Page 42 of Tender Blackguard

Soon enough, the figure stopped just beyond the garden entrance to Dryden House. When Alastair looked up to see that the three-story home was completely darkened, he recalled that although Dryden had been present at Lowndes’s party, he’d lamented the fact that his family had gone to the country earlier that day for an extended stay, and unfortunately, he was expected to follow that very night, cutting his pleasures short.

Whoever was currently making swift work of the lock on the back door was apparently aware that the house would be empty. It was possible the person he’d followed was nothing more than a housebreaker and thief. But some instinct told him this was something else.

It briefly crossed his mind that it could be the same person who’d accosted him in Shelbourne’s, but he immediately discounted that possibility since the two couldn’t have been more opposite in stature and bulk. There was also the fact that the stealthy figure’s movements and form were disturbingly familiar. He did not believe this was a simple robbery, and he felt compelled to observe it to its end.

Within less than twenty minutes, the small figure reemerged. Empty-handed.

Not a thief, then. Unless the prize was small enough to fit snugly in a pocket.

Alastair again kept his distance, following the stealthy form as they darted through the neighborhood. If Alastair wasn’t so familiar with the lanes and alleys himself, he’d have lost sight of them much sooner than he did. Unfortunately, he came around a blind corner to find the streets empty and devoid of movement.

Blast.

Though he had nothing concrete to suggest the housebreaker’s motives had anything to do with him or the brotherhood, he couldn’t discount the insistent hint of familiarity he’d experienced while following the shrouded figure.

As soon as he had the thought, the image of Mrs. Evans rose to mind, and he recalled her contradictory manner and those times she’d proven to be quite adept at deception.

The suspicion that was forming bothered him. Deep in his soul, it unnerved him. But it remained a possibility he couldn’t fully discredit. Then again, it might be desperation and paranoia triggered by his own immersion in subterfuge that had him suspecting his own housekeeper of creeping about the neighborhood in the black of night.

But as he entered his garden, he couldn’t help but cast a glance to the small windows of Mrs. Evans’s room. Though no light shone from within, he couldn’t glance away.

And then, he could’ve sworn he saw the drapes move. Just a bit.

A rush of awareness sharpened his mind in a quick moment as he recalled the night he’d thought he’d sensed her in Shelbourne’s garden and the fact that she’d still been awake—despite her claim otherwise—when he’d returned home with a knife slash along his side.

If it was her slinking through the night, what business could his housekeeper possibly have with Lord Dryden?

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LARK STOOD AT THE WINDOW in her darkened bedroom, carefully concealing herself behind her drapes as she peered into the garden, where Lord Warfield stood beside a row of overgrown roses, oddly still and staring in her direction.

What was he doing out and about so late and on foot?

She’d made sure to wait until he’d returned from his night out and the house had gone silent before she’d dressed in boys’ togs and tucked her pale hair beneath a heavy knit cap. She’d accessed Warfield’s secret passage from the study, then she’d continued down to the lower level and that locked door she’d encountered previously. Except this time, she had her tools.

After making quick work of the lock, she’d explored the underground tunnel and was pleased to find that it had brought her to an old carriage house in the mews. From there, she’d crept through the darkness to Dryden House.

She’d learned through servant gossip that the Dryden family had left London for their country estate, where they’d stay through the Christmas holiday. Most of their household accompanied them, leaving their London residence with a very minimal staff. The maid had said their housekeeper had gathered all of Harriet’s belongings, but Lark knew exactly where to look if there had been anything of value she’d wished to keep safe.

After leaving Dryden House, she’d been alarmed to discover someone was following her. But the alarm turned to shock when she caught a glimpse of her pursuer and instantly recognized the marquess.

She’d managed to evade him easily enough. But she worried what he’d seen. Had he recognized her as easily as she had him?

Unlikely.

Watching him through her window now, she felt a twinge of fear. Then he appeared to sigh before continuing toward the house. A moment later, she heard a very subtle indication of movement as he passed near her door on his way to the servants’ stairway. She held her breath, half-convinced he’d stop and knock on her door to accuse her of...whatever he might suspect she could be doing out in the middle of the night. Thievery, most likely.

When his steps continued, she released a sigh.

He hadn’t recognized her. If he had, he’d have been obligated to confront her about such suspect behavior.

Not that he wasn’t without his own questionable activities. Hadn’t she caught him sneaking into the abandoned Shelbourne mansion? And then there was the knife wound and his meticulous notes on his neighbors and the secret passage and underground tunnel.

So many questions...

She didn’t want to believe Warfield had been involved in Harriet’s disappearance, but she couldn’t completely discount it either. For her own state of mind, she’d need to discover what her employer was up to.

But tonight, she had something more pressing to pursue.

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