Wicked Intentions 1 (36 page)

“I do.” He’d turned his back to her, his hands clasped behind him. “It was degrading for you, wasn’t it?”

“No!” she exclaimed without even having to think.

But he wasn’t listening.

“You wanted—needed—sex, but it’s a sin for you, isn’t it? The very worst of sins. The only way you could approach the act was by making it something foul.”

“No!” She struggled from the covers, unmindful now of her nudity. How could he possibly imagine—

“Something degrading.” He turned and looked at her, and she froze, half-risen from the covers. “Because otherwise, well, it would be nothing but pleasure, wouldn’t it? And that you couldn’t allow yourself.”

She sat back slowly, not even defending herself anymore. Was this true? Had she really used him in such a despicable way?

“It shouldn’t matter to me,” he said dispassionately. “What you feel. After all, I never considered the emotions of my partners before. Quite frankly, their feelings were of no account to me in our transactions. But oddly, what you feel does somehow matter to me.”

He paused, looking down at his hands for a moment
and then back up at her, his face exposed now, sad and hurt and resigned.

The sight made something twist in her chest—made her want to say something—but still she could not bring herself to speak.

“You matter to me,” he said. “And although I am a disgusting creature in many ways, although I have needs not of the ordinary, perhaps even evil needs, I believe that I do not deserve to be used in this way. I may be a man without conscience, but you, my dear martyr, are better than this act.”

He turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

For a moment, Temperance simply stared at the door. She wanted to run after him, to apologize, to explain somehow, to say the words she couldn’t before, but she was nude. She looked down at the coverlet fallen to her lap.

Hurriedly she rose and began dressing, but her chemise tangled over her head and she couldn’t find her second stocking. By the time she’d poked enough pins into her hair to hold it off her neck, it was half an hour later and he’d still not returned.

Temperance opened the door and crept into the corridor. The house was eerily quiet, and she realized she had no idea where he might have gone. Perhaps his study? Did he have a private sitting room or library? She began walking down the hall, peering into rooms. Eventually she realized that a library would surely be on another floor, and she wandered down the stairs.

There was light in the main hallway, and as she entered, she saw that Small was standing by the butler.

“Have you seen Lord Caire?” she asked, knowing her face was reddening. What must the servants think of her—a lone woman, her hair falling from its pins, in an unmarried gentleman’s house?

But her embarrassment fled at Small’s reply. “My lord has gone out, ma’am.”

“Oh.” Temperance stared blankly. Had he loathed her company so much that he’d vacated his own house?

“Lord Caire left instructions that the carriage be brought around for your use, ma’am.” Small’s face was the expressionless mask of the good servant, but his eyes were sympathetic.

Temperance had a sudden urge to weep. Was that it, then? Was all that had been between her and Caire over now?

She bit her inner cheek. She would not break down—not now, at least. “Thank you. That was most… kind of Lord Caire.”

Small bowed as if she were a true lady instead of the daughter of a brewer, recently discarded by an aristocratic lover. She swept out into the late afternoon daylight and down Caire’s front steps with as much dignity as she could muster. Inside the big carriage, though, after the door had been slammed shut and she was all alone with no curious eyes to stare, her spine collapsed. She huddled in a corner of the seat, rocking against the soft leather as the carriage drove through the London streets.

All her life she’d thought of herself as an essentially good person. Her downfall with the man who’d seduced her had been shocking. She’d known that she’d been led astray because of a flaw within herself, and she’d thought that flaw had been her overwhelming sexual urges.
But what if that had merely been a symptom of a far greater sin?

What if her true flaw was pride?

She watched with sightless eyes as London rumbled by and thought about her marriage, so long ago now. Benjamin had been Father’s protégé, a quiet man, grave beyond his years. He’d studied at one time for the church, but when he’d met Father, Benjamin had been an impoverished schoolmaster. Father had offered him work at the home and a room in their house. Temperance had been sixteen then—so very young! Benjamin had been mature and pleasant of face, and Father had approved of him. It had seemed the natural thing to do to marry him.

She’d been happy enough in her marriage, hadn’t she? Surely she had because Benjamin was a good man, a likable man. And he’d been gentle in their marriage bed—the few times he’d been passionate. Benjamin believed that physical love was a holy act between a man and wife. Something to be done thoughtfully and not too often. In fact, the only time he’d come close to sounding vexed with her was when she’d suggested that perhaps they might practice their physical bond more often. He’d made it quite plain that a woman who sought out sex was to be pitied.

She’d known, even then, that something was wrong about her makeup. That she had urges that needed to be watched. And yet when temptation had presented itself, she’d fallen with hardly a struggle. John had been a young lawyer renting a room next to their house. Temperance frowned. Now when she tried to recall what he’d looked like, all she could remember was how hairy the backs of his hands had been. At the time, to her younger self, that had seemed like an exciting sign of male virility. She’d
thought herself passionately in love, with a tragic fatefulness that had been all-consuming at the time and now was only dimly remembered. The afternoon she’d fallen, Temperance remembered thinking that she would die—physically fall ill and die—if she did not lay with John.

So she had and her life had crumbled apart.

She’d returned from the dingy room John had rented to find Benjamin—grave, handsome Benjamin—breathing his last. His chest had been crushed by the wheels of a huge brewer’s cart. He hadn’t even regained consciousness before dying. Temperance didn’t remember much after that. Her family had taken care of Benjamin’s funeral, had cared for and comforted her. Weeks later, she found out that John had left his rented rooms without ever saying good-bye to her.

She hadn’t cared.

Ever since, she’d worked to hide her sin—and the temptation of lust. Had she in the process become a hypocrite? She’d wanted the comfort of Caire’s arms, but she was so wrapped up in her own demons that she hadn’t even thought about his feelings.

Caire was right. She’d used him. The thought made her squirm, made her want to lash out—blame Winter for his collapse, blame John for seducing her so long ago, blame Silence for her foolish bravery, blame Caire for his advances—blame, in fact, anyone but herself. She hated the knowledge that she was so base. He was right. She’d used him for sexual pleasure and hadn’t even the courage to acknowledge the fact to herself.

And somehow in the process of using him, she’d so hurt him that he believed she thought sex with him was degrading.

It was a temptation to make excuses for herself. But she fought down all her prevarication, her lies and evasions. She swore to herself two things: one, that she would save the home. And two, she would find a way somehow to heal the hurt she’d caused Lazarus. She’d find a way to open herself to him, even at the risk of hurting herself, because she owed him that. Because if she didn’t, she would never be able to get him back. Could she admit how she felt to him? She was no longer sure. The mere thought of expressing aloud her feelings made sweat start at the small of her back.

But there was something she knew she could do.

Standing, Temperance knocked hard against the carriage roof. “Stop! Stop, please! I wish to go to a different address. I wish to visit Mr. St. John.”

L
AZARUS HAD NEVER
thought of himself as lovable. Therefore it should come as no shock at all that Temperance did not, in fact, love him. No, not a shock… but it would have been nice had she had some small feeling for him.

Lazarus pondered his own sickening craving as he guided his black gelding through the London morning throng the day after he’d walked out on Temperance. It appeared that his own nascent emotions had provoked a new desire as well: the urge to be loved. How banal. And yet, banal or not, he could not change the way his heart felt.

A corner of his mouth quirked up humorlessly. It seemed he must be like other men after all.

The black shied and Lazarus looked up. The address he sought this morning was not so very far from his own
town house. The square he now guided the horse into was new, the houses genteel and so elegant they must’ve cost a fortune to rent. Lazarus swung down from the gelding and gave the reins to a waiting boy, along with a shilling for his troubles. He mounted the pristine white steps and knocked.

Five minutes later, Lazarus was shown into a study both luxurious and comfortable. The chairs were wide enough for a man’s girth and covered in a deep red leather. The books were in enough disarray to suggest actual use, and the massive desk, taking up an entire corner of the room, shone with polish.

Lazarus strolled the room while he waited for his host. When the door at last opened, he had a copy of Cicero’s speeches in his hands.

The man who entered wore a full-bottomed white wig. The outer corners of his eyes, his lips, and his jowls all sagged downward as if pulled by an invisible string, giving his countenance the agreeable look of a hunting dog.

He glanced at Lazarus, raised a bushy gray eyebrow at the book in his hands, and said, “May I help you, sir?”

“I hope so.” Lazarus closed and set aside the book. “Am I addressing Lord Hadley?”

“You are indeed, sir.” Hadley gave an abbreviated bow and, sweeping aside the skirts of his coat, sat heavily in one of the leather chairs.

Lazarus inclined his head before sitting across from his host. “I am Lazarus Huntington, Lord Caire.”

Hadley arched an eyebrow, waiting.

“I was hoping you could help me,” Lazarus said. “We have—or rather
had
—a mutual acquaintance: Marie Hume.”

Hadley’s expression didn’t change.

Lazarus cocked his head. “A blond lady specializing in certain forms of entertainment.”

“What forms?”

“The rope and hood.”

“Ah.” Hadley didn’t seem at all embarrassed by the outré turn of conversation. “I know the gel. Called herself Marie Pett when she was with me. I was under the impression she had died.”

Lazarus nodded. “She was murdered in a house in St. Giles almost three months ago.”

“A pity,” Hadley said, “but I don’t see how it matters to me.”

Lazarus inclined his head. “I wish to find the murderer.”

Hadley showed the first sign of emotion since Caire had arrived: curiosity. He took a small enameled box from a pocket, tapped out a pinch of snuff, inhaled, and sneezed. He blew his nose and shook his head as he put away his handkerchief. “Why?”

Lazarus raised his eyebrows. “Why what?”

“Why d’you want to find this gel’s murderer?”

“She was my mistress.”

“And?” Hadley fingered the snuffbox still in his hand. “You know about her specialty, so I assume you used her for the same purpose as I. A pity, as I said, that she’s dead, but there are other women to fulfill our particular needs. Why bother seeking her killer?”

Lazarus blinked. No one had ever asked him the question phrased in such a way. “I… spent time with her. With Marie.”

“You loved her?”

“No, I never loved Marie. But she was a person. If I do
not find her killer, seek retribution for her death, then no one held her in regard. Then…”

Then what?

But Hadley finished his sentence for him. “And if no one holds Marie in regard, then perhaps no one holds you in regard? No one holds
us
in regard. We are merely solitary creatures enacting our bizarre form of human contact without anyone caring about us at all.”

Lazarus stared at the other man, a bit stunned.

Hadley’s mouth curved, creating a whole array of sagging wrinkles in his cheeks. “I’ve had a bit more time to think it out than you.”

Lazarus nodded. “Do you know any other who visited her?”

“Besides that worm she called a brother?”

“Tommy?”

“Aye, Tommy.” Hadley pursed his lips, not an attractive expression for him. “Tommy was there, lurking about, nearly every time I visited fair Marie. Once he came with an older woman. She wore a soldier’s red coat. Seemed a bad sort, but as I said, I didn’t bother much with Marie’s personal life.”

“Indeed?” Lazarus frowned. The brother had said he only visited his sister rarely. Apparently he lied. And how was Mother Heart’s-Ease involved with this? She and her shop seemed to pop up at every turn.

“Does that help?” Hadley inquired courteously. “I never met any of her other clients.”

“It does help.” Lazarus stood. “I thank you, my lord, for your time and your frankness.”

Hadley shrugged. “It was no trouble. Would you like to stay for a glass of wine, sir?”

Lazarus bowed. “Thank you, but I have another appointment this morning. Perhaps some other time?”

It was merely a polite gesture and both men knew it. A fleeting emotion crossed Hadley’s face, but it was gone before Lazarus could decipher it.

“Of course.” Hadley stood. “Good day, sir.”

Lazarus bowed again, crossing to the study door. But a thought gave him pause there. He turned to look at the older man. “Might I ask one more question, sir?”

Hadley waved a hand, indicating assent.

“Are you married?”

That same expression trod across Hadley’s face, deepening each wrinkle and sag. “No, sir. I have never married.”

Lazarus bowed yet again, conscious that he’d crossed the bounds of civility. He let himself out of the elegant, expensive town house. But as he emerged into the morning sun, he wondered: Had loneliness left its stamp upon his features as well?