Wicked Intentions Page 6

  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.

  Lazarus wondered idly what had caused his mother to summon him. Would she ask for more money? That seemed unlikely since she had a generous allowance from him as well as a few estates of her own. Perhaps she’d taken up gambling in her waning years. He snorted aloud at the thought.

  The chairmen halted and Lazarus descended. The town house he’d bought for his mother was small but fashionable. She’d complained—still complained—when he’d forced her to move out of Caire House, but he’d be damned if he’d live with the woman.

  Inside, the butler escorted Lazarus to an outrageously gilded sitting room. There he sat for a good half hour, contemplating the golden curlicues on the top of the Corinthian columns guarding the door. He would’ve left but then he’d merely have to repeat this farce another day. Best to get it over with.

  She entered the room as she always did—pausing just a fraction of a second inside the doorway to let the full impact of her beauty fill those within with awe.

  Lazarus yawned.

  She tittered, the sound not quite hiding the anger beneath. “Have you lost all sense of propriety, my son? Or is it fashionable now to no longer rise on a lady’s entrance?”

  He rose with just enough languor to make the movement an insult, and then bowed as briefly as possible. “What do you want, my lady?”

  Which was a mistake, of course. Showing his impatience only gave her reason to draw this meeting out.

  “Oh, Lazarus, must you be so rude?” She lowered herself to carefully lounge on one of the delicately painted settees. “It becomes tiresome. I’ve ordered tea and cakes and such”—she waved a hand vaguely—“so you must stay for that at least.”

  “Must I?” he asked softly, the edge in his voice making the two words grit.

  A fleeting look of uncertainty crossed her beautiful face, but then she said firmly, “Oh, I think so.”

  Lazarus sat back down, conceding for the moment to his lovely, vapid mother. He watched her as they waited for the promised tea. He hated tea, always had. Did she not know or—more likely—did she serve it to him merely to provoke?

  Lady Caire had been a famous beauty in her youth, and time had been gracious to her. Her face was a perfect, serene oval, her neck long and graceful. Her eyes were like his, a clear blue, faintly tilted at the corners. The forehead above was white and unmarred. Her hair was the same startlingly premature white as his own, but instead of trying to dye it or wearing a wig, she flaunted the unusual color. She favored dark blue gowns to highlight the white and wore black or dark blue caps, decorated with lace and jewels.

  She had always known how best to draw the eye.

  “Ah, here’s the tea,” his mother said as two maids entered bearing trays. Was there relief in her voice?

  The servants set the repast silently and then quietly left. Lady Caire straightened to pour. Her hand hesitated over the teacup. “Sugar?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Of course.” Her aplomb was restored. She handed him the cup. “I remember now—neither sugar nor cream.”

  He raised his brows and set aside the teacup untasted. What game was she playing?

  She seemed not to notice his lack o
f enthusiasm for the tea, resuming her languid pose with her own cup. “I hear you’ve been seen with the elder Miss Turner. Have you interest in that direction?”

  He blinked for a moment, truly surprised, and then burst out laughing. “Have you decided to matchmake for me now, ma’am?”

  A line of irritation appeared between her brows. “Lazarus—”

  But he interrupted her, his words quick and light, belying the edge they held. “Perhaps you’ll vet and approve a select group of fillies, line them up for my inspection. Of course, it might be difficult, what with the rumors of my… proclivities flying about London society. All but the most mercenary families make sure to keep their virgins away from me.”

  “Don’t be crude.” She set down her teacup with a moue of distaste.

  “First rude, then crude,” he drawled. His patience had worn out. “Really, madam, it is a wonder you can stand my company at all.”

  She frowned at that. “I—”

  “Are you in need of funds?”

  “No, I—”

  “Have you any other pressing matter to discuss with me, then?”

  “Lazarus—”

  “No worry over business?” he interrupted. “Your lands or servants?”

  She simply stared at him.

  “Then I fear I must go, Lady Caire.” He rose and bowed without meeting her eyes. “I bid you good morning.”

  He was already at the door when she said, “You don’t know. You don’t know what it was like.”

  His back was to her, and he didn’t turn to acknowledge her before closing the door behind him.

  MARY HOPE WAS not improving.

  Temperance watched anxiously as the wet nurse, Polly, tried once again to get the infant to latch on to her nipple. The baby’s tiny, lax mouth opened about the tip of the nipple, but she lay unresponsive, her eyes closed.

  Polly tched and looked up, her face sad. “She’s not suckin’, ma’am. I can ’ardly feel her on me.”

  Temperance straightened, wincing at a crick in her back. She’d been hovering over Polly and the baby for what seemed like hours now. Polly sat in an old armchair with the infant. The chair was the nicest piece of furniture in her little rented room—Temperance had given it to Polly when she’d hired her as one of the foundling home’s wet nurses. The wet nurses didn’t live in the home. Instead they took their tiny charges to their own homes, whatever that may be.

  Since Temperance didn’t directly oversee the wet nurses, it was imperative to find women she could trust, and Polly was the best. Not much over twenty, the wet nurse was dark-eyed, dark-haired, and rather pretty. But Polly had the pragmatic air of a woman twice her age. Her husband was a sailor, coming home only often enough to sire two children with his wife. In between his infrequent appearances, Polly fended for herself and her little family.

  Besides the chair, Polly’s room held a table, a curtained bed, and a cheap print on the wall depicting gaily dressed ladies. Over the mantel of the fireplace, a round polished mirror hung to reflect what little light there was back into the room. Polly had set her few possessions on the mantel: a candlestick, a pot for salt and one for vinegar, a teapot, and a tin cup. In a corner of the wretched room, Polly’s babies played, a toddler and a child who had just learned to crawl.

  Temperance returned her gaze to Mary Hope. Polly’s small room might be poor, but it was spotlessly clean, and Polly herself was neat and sober. Unlike many of the women who made their living wet-nursing, she didn’t drink, and she actually seemed to care for her tiny charges while they were with her.

  That made her worth her weight in gold.

  “Can you try again?” Temperance asked anxiously.

  “Aye, I’ll put ’er to the pap, but whether she’ll suck or not…” Polly trailed off as she positioned the babe again. She’d partially unlaced her leather stays and pulled aside her woolen chemise, uncovering one breast.

  “What if we drip milk into her mouth?”

  Polly sighed. “I’ve made some milk flow into the wee one’s mouth, but she swallows naught but a drop or two.”

  She demonstrated, and Temperance watched as the fresh milk dribbled out the side of the baby’s mouth. If she swallowed any, it was hard to tell.

  The smallest of Polly’s babies had crawled over and now pulled herself up to stand against the chair, crying.

  “Can you take her a mo’ while I see to my own?”

  Temperance swallowed, reluctant somehow to take the fragile infant, but Polly was already putting Mary Hope in her arms. Temperance held her stiffly. The baby seemed as light as a bird. She watched as Polly pulled her baby into her lap. Her child immediately went to the nipple, sucking contentedly with great gulps as she idly held one stockinged toe with her chubby fingers. Temperance looked from the obviously well-fed child to the sallow cheeks of Mary Hope. The baby had opened her eyes, but she stared over Temperance’s shoulder vaguely, the wrinkles around her eyes in marked contrast to Polly’s plump, healthy baby.

  Temperance quickly averted her gaze, her chest clogging with some emotion she refused to identify. She would not feel for this dying baby, she would not. She’d been burned once in the past by giving her love too freely, and now she held it safely locked away in her breast.

  “There, ducks, aren’t you happy now?” Polly crooned to the child in her arms. She looked up at Temperance. “Let me try again with that one.”

  “Very well, but don’t neglect your own,” Temperance said, handing Mary Hope over with relief. She’d heard of wet nurses who’d starved their own children to feed a paying baby.

  “Never fear,” Polly said stoutly. “I’ve enough for all.”

  She suited action to word by taking down her chemise from her other breast, placing Mary Hope there while allowing her own baby to continue suckling from the first breast.

  Temperance nodded. “Thank you, Polly. I’ll leave a little extra this week. Make sure you spend it on food for yourself, please.”

  “Aye, I will,” Polly replied, her head already bent to the ailing baby.

  Temperance hesitated a moment, but in the end, she simply bid Polly good night and left. What more could she do? She made her way through the crowded rooms of the house in which Polly rented her room. She’d hired the best wet nurse available and had even paid the woman extra out of the home’s meager funds.

  The rest was in the hands of God.

  Outside, the light was beginning to dim as the day fled St. Giles. Temperance shivered. A woman passed her, balancing a wide flat basket on her head that held a few leftover clams and a pewter cup for measuring. Winter had sent word that he would work late at the school tonight, but she still had to cook her own supper and settle the children before meeting Lord Caire.

  A big shadow moved in a doorway as she passed, and for a moment her heart stuttered.

  Then Lord Caire’s deep voice reached her. “Good evening, Mrs. Dews.”

  She stopped, her arms akimbo in exasperation. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  She could see his dark eyebrows rise beneath the brim of his tricorne. “Waiting for you.”

  “You followed me!”

  He inclined his head, unperturbed at her accusatory tone. “Indeed, Mrs. Dews.”

  She huffed in exasperation and started forward again. “You must be very bored to play such a childish trick.”

  He breathed a chuckle behind her, so close she thought she felt his cloak brush against her skirts. “You have no idea.”

  She remembered suddenly that kiss he’d pressed on her—hard and hot and not at all gentle. How it had made her heart speed, her skin dampen with sweat. He was a danger to her and all the emotions she held in such tenuous check. Her voice was sharp when she replied. “I’m not a diversion for a bored aristocrat.”

  “Did I say you were?” he asked mildly. “Who did you go to see in that house?”

  “Polly.”

  He was so silent behind her that he might’ve been a ghost.

  Temperanc
e inhaled. Any other gentleman—especially an aristocratic gentleman—would’ve given up on her at her tart words and turned and left her in outraged male anger. Whatever the game Lord Caire played, he was patient.

  And besides, the home still needed a patron.

  “Polly is our wet nurse,” Temperance said more calmly. “You’ll remember the night we met, I brought a new baby to the home. I’ve placed the baby, a frail child, with Polly to nurse. Her name is Mary Hope.”

  “You seem…” He trailed off as if analyzing the tone of her voice. “Unhappy.”

  “Mary Hope will not suck,” Temperance said. “And when Polly dribbles milk into her mouth, she hardly swallows.”

  “Then the child will die,” he said, his voice remote.

  She stopped and whirled on him. “Yes! Yes, Mary Hope will die if she cannot take sustenance. Why are you so uncaring?”

  “Why are you so caring?” He’d stopped with her, too close as usual, and the wind blew his cloak forward, wrapping around her skirts like a living thing. “Why feel so much for a child you hardly know? A child you must’ve known was ailing, perhaps already dying, when you brought her to your home?”

  “Because it is my work,” she said fiercely. “It’s the reason I get up in the morning, the reason I eat, the reason I sleep—to provide for these children. To keep the home running.”

  “That’s all? You do not love the child herself?”

  “No, of course not.” She turned and continued walking. “I… I care for each of the children, of course I do, but to let oneself love a dying child would be the height of foolishness. Don’t think I don’t know that, my lord.”

  “So selfless,” he said, his voice deep and mocking. “Such a martyr to those poor, wretched infants. Why, Mrs. Dews, you might as well be a saint. All you need is the halo and the bloody palms.”

  A hot retort was on the tip of her tongue, but Temperance pressed her lips together, swallowing the words.

  “And yet,” Lord Caire mused somewhere close behind her, “I wonder if it is possible to stop yourself from loving a child. For some it might be easy, but for you, Mrs. Dews, I very much doubt it.”