Page 43 of Tender Blackguard

Searching Harriet’s old room had proven successful. Though the maid had been truthful in that Harriet’s personal belongings had been removed, Lark knew something the housekeeper wouldn’t’ve. The constant thievery amongst girls in the asylum had conditioned her friend into a habit of carefully hiding precious items to keep them safe.

In the small attic bedroom of Dryden House, concealed in a gap created by a loose section of trim around the window overlooking the street, Lark had discovered a small packet of letters tied within a handkerchief.

Now in the safety of her bedroom, she reached into the pocket of her trousers and withdrew the letters to set them carefully on her desk before quickly shedding her dark clothing and dressing in a nightgown.

Sitting at the desk, she lit a single candle and unwrapped the handkerchief. Eleven letters in all. Each written in the same slashing male hand, addressed simply to Harriet. As there was no address noted, Lark had to assume they’d been transferred from writer to recipient by hand.

She didn’t have to read for long to realize they were love letters. The first was a tentative admittance of feeling, citing a brief encounter on the street that seemed to have occupied the author’s thoughts without rest, inspiring him to pen the note. The next expressed sincere and emotional gratitude for learning in her reply that his feelings were not one-sided.

Lark found herself stirred by the man’s confessions of love and passion for her dear friend. But she wondered why Harriet had never mentioned him in any of her letters to Lark. Based on the dates in the missives, their affair had gone on for a few months and had included more than one clandestine meeting.

Unfortunately, they were all signed very simply with the initials W.K.

Who was he?

And could he have knowledge of Harriet’s current whereabouts?

She read back through each of the letters, looking for anything that might clue her in to the identity of Harriet’s beau. But there was nothing beyond the likely possibility that he resided in the same neighborhood. In one letter, he mentioned a time he caught a glimpse of Harriet walking with the young Dryden ladies, and though he wished to approach if only to see her smile, propriety wouldn’t have allowed it.

Was he a servant in another nearby household perhaps?

Though she wanted desperately to believe Harriet and her young man had eloped, there were far too many questions and not enough evidence to prove Harriet was with the young man now. And if they had run off together, instead of sending such a cryptic note, why wouldn’t Harriet simply have told Lark the truth? And then there was the maid who swore Harriet disappeared after being called down to the lord’s party. And the fact that she’d left behind all of her belongings.

It didn’t add up. There were too many holes and inconsistencies in the theory.

Frustrated, Lark secured the letters in the handkerchief. Opening a drawer in the desk, she tucked them away. Somehow those letters were the key to Harriet’s fate. They had to be. She could feel it.

Chapter Fifteen

The next morning, the marquess requested breakfast along with his tea to be served in his study. A severe lack of sleep and relentless thoughts of Harriet made Lark feel sluggish and slow-witted, but she did her best not to show it as she set the tea tray on the table. “Shall I pour?”

There was a pregnant pause before he answered, which almost prompted an inquiring glance, but she kept her gaze trained forward.

“Please,” he finally replied, and Lark had to wonder if she’d imagined the deeper roughness in his voice.

“Is something wrong, Mrs. Evans? You appear unusually preoccupied this morning.”

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