Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(7)

So soon? “Of course,” Temperance replied.

“And,” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “I will expect you to serve me until such time as I no longer have need of your services.”

Temperance blinked, feeling wary. Surely it was the height of foolishness to bind herself to a stranger for an indefinite length of time? “How long do you think your search will take?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you must have an end date in mind? If you don’t find what you want, say, within a month, you’ll give up your search?”

He simply looked at her, a small smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, and it crashed down on her—again—that she didn’t know this man. She knew nothing about him, in fact, beyond Nell’s ominous warning about him. For a moment, Temperance felt fear creep on little spider feet up her spine.

She straightened. They’d made a bargain, and she’d not dishonor herself by reneging on it. The home and all the children in it depended on her.

“Very well,” she said slowly. “I will help you for an indefinite time. But I will need forewarning when you wish to go into St. Giles. I have duties within the home and will have to find someone to take my place.”

“I mainly search at night,” Lord Caire drawled. “If you require a replacement for your work at the home, I will fund that as well.”

“That’s very generous of you,” she murmured, “but if we are to go out at night, then the children should already be abed. Hopefully, I will not be needed.”

“Good.”

“How soon will you be able to take me to meet potential patrons for the home?” She would somehow have to find a new dress and shoes at the very minimum. Her usual black stuff workday clothes wouldn’t do for meeting the wealthy of society.

He shrugged. “A fortnight? Perhaps more. I may need to go begging for invitations to the more sedate parties.”

“Very well.” A fortnight was not very much time, but then again, the home needed immediate help. She couldn’t afford to wait longer.

He nodded. “Then I believe our negotiations are concluded.”

“Not quite,” she said.

He halted in the act of raising his hat to his head. “Indeed, Mrs. Dews? You yourself have said I’ve been generous. What more do you need?”

The tiny smile was gone from his mouth, and he was looking rather intimidating, but Temperance swallowed and lifted her chin. “Information.”

He merely cocked an eyebrow.

“What is the name of the person you are looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

She frowned. “Do you know what they look like or the areas where they habitually frequent?”

“No.”

“Is this person a man or a woman?”

He smiled, deep lines incising themselves into his lean cheeks. “I have no idea.”

She blew out a breath, not a little frustrated. “How do you expect me to find this person for you, then?”

“I don’t,” he replied. “I merely expect you to help me search. I’d think that there would be several sources of gossip in St. Giles. Lead me to them and I will do the rest.”

“Very well.” She already had an idea of who might be a good source of “gossip.” Temperance stood and held out her hand. “I accept your bargain, Lord Caire.”

For an awful moment, he merely stared at her out-thrust hand. Perhaps he found the gesture too masculine or simply silly. But then he stood as well, and in the small space, she had to tilt her head to look him in the face. She was suddenly aware of how much bigger he was than she.

He took her hand, a strangely frozen expression on his face, shook it quickly, and let go as if her palm had burned him.

She was still puzzling over the odd little moment when he placed his hat on his head, swirled his cape about his shoulders, and nodded. “I shall come for you tomorrow evening in the alley outside your kitchen door at nine o’clock. Until then, I bid you good night, Mrs. Dews.”

And he was gone.

Temperance blinked and then hurried out to the kitchen to bar the back door. Soot got up from the hearth as she entered.

“That door was locked. I know it,” she muttered to the cat. “How did he get in?”

But the cat merely yawned and stretched lazily.

Temperance sighed and went back to her sitting room for her tea things. As she entered the room, she glanced at the chair in which Lord Caire had lounged. There, in the middle of the seat, was a small purse. Temperance snatched it up and opened it. Gold coins spilled into her palm, more than enough to pay Mr. Wedge his rent.

Lord Caire had paid in advance, it seemed.

* * *

BASHAM’S COFFEEHOUSE WAS boisterously loud by the time Lazarus entered the doors late the next afternoon. He wound his way past a table of elderly gentlemen in full-bottomed wigs arguing heatedly over a newspaper and made his way to a solitary gentleman in a gray wig in the corner. The man sat peering through half-moon spectacles at a pamphlet.

“You’ll ruin your eyes trying to read that dreck, St. John,” Lazarus said as he took a chair across from his old friend.

“Caire,” Godric St. John murmured. He tapped the pamphlet. “This writer’s thesis isn’t entirely unimaginable.”