Page 77 of Tender Blackguard

Chapter Twenty-six

The next night, Lark readied herself for the evening ahead with the help of Turner’s gorgeous wife. Lark couldn’t imagine what she might need help with—her preparations for the evening were rather straightforward. But as soon as the elegant young lady swept into the house with her sparkling smile, stunning silver gaze, and infectious energy, Lark yielded to the force that was Portia Turner.

Once they were ensconced in Lark’s small bedroom, the other woman gave her a wink as she swept her cloak from her shoulders in a dramatic swirl. “The men can discuss the details of this evening to death if they want. In my experience, intuition and instinct can often get me greater results than a well-memorized plan.”

Lark was tempted to agree. And they’d already gone over everything a dozen times. She knew what she had to do. Perhaps even better than the marquess or Turner could.

“Can I get you anything, Mrs. Turner? Tea?” She paused. “A little scotch, perhaps?”

A wide smile brightened the lady’s face. “Portia, please. And scotch would be lovely. I knew as soon as Dell told me about you that we’d get along famously.”

She took a seat in one of the armchairs while Lark fetched the teacups and the bottle hidden in her desk. When Lark took the opposite seat and poured the potent liquor into the delicate china, Portia laughed, a husky, feminine sound.

“Thank you. I understand you led a rather adventurous life in your early youth.”

Lark met the other lady’s bright gaze with a slightly questioning gaze. “If you’re referencing the fact that I lived amongst a gang of thieves and stole for my survival, I suppose you’re correct.”

“Dammit.” Portia’s expression darkened with earnest regret. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Evans. You must think me horridly dense. I’m frequently reminded that my own privileged life has given me a skewed perspective when it comes to such things. I swear I didn’t mean to minimize the horrendous difficulties you faced. I wished only to celebrate how you persevered and fought against your limitations with your cleverness and skill.”

The lady glanced to the side with a shrug. “Before I met Dell, I feared I might never know my own mettle simply because I’d never had an opportunity to test myself. I’d always suspected I was meant for more than my social standing allowed. Just as I had a sense, when Dell told me about you, that you too refused to accept the limitations of your circumstance. And you worked hard for your liberation, didn’t you?”

Lark had never actually thought of it that way. “I suppose I did.”

“And that’s why I felt we might better prepare for tonight away from our gentlemen’s scowling visages and their repeated insistence upon protections and securities and sticking to the letter of the plan. The truth is,” Portia whispered dramatically as she leaned forward, “sometimes, my plans for a job don’t exactly match up with my husband’s. I find it best to go along with his dictates until I simply cannot. Impulse is not always a bad thing, and sometimes it is not only good to break from the plan but absolutely necessary.”

“I’m curious what Turner thinks of such an approach.” From what she remembered of his methods back in Covent Garden, he was a rather meticulous and organized sort.

Portia smiled, undaunted by the query. “Despite the fact they’re not how he would do things and as long as I’m not unnecessarily reckless, Dell has come to appreciate and respect my methods simply because they tend to work.”

Lark smiled. It was impossible not to like such a shamelessly confident woman.

“So,” Portia continued after taking a long sip from her teacup, “in order to determine how best I might assist and support you, why don’t you tell me what your strategies are for this evening?”

#

NEARLY TWO HOURS LATER, Lark sat beside Alastair in the dark of a nondescript carriage as they rolled along the perfect lanes of Mayfair. The vehicle had arrived exactly at the expected time. And even though the driver and accompanying groom had averted their eyes when Alastair emerged from the house carrying a seemingly unconscious Lark, they made sure to begin their ruse immediately.

Once they were ensconced in the carriage and it began to move, Lark straightened her slumped posture, but she didn’t move away from where Alastair had settled her close against his side. Beneath an enveloping cloak, she wore a blood-red evening gown borrowed from Portia. It had been specially designed by the lady herself and was finer than anything Lark had ever worn. The soft cotton cravat which had been fashioned into a gag and was currently looped loosely around Lark’s neck smelled subtly of the marquess. Oddly—or perhaps not—it gave her comfort and confidence. Her wrists were tied in front of her with another cravat.

Turner had demonstrated several times how the knots he’d employed could easily be released with one simple move. He and Alastair had both insisted Lark practice over and over until she could manage the maneuver without even a hint of difficulty.

She glanced aside at the marquess. His posture was stiff and unyielding, and his profile showed the deep intensity of his discomfort. On impulse, Lark reached for his hand where it pressed firmly to the top of his thigh.

“This will work. I’ve no doubt.”

He turned to look at her as he adjusted his hand to link his fingers through hers despite the cloth binding her wrists. His eyes blazed bright in the darkness.

“If anything goes wrong tonight, anything at all”—his grip tightened on her fingers—“your only priority is to flee. Immediately. Do you understand?”

Lark nodded, implying her agreement. He was afraid for her, and there was nothing she could say to convince him that she’d be all right. But the truth of the matter was she had no intention of fleeing until they accomplished what they set out to do.

It was the only way he’d finally feel free from his past. From the pain. From his father’s twisted legacy.

The marquess leaned toward her, lifting his other hand to cup the side of her face and turn her mouth toward his. “I won’t allow them to hurt you,” he whispered gravely. “I swear on everything I am that you’ll not be harmed. By them or anyone.”

“Don’t worry about me. Your task is dangerous enough tonight. Please,” she whispered, “trust me to do my part.”

Her chest tightened as he kissed her. Because this wasn’t a kiss of passion and undeniable hunger. This was far gentler and quieter. It felt as though he were trying to communicate something that had no words.

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