps you would be better persuaded by influence or knowledge or even the pleasures of the flesh.”

“You still haven’t said what you want me for.”

Though she hadn’t moved, hadn’t changed expression at all, her voice had a rough edge to it. He caught it only because he
had years of experience at the chase. His nostrils flared involuntarily as if the hunter within was trying to scent her. Which
of his list had interested her?

“A guide.” His eyelids drooped as he pretended to examine his fingernails. “Merely that.”

He watched her from under his brows and saw when that lush mouth pursed. “A guide to what?”

“St. Giles.”

“Why do you need a guide?”

Ah, this was where it got tricky. “I’m searching for… something in St. Giles. I would like to interview some of the inhabitants,
but I find my search confounded by my ignorance of the area and people. Hence, a guide.”

Her eyes had narrowed as she listened, her fingers tapping against the teacup. “What do you search for?”

He shook his head slowly. “Not unless you agree to be my guide.”

“And that is all you want? A guide?”

He nodded, watching her.

She turned to look into the fire as if consulting it. For a moment the only sound in the room was the snap as a piece of coal
fell. He waited patiently, caressing the silver head of his cane.

Then she turned to face him fully. “You’re right. I’m not tempted by your money. It’s a stopgap measure that would only delay
our eventual eviction.”

He cocked his head, feeling the beat of the pulse beneath his skin, his body’s response to her feminine vitality. “What do
you want, then, Mrs. Dews?”

She met his gaze levelly. “I want you to introduce me to the wealthy and titled people of London. I want you to help me find
a new patron for our foundling home.”

Lazarus kept his lips firmly straight, but he felt a surge of triumph as the prim widow ran headlong into his talons.

“Done.”