Page 1 of Tender Blackguard

Chapter One

London, October 1817

My Dearest L,

Forgive me. You will likely not understand what I must do, but I pray you accept it. Do not try to find me. And please, on all you hold dear, stay far away from Curzon Street.

I’m so sorry. –H

Lark Evans read through the familiar words three more times before carefully folding and tucking the worn note back into her glove. The lines no longer made her tremble with loss, sadness, or confusion. After nearly a month, those emotions had firmly evolved into a low-burning focus that steadily fueled her purpose.

The hackney cab she’d hired to bring her to this ostentatious area of Mayfair drove off behind her. Though her boots already squished from the puddles on the sidewalk, the hems of her skirts were soaked and heavy, and water dripped steadily from the brim of her bonnet, she didn’t yet move toward the door looming in front of her. Instead, she tipped her head back, allowing the drizzly rain to bathe her face as she assessed the elegant townhouse belonging to the Marquess of Warfield.

The aristocratic home had been constructed of red brick in four stories and was adorned with white trim, Palladian-style windows, and a grand arched doorway. It was an imposing structure, effectively denoting the extreme wealth and elite social position of its denizen.

Lark breathed deeply through her nose to steady her heart rate. Though her stomach churned with the importance of her task, her resolve did not waver. After a moment, she turned and made her way around the house to the servants’ entrance. With a smart rap of her knuckles on the door, she straightened her spine and waited.

The door was opened a few short moments later by a middle-aged footman. His livery, trimmed in gold, was a blue so dark it was nearly black. His expression was suitably impassive.

Lark offered a brief and taciturn smile. “Hello. I am Mrs. Evans. I’ve an appointment to interview for the position of housekeeper.”

The footman stepped aside with a short gesture for her to enter. “This way, please.”

He led her down a dark and narrow hall that eventually emerged from behind an impressive mahogany staircase into what appeared to be the house’s main entry hall. The space was cavernous, with marble flooring, gleaming wood, and an excess of filigree. A quick flick of her gaze upward proved that the ceiling was painted to depict a summer sky and was framed by elaborate crown molding.

Without pausing, the footman continued across the marble floor to a heavy door tucked into the corner at the back of the hall.

Lark remained behind the male servant as he opened the door and announced in a flat tone, “Mrs. Evans has arrived, my lord.”

The voice from within was heavy and dark. “Show her in.”

A chill tickled the back of Lark’s neck then slid down the hollow of her spine. Despite the weight of foreboding sinking into her bones, when the footman stepped aside, she strode confidently, purposefully forward into a gentleman’s study.

Instinct born of a childhood lived in near-constant peril triggered a split-second assessment of her surroundings.

Straight ahead was a wide and gleaming desk set before a wall of windows—likely oversized casements—currently covered by drapes that blocked any bit of light that might have seeped in from the rainy day. The desk held an ink pot and a lamp which managed to illuminate the space just enough to show no one sat behind the imposing piece of furniture. On her left stood three large bookcases containing volumes which had gathered a shameful amount of dust. An elaborately carved marble fireplace took up most of the wall to her right and in front of it an arrangement of sofas and chairs designed in the Italian Baroque style. Aside from the door through which she’d entered, there was another door barely visible in the shadows between two of the bookcases.

The room’s décor was very near to being garish. From what she’d seen in the entry hall, she’d guess the entire house was done in the overly ostentatious style.

Opulent. And joyless.

It took only a moment to determine the man who’d spoken was sitting in one of the tall wingback chairs turned toward the fire. The one with its back to the door so all she could see was a pair of black boots planted firmly on the floor. She’d assumed she’d be meeting with the house’s steward for this interview, but the footman had addressed the man as my lord, which meant she was about to meet the master of the house instead.

After hearing the door close behind her, Lark felt a very brief flash of uncertainty, but she quickly squashed it. Even the smallest bit of doubt was pointless. She was here for a reason and that reason hadn’t changed. Coming to a stop in the center of an expansive Persian rug, she did not turn toward the only other occupant in the room but remained facing the desk in front of her. As the marquess had not risen to his feet at her entrance, she chose to keep her gaze steadily forward, her hands clasped lightly at her waist.

Enduring. Patient.

She’d been rigorously trained to be so. Or to appear so anyway. No one need know what her true nature was beneath the calm, steady surface of her demeanor. Least of all the potential employer sitting silently somewhere to her right.

“Have a seat, Mrs. Evans. You’re soaking my carpet.”

A strange chill swept over her skin at the hard tone of his voice, a sound not unlike raw steel. Turning dutifully, however, Lark approached the chair directly facing the one he occupied. She properly refrained from pointing out that soaking the silk-covered chair wouldn’t be much better.

After lowering herself to the edge of her seat and propping her bag at her feet, she kept her expression neutral as she directed her focus to the man who would—God willing—become her new employer.

Darkness.

It was the only word that came to mind at her first sight of the marquess.

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