Page 9 of Tender Blackguard

It had been well after two o’clock in the morning when, unable to sleep, she’d felt a need to escape the silence of her room. Warfield’s library had intrigued her from the first moment she’d seen it. The dark paneling, rich colors, and the scent of leatherbound books. She’d crept through the still and darkened house to ensconce herself behind the curtains surrounding the window seat, where she’d reread Harriet’s note by the light of the moon. She could hear her friend’s voice—as familiar to her as her own—as though she read the short missive out loud. She heard the sorrow and fear and determination Harriet must have felt as she’d hastily penned the words.

As always, the note strengthened Lark’s purpose and fired her determination.

Being hired as Warfield’s housekeeper had certainly gotten her closer to Curzon Street, but she was still no closer to learning what had happened to sweet Harriet or where her friend had gone. The truth of that was what kept her up at night and fueled her through the days. But she needed to do more.

Last night, sorrow and frustration at her lack of progress had threatened to consume her.

But the moment she’d risen from her safe little corner and the curtains had closed behind her, blocking the moonlight, a very different feeling had claimed her awareness.

Lark had always felt a sort of communion with the night. When she’d been a small and destitute child running the streets of the East End, darkness and shadow so often contained hidden dangers. To survive, she’d had to force herself to make them her own. In the darkness, she’d learned to disappear. She’d learned to listen and feel.

So, she’d known without a doubt she hadn’t been alone in the library last night. She’d felt another presence like a low murmur in the night. She’d felt...Warfield.

And a moment later, she’d felt his absence.

Stopping now, beside the lord’s chair, she glanced up to the far corner of the room where a shadowed little alcove was formed between the stone fireplace and the bookshelves. It was a small space, perhaps two feet across, barely a foot deep. But big enough for a man.

“Mrs. Evans.”

The marquess’s voice sent a fever chill through her body, starting at her crown and tumbling like dancing fire to her fingertips and toes. Doing all she could to show no outward evidence of her reaction, Lark shifted her attention to her employer.

His expression was heavy and forbidding. The darkest she’d seen it. And his eyes—they pierced straight through her stoic façade. The force of his stare seemed to swirl about in her center. Seeking. Altering.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Do you intend to stand there staring into the corner all day?”

Concealing the prick of irritation his sharp tone inspired, Lark stepped forward to set the tray on the low table in front of his chair. “Shall I pour?”

He gave a short wave of his hand. His attention had already returned to the newspaper in his hands.

Lark poured the tea—strong and dark, as he preferred—then added the appropriate amount of honey. No sugar. No cream. With a straight spine, she set the cup and saucer on the table at his side.

“If there is nothing else—”

“You may go,” he interrupted.

Though annoyance at his curt manner burned in her chest, she turned and walked away. She’d served people who had been far ruder and more obnoxious than the marquess could ever be. She’d never let it bother her. She had a job to perform and that was what she did.

The marquess’s cold demeanor and sharp tone were trifling things to endure if they put her within reach of the answers she sought.

From the library, she went to the upper rooms to check in on the maids’ progress. Though the women had gotten used to a more careless approach to their duties, they were learning quickly that Lark expected more from them. They’d soon be in top form.

From there, she returned to her rooms, where she wrote up another advertisement for the servant pages. The household needed at least one more upstairs maid and two downstairs just to make the house properly functional. More, if the marquess ever decided to take a wife and start a family, though such a thing was difficult to imagine.

The terse and broody marquess as a father? A dreadful thought.

Either way, Lark didn’t expect to be there long enough for any of that. As soon as she found Harriet, she’d be gathering her savings and getting them both out of London.

---