Page 5 of Tender Blackguard

He waited. Unmoving.

Then...a sigh. Barely perceptible. A moment later, the curtain was swept back from the window seat, and a small figure dressed in a dark frock swung her feet to the floor. Standing quietly, the housekeeper tucked a folded piece of paper into the pocket of her skirt then turned and drew the curtains back over the window. For just a moment, her pale hair, which was drawn back into a bun at her nape, was illuminated by the moonlight, and her features were shown in clear profile.

Then the room went pitch-black.

Tension tightened every muscle in his body as heat flowed swiftly through his blood.

She shouldn’t be there.

Not for the first time, he regretted the moment of madness that prompted him to hire the young Mrs. Evans. Though she’d been correct in stating a distinct lack of applicants for the open positions in his female staff, her insolence in bringing up the fact should have been a reason to boot her swiftly out the door. But Alastair had done the opposite. For some reason, the woman’s stern assertion of his need for her sparked a flash of admiration. He should have ignored it in the same way he’d managed to disregard the intriguing rebellious spark in her dark gray eyes or the stern angle of her chin.

But once he made the decision to hire her, he couldn’t take it back. In the four days since, Mrs. Evans had certainly been busy. Every morning, when she brought him his tea, she’d stand before him with her expression stoic and her posture unwavering. In an efficient and knowledgeable tone, she reported on her progress in hiring new maids, updating the household accounts, and ordering whatever goods she deemed necessary for the proper running of his household.

He didn’t question her decisions or suggest adjustments to her approach. Despite her youth and relative lack of experience, running a gentleman’s household was certainly more her forte than his. And he had other concerns occupying his mind.

Other than those daily meetings, he never saw the woman. She’d apparently perfected the expectation of being neither seen nor heard, though the evidence of her work was undeniable.

And yet...here she was.

There could be no reason for the woman to be in his library at such an hour. No reason for her to stray so far from her personal rooms so late at night unless it was to accomplish the duties of her station. As far as he was aware, reading correspondence by the light of the moon was not included amongst a housekeeper’s necessary tasks. And it made no bloody sense. Surely, the woman had a reading lamp in her private quarters.

Still caught up in his irritation at Mrs. Evans’s presence, he failed to realize she hadn’t yet left the room. In fact, once the curtains had been drawn and the room had been thrown into full darkness, she hadn’t moved at all.

What on earth was the odd creature about?

Alastair remained still as stone while allowing his available senses to reach out across the lightless room. He sought information. An essence of breath moving through the air, a subtle shifting of energy, a telltale heartbeat. Even in utter stillness, some sound could be detected if one listened carefully enough.

He heard nothing.

Breathing slowly through his nose—so slowly even he could not discern the passing of air into his lungs—he noted her scent still present in the room. The light perfume of early spring flowers mixed with something richer...darker. Amber, perhaps.

“Who’s there?”

A delicate shock rolled through his body. Her voice was closer than it should’ve been. Clear and confident. How in hell had she moved without making a single sound? Her skirts should’ve rustled; the floor would’ve creaked. And what of the clink of keys a housekeeper was tasked with carrying about? There should have been something to betray her movement.

The prior marquess had gone through a tremendous amount of trouble to ensure the hidden passages winding through the house were unknown to anyone else. Even servants—who typically knew more about the house they served than their masters. Alastair needed them to remain a secret known only to himself.

Very carefully, he reached behind him to locate and trigger the hidden mechanism with the lightest touch of his fingertips. The panel opened silently, and he immediately stepped back into the blackened corridor. A slight disturbance of air current was all that remained of him once the panel settled back in place.

He could have continued along the passage to another exit far from the trepidatious housekeeper, but he remained there. Waiting. Listening.

After only a moment, there was another near undetectable sigh. That he heard it at all suggested she knew she was alone once again. If she’d wanted to remain silent, he doubted he’d have heard a thing. A moment later, her footsteps and the swish of skirts retreated across the room.

Only then did Alastair continue along the narrow passage, ascending another turning staircase to his private apartments. The book he’d wanted to fetch from the library could wait until tomorrow.

He’d have to be more careful going forward.

In the solitude of his bedroom, he removed his gloves and overcoat then his boots, setting each item carefully aside.

The room had chilled in his absence as had the bath he’d requested some hours ago. Crouching before the coals still flickering in the grate, he added wood and peat to stoke the flames then set the heavy cauldron of cooled water over the fire. It would be a while before it was hot enough to warm his bath, but he was a patient man.

After crossing back to the concealed doorway, he triggered the mechanism to open it. Tucked into the corner just inside the passage was a small wooden box. Withdrawing the box, he carried it with him as he returned to the hearth and took a seat in the leather armchair which had been positioned off to one side to allow space for the oversized bathtub. Setting it on the floor beside him, he opened the box and withdrew a sheaf of papers and a graphite pencil.

He untied the string holding the papers together then shifted through them, going quickly to the end of what had last been written. Lifting one foot, he crossed it over the opposite knee then braced the pages on his thigh. Putting pencil to paper, he furiously yet meticulously wrote down all he’d witnessed on tonight’s excursion. Every detail—seemingly pertinent or not—every sight, sound, smell, and texture. He left nothing out in fear his memory might not retain it with such clarity if he failed to record even a small thing. And he had no idea what might or might not be important. In truth, he feared everything was important.

When he finished purging all he’d gathered, he shifted back through the pages to the very beginning and read through what he’d written over the last several weeks. Though he’d created the words himself and reread them every night, he still searched and hoped for some deeper meaning, some clue he might have missed, some connection or direction.

Unfortunately, the mystery he’d set himself to solving had been too cunningly formed and was too fiercely protected. But he couldn’t let it go. It drove his very existence. It defined him. He’d never expected his life to take such a disturbing turn, but he was deep in it now, and the only way out was through.

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