Page 7 of Tender Blackguard

Lark fiercely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Please, Jane, calm down. I assure you, there’s nothing to fear.”

The near-hysterical maid ignored her as she placed her meager possessions into a scarf before tying it up. Lark had come looking for the girl after she met with the other housemaids that morning to go over their duties for the day and noticed the new hire was missing. She found Jane preparing to flee.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Evans—truly—but spirits roam these halls. I felt ’em last night. And I won’t be stickin’ ’round to become one o’ their victims.”

Though she couldn’t entirely discount what the girl was claiming—there was a certain feeling of oppressive unease in the household—she couldn’t afford the loss of a maid she’d only recently hired. If whispers of ghosts and spirits started to fly through the servant gossip mill, she’d have an even harder time getting the help she needed.

“I assure you there are no spirits in this house. I was walking around late last night myself and encountered no ghostly forms. No doubt it was my movements you heard.”

The young maid pushed past Lark with a mutinous chin and the light of fear still in her eyes. “I ain’t takin’ the chance, ma’am.”

Lark sighed as she watched the only experienced maid who’d applied in the last week walk out the door.

Then with a low sound of resignation, she turned on her heel and headed toward the linen cupboard. She’d need to gather a few things before going upstairs to the lord’s private quarters. There were only three other upstairs maids, and they’d all been tasked with scrubbing down and airing out the seven other bedrooms, something she’d guess hadn’t been done in more than a decade. She didn’t intend to interrupt them from such an arduous task.

It was a good thing she already had her other morning tasks completed as she’d have to see to the lord herself. Having spent her childhood in one of the East End’s roughest neighborhoods, Lark was well-accustomed to making do on very little sleep. And though she’d been up late the night before, she’d also arisen long before the sun—and long before anyone else in the house had stirred. Still, after glancing at her watch, she noted there was only just enough time to wake the marquess and get back to the kitchen to prepare his tea while he went about his morning ablutions. Luckily, he preferred to take his tea down in his study while reading the paper rather than first thing in his bedroom.

Since the marquess did not rise until well into the day and without a housekeeper to keep them to a proper schedule, the few housemaids on staff had gotten in the habit of keeping later hours themselves. It was the first thing she’d addressed when she’d come on staff. And though they’d grumbled at first, since they wished to keep their positions, the women complied to the new schedule.

Just because she was here for an ulterior purpose did not mean she intended to shirk her duties. And to be truthful, the entire house was long overdue for a deep cleaning.

While researching her employer in preparation for her interview, she’d learned that prior to the current Marquess of Warfield’s arrival in London only a few months ago, the Warfield townhouse had stood empty while the previous marquess had resided on the Continent. That meant every member of the current staff had been in their positions for only a handful of months. Which also meant it was unlikely they’d have had time to gather much gossip about the other residents in the neighborhood. A disappointment, since servants were the best agents of information to be found. Luckily, there were other ways to gain the knowledge she sought.

Outside the lord’s bedchamber, she paused and lifted the watch that hung from a loop at her waist opposite the ring of keys she carried to signify her station. She was a few minutes early. Stepping back from the door, she adjusted her hold on the basket of items she’d brought with her and resigned herself to waiting for the designated hour.

She could hear the distant, muffled movements and low murmurs of the other maids as they scrubbed the floors in a nearby room. The steps of a footman could faintly be heard descending the servants’ stairs, likely on some task assigned by the butler.

Though they’d only spoken very briefly in the days she’d been here, Remus Gideon had proven to be like so many British butlers. Somber, imperious, and very possibly older than the medieval tapestry that hung in the library. She suspected there was a chink somewhere in his very proper armor, and though she hadn’t discovered it yet, she would.

Checking her watch again, she noted she had another thirty seconds.

Turning her focus to the room beyond the closed door, she listened for any movement to ascertain if the marquess had already risen. She’d spent enough years as an upstairs maid to understand the importance of being as prepared as possible for what you might encounter beyond a closed door.

She heard nothing.

Silently and efficiently, she opened the door and stepped inside. After closing the door behind her, she paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the much darker room. Spotting the faint glow in the grate, she set her basket down and went first to add fuel and stoke the fire. Working efficiently through tasks that had been ingrained into her being over thousands of mornings like this, she made sure the fire was tended before moving toward the windows. With swift and decisive movements, she swept the drapes back to allow the gray light of another cloudy day to spread into the room. Often, that was enough to awaken an occupant.

But there was no stirring from the bed.

The bed she’d intently avoided glancing toward despite the strange urge she’d had to do exactly that from the moment she’d entered. It was unprecedented. She had no business being curious what the lord of the house might look like abed.

After retrieving the basket, she went next to the valet stand to set up everything that would be needed for the marquess’s morning shave. Then she crossed back toward the fireplace and went about collecting the items left from his bath the night before—the towel which had been carefully folded and draped over the rim of the tub, the washing cloth, also neatly folded, the small cake of soap in its silver dish.

When she turned to survey the room for anything else that might require her attention, she could no longer avoid looking at the large four-poster bed. Nor could she ignore the man sitting at the edge of the mattress.

She immediately braced herself for the inevitable reaction. An icy chill followed by a slow-rolling wave of heat. No matter how hard she tried to block her visceral response to the marquess, it claimed her against her will. Every time. All she could do was hold herself still and wait for the feeling to pass.

Unfortunately, it never really did. The heat, anyway. It just remained a low smolder beneath the surface of her skin until she could leave his presence and properly distract herself.

It was frustrating. And unsettling.

Gratefully, he was gazing toward the windows rather than in her direction. His bare feet were planted wide on the carpet as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his spread knees. She realized with a start that if not for the sheet he’d pulled across his lap, he’d have been completely naked to her view.

As a child of the rookery, where prostitutes plied their trade in back alleys against whatever surface they happened to be near and children bathed in drain ditches in the street, Lark had witnessed a fair share of nakedness. And as a maid, she’d seen numerable men in varying states of dress and undress. Nudity was not something that typically gave her pause.

But she was fairly certain she’d never seen a body like Warfield’s.

Lean muscled and broad shouldered—even slouched as he was—he exuded efficient strength. This was not the body of a soft and pampered aristocrat. In fact, there didn’t appear to be an ounce of softness anywhere on the man. And when he lifted a hand to rub at the black bristled hair growth on his jaw, Lark found herself transfixed by the play of muscles in his arms and those woven along his rib cage.

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