Page 21 of Tender Blackguard

After a moment, he directed his attention back to the portrait. “My mother did. I’m not sure she was wrong.”

His mother thought him evil?

The question shocked her and lingered in her mind as he took a weighted breath. “Do you suppose we’re destined to become another version of our parents?”

“I’ve no idea. I never knew my parents.”

He looked back at her with a raised brow. “An orphan?”

“A foundling. Left on a church doorstep in the first days of life.”

Though his stare became rather intense and piercing, she did not avert her gaze. She felt no shame for her past. Certainly not the parts over which she had no control.

“You look surprised, my lord. It’s not an uncommon tale.”

“Yet I get the sense there is nothing common about you at all, Mrs. Evans.” Then he made another rough sound as he gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit and tell me your story.”

The impropriety of his command was undeniable, though it seemed he was just drunk enough not to notice. Or not to care. Once again, she acknowledged that she should leave. And once again, she did not.

Stepping forward, she took a seat as he gazed at her with those light blue eyes. Staring into her. Seeing her.

“Have you any knowledge who your mother or father might have been?”

“None at all,” she answered simply.

“Does that bother you?”

“Not particularly.”

He tilted his head. “What became of you after you were found?”

She wasn’t sure why he was so curious, and though she never would’ve been so revealing to any other employer, in this moment, they didn’t feel like servant and master. For some reason, he wished to converse a while. And it felt rather natural to indulge him.

“I lived at an orphanage for a time. After some years, I left.”

His eyebrow arched. “You ran away?”

“I was a willful child, and the headmaster was a strict and forceful man. The situation became...unbearable.”

His brow furrowed. “How old were you?”

Slightly unnerved by his intense attention, she lowered her gaze to smooth a wrinkle from her skirt with the pad of her thumb. “Rather young, I’d say. I recall having a seventh birthday at the orphanage, but none after.”

“Seven years old and alone in the city?” There was clear incredulity in his voice. “You weren’t frightened?”

“I don’t think so. I felt more...liberated, I suppose. Eventually, I was taken in by some older children. They shared their food and gave me a place to stay.”

“A street gang?”

“To me, they were family.”

“How long were you with them?”

“Several years. Until it was time to do something else.” She intentionally left out the fact that another little orphan girl a number of years younger than her was the inspiration to get off the streets.

The marquess tilted his head as his gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a helluva lot more to your story than you’re letting on?”

Lark allowed the corner of her mouth to lift. “Because there is.”

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