Page 46 of Tender Blackguard

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LATER THAT EVENING, instead of updating the household accounts, Lark decided to read through Harriet’s letters one more time. Perhaps a second time through might provide more insight.

Unfortunately, there was nothing more to be gleaned from the sweet messages than she had already. And her focus was continually interrupted by thoughts of the marquess and their discussion from that morning.

He knew something. She was convinced of it.

Maybe not specifically in regard to Harriet, but he hadn’t shown the least bit of surprise when she’d said her friend had gone missing. And there had been a hopeful note in his voice when he’d asked if she’d managed to find anything at the Drydens’ townhouse.

And of course, there were his own meticulous notes on the Drydens and other local gentlemen of distinction.

It was all linked. It had to be.

Warfield was obviously investigating these men, but to what purpose? Blackmail didn’t really fit considering Warfield was already wealthy beyond most.

The maid she’d spoken to had said Lord Dryden had been hosting a special party the night Harriet went missing. Could his guests have been the other men in Warfield’s notes? It made sense with the warning in Harriet’s letter.

Had the marquess been a guest?

Abruptly rising to her feet, she took long, pacing strides to the fireplace, then to the nook containing her bed, then back to the desk.

If he had been at Dryden’s party that night, she didn’t believe he could have done anything to harm her friend. She’d learned long ago to rely on her gut instincts when it came to determining a person’s character. And though the marquess was broody and most often displayed a cold, icy demeanor, at his core, he was a noble and honorable man. He could never be the monster his father had apparently been.

His father.

Lark froze in place as she recalled the notebook containing the prior marquess’s drafted memoir. The very little bit she’d read had been burned indelibly into her mind. He was certainly the type of man who’d think nothing of assaulting a young maid. And though he’d long been away from England at the time of Harriet’s disappearance, he had lived in this very house at one time. He was of an age with Lord Dryden and was very likely a mutual acquaintance of the other neighboring gentlemen.

Her eyes widened as she recalled a word that had struck her as odd when she’d skimmed over it in the notebook but had quickly forgotten it as she’d read on.

Brotherhood.

If her memory served, the prior marquess had used it in reference to a particular group of friends. The men of Curzon Street?

Had she been too hasty in disregarding the memoir as the lascivious ramblings of a depraved sadist?

She needed to read those notes more carefully.

Glancing to the clock, she noted the time. The marquess had no doubt already gone to his cousins’ for dinner and should be away for another couple hours. Plenty of time.

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