Page 34 of Tender Blackguard

When she untied them and spread them out, she discovered it was a collection of notes written in Warfield’s hand. They meticulously detailed his interactions with several gentlemen, more than one of whom resided on Curzon Street, including Lord Dryden. There were thorough descriptions of households accompanied by a few rough sketches of floor plans. There were even notes on these gentlemen’s closest family members and more casual associates, as well as their daily activities, hobbies, and recent business ventures, property holdings, and other financial documents.

A fierce thread of trepidation wound through her blood.

It was clear by Warfield’s notes that he was collecting as much information on these men as possible. But toward what purpose? The men were of the highest echelon of society, each of them wealthy and influential. Was he intending blackmail, perhaps?

Wishing she could spend more time perusing the documents to determine exactly what it was the marquess was after, she was running out of time. Reluctantly, she rolled them back up and returned them to the box. The only other item inside was a small notebook. Taking it out, she noted that it appeared to be a journal of sorts, though it was written in a hand very different from that of the current marquess.

On the first page was written The Extraordinary Life and Pleasures of the Highly Distinguished First Marquess of Warfield, A Memoir.

Though Lark wasn’t particularly interested in the life of the prior marquess, she flipped through the pages and scanned some of the entries. Not quite a memoir, the writing proved to be little more than a collection of disjointed memories and personal anecdotes. But it didn’t take more than a minute of reading to start suspecting why the book was kept hidden. Another minute had her believing the book would be better off burned when she came across a disturbing description of sexual violence.

Disgusted, she returned the book to the box. She suddenly understood the current marquess’s intense loathing for his father. She couldn’t imagine how it must feel to discover such things about the man who’d sired you. The small bit she’d read of the memoir was boastful and shameless and made the prior marquess’s selfish wickedness abundantly apparent.

Then she recalled the other things he had said that night in the study.

Do you see evil in me, Mrs. Evans? Do you suppose we’re destined to become another version of our parents?

Her stomach tightened as some unidentified emotion threatened to distract her from her purpose. With a shake of her head, she closed the box and returned it to its place within the hidden passageway. Then she closed the panel and made sure it clicked securely shut before extinguishing the candle. With a final careful glance about to ensure nothing had been left out of place by her search, she slipped from the room and returned to her duties.

But questions ran rampant in her mind throughout the day.

What was the nature of the marquess’s interest in the gentlemen of Curzon? What were his motives? And most importantly, his ultimate goal? Was it related to his father’s past? And could it have anything at all to do with Harriet’s disappearance?

Chapter Twelve

Alastair approached the elegant red brick house at the end of the block on Curzon Street. The residence was quiet and still but for a faint light glowing from the second-level windows. Lowndes had indicated tonight’s event was to be an extremely exclusive gathering. Alastair hoped that meant tonight’s soiree would allow him a bit deeper into the brotherhood’s secretive world.

Though the prospect of rubbing elbows with the very men he suspected of evil deeds filled him with tension and repugnance, being welcomed into their inner circle was the only way to gain access to the proof he needed to put an end—once and for all—to their activities.

He was greeted at the door by a footman, who simply gestured for Alastair to follow him across a gleaming marble foyer, up a curving staircase, to a pair of closed double doors. The footman paused there and gave a short, patterned knock.

The door was immediately opened by a near-identical footman on the other side, who turned and led Alastair across an elegant aristocratic drawing room that was softly illuminated by a crystal chandelier. A solo violinist played in the corner, but the room was otherwise unoccupied. Across the room was another set of double doors, also closed, at which the second footman paused. As the servant opened one of the doors, he stepped back, keeping the door between himself and the room beyond, essentially blocking his own view while gesturing for Alastair to enter.

Rich walnut hues and earthy tones met his gaze as he noted the room was much smaller than the drawing room, allowing space for a few sofas and chairs along with a gaming table. Alastair strode forward with an air of entitlement he’d worked hard to perfect over the last months. As the door quietly clicked closed behind him, he swept his gaze over the assortment of guests gathered in the intimate sitting room.

He was surprised to see Lord Dryden since Alastair thought he and his family had left London. Apparently, the lord had stayed behind. He stood near a liquor service talking with the rather somber Earl of Altham and another aged gentleman Alastair didn’t recognize. Across the room stood the solitary, stooped figure of Viscount Marlowe, likely the oldest man present, who seemed more interested in nursing his brandy than participating in idle conversation with the other guests. Lastly, seated before the fire was the haughty Lord Hazelton, who tapped his foot impatiently as he stared into the flames.

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