Page 25 of Tender Blackguard

The marquess made his way silently along a path to the house. Stopping at a back door that appeared to be a kitchen entrance, he paused as a gust of wind rustled the dried leaves of a tree close to Lark’s hiding spot. Stiffening, the marquess turned to glance back over his shoulder. The faint reach of starlight touched his angled features as his gaze swept past her position.

Lark curled her hands into fists and lowered her chin. He couldn’t see her. She knew he couldn’t. Yet, for a second, she felt certain he knew she was there.

Peeking up from under the edge of her hood, Lark observed the marquess in a moment of indecision. Then he turned away, and after a moment, the door in front of him opened and he slipped inside the unlit house.

Lark waited for long, uncounted minutes. Keeping her breath slow and even, her body unmoving. Once she was assured Warfield wasn’t returning, she quietly crept away in the opposite direction.

She hadn’t the slightest idea what the marquess could be doing sneaking into an empty home belonging to a gentleman who’d died weeks before. It was none of her business. She should never have followed him in the first place.

She told herself these things, but she couldn’t let the matter go. There was really no good reason for her employer to be breaking into the house of a neighboring lord. It was nearly impossible to imagine Warfield as a thief, but she struggled to come up with another explanation.

Unfortunately, Curzon Street was quickly filling with activity as guests began leaving Dryden House. To remain unseen, Lark was forced to take a more roundabout way. Thoughts of Warfield faded as she focused on getting home unseen.

At least the Warfield mansion was still and silent when she passed through the servants’ entrance and made her way along narrow hallways to her room. After lighting a candle, she quickly exchanged her cloak and dark dress for a cotton nightgown and took down her hair to re-braid it into a single plait down her back. Her hands shook at the task as she considered what she’d learned from the young maid.

What the hell had happened to Harriet?

Degradation, harassment, and assault were common risks faced by female servants in households that boasted gentlemen of ignoble repute. After being accosted by a lord’s son at one of her very first positions, it was the reason Lark always kept her knife handy.

Had Harriet been defiled during Lord Dryden’s party?

The thought filled Lark with fury. Harriet was and always had been such an optimistic girl. Despite her rough start in the rookery, she’d always somehow managed to find the joy and wonder in all she experienced. Even though Lark had tried to prepare her for the evils of the world, Harriet staunchly believed in the innate goodness of people.

Lark closed her eyes and swallowed past the hard lump in her throat.

Dear God, please let her be all right.

A knock at her door startled her from her thoughts. Alarm washed through her as she glanced to the clock.

It was well past two o’clock in the morning. Far too late for any reasonable visitor.

Had someone seen her sneaking back into the house? Had she been spied in Dryden’s garden and followed? Had the marquess seen her after all?

No. She’d taken every precaution.

Sweeping up an old shawl from the back of her chair, she wrapped it about her shoulders. Then she placed an unpleasant scowl on her face as she opened her door a bare crack, doing her best to appear as though she’d just been awoken from a heavy sleep.

The marquess—dressed in evening wear and smelling of crisp autumn nights—filled the dim and narrow hallway with his intense presence as he leaned one shoulder almost casually against the frame of her door.

After a sharp flare of panic, she reassured herself there was no way he could know of her activities tonight. Shifting her expression into one of cautious concern, she asked, “My lord? Is there something you need?”

There was a long, silent pause as he slowly assessed her appearance. From her loosely braided hair to the shawl and nightgown, down to her bare toes.

Pale blue eyes sparked as he brought his gaze back to hers. “I happened to see a light still on in your room when I returned home and thought I’d check to be sure there wasn’t any sort of problem.”

“No problem at all, my lord.”

“Are you usually up at such an hour?”

Lark thought quickly. “No, actually, I wasn’t up at all.” She glanced down as though in embarrassment before continuing. “The truth is I’ve a rather unnatural fear of the dark. Some nights I feel more comfortable if I leave a candle burning. Don’t worry, my lord, I purchase the candles myself from my earnings.”

The marquess glanced past her into the room. His focus slid quickly from the low glow of the dying fire in the grate to the lit candle beside her bed. Something in his gaze had her glancing back over her shoulder. It was impossible to miss how her bedcovers were all perfectly smooth and undisturbed, indicating to anyone who might glance at them that the bed hadn’t been slept in at all.

Searching her mind for a possible explanation, she turned back to the marquess to see a grimace of pain marring his handsome features. She also finally noticed how he kept one arm wrapped secure across his middle, his hand pressed to his side beneath the edge of his coat. A shiver coursed through her. Something wasn’t right.

Looking to his face again, she noted the strain around his mouth. “My lord?”

“Since you are awake, Mrs. Evans, might I request your assistance?”

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