Page 64 of Tender Blackguard

THE NEXT COUPLE OF days passed in a frustrating sort of stalemate.

Every morning, Lark delivered the lord’s tea and they spoke their usual words, but he didn’t look at her unless he had to. And then, it was with an expression as devoid of emotion as the first time they’d met.

But it was visions of how he’d looked while kneeling before her fire—tormented, sad, regretful—that kept her awake at night. Far more than the memories of how it felt to be loved by him for even those brief moments, though those heated memories also burned through her mind as she lay in the loneliness of her bed.

One night, she couldn’t take it anymore. After hours of sleeplessness, she rose from her bed and dressed in her dark boys’ clothing. She tucked her hair beneath the woolen cap and tossed an oversized coat over it all. Then she snuck out the servants’ entrance and crossed the garden to the mews.

She had no real destination. No purpose calling her out that night but her own intolerable restlessness and the need to think of anything but the marquess. She’d read and reread Harriet’s love letters a dozen times to no avail. There was nothing there to direct her. Nothing beyond the initials W.K. to work with, and that was too vague to lead her anywhere at all.

So, she wandered. With her hands in her pockets, her chin tucked to her chest, and her gaze directed mostly at her feet—a dangerous practice, she was well aware—she wandered the lanes and streets with which she’d forced herself to become familiar.

Until she looked up at one point and found herself in front of Dryden’s darkened mansion. As her focus rose to the narrow attic window that had once been Harriet’s, she felt a sorrowful tightening in her chest.

Where are you, Harriet? Where have you gone? I’d give anything to know you’re all right. To talk with you.

A painful knot formed in her stomach, and she swallowed hard to keep her sadness from rising in her throat.

But she couldn’t indulge in the sense of loss for long as the sound of carriage wheels approaching forced her to melt into the nearest shadow. By her estimation, it had to be near three o’clock in the morning. There were only a few reasons to be out at such an hour, and she had no desire to be caught off guard by one of the local gentlemen.

As the vehicle neared, she observed it to be a simple conveyance rather than a grand vehicle she’d expect to be driven by a man of wealth and prestige. It came almost even with her as it slowed and then stopped in front of the house next door to Lord Dryden’s.

Lark struggled to recall from her discussion with Gideon who resided at that address, but her memory came up blank. She didn’t think it was a lord or anyone of high status, though the house itself was fine enough. But she felt she would have recalled a reference to the owner from Warfield’s notes if he were relevant to his investigations.

With some of her fear subdued, curiosity rose to the fore, and she silently crept from her place to get a better look at who was currently disembarking. As she got closer, she could hear two voices in huddled discussion. One male and one female. They seemed to be intent on not being overheard, so she couldn’t make out their words. But the tenor and rhythm of the female’s voice sent an instant shock through her system.

Could it be possible?

Her steps became heavy and swift in her haste, and her breath shortened with dreadful hope. As soon as she came around the corner of the carriage, it was to see a man nearing middle age, dressed in a gray overcoat and bowler hat, who abruptly turned to face her more squarely as though to shield the woman behind him from whatever threat Lark might pose.

Ignoring the man completely, Lark continued forward, though at a slightly less desperate pace.

“Ho, there. Halt!” the man said in a stern, level voice as he raised the bag he was holding as a makeshift shield. “Come no closer, boy.”

But Lark could only peer around him, trying to find something that could confirm her wild suspicion. Some detail in the woman’s form or manner. But the man shielded her well.

Finally, she was forced to come to a hesitant, reluctant stop as Harriet’s name escaped on a helpless sigh.

As soon as the name slipped free, the brim of a bonnet popped up over the man’s shoulder as a gasp cut through the air. “Lark!”

And then Lark was breathing in Harriet’s familiar scent as the other woman launched herself forward to meet Lark in a fierce embrace. Relieved laughter tumbled from them both. She couldn’t believe it. After so many weeks of fear and worry and searching, she’d found her. Right here, on Curzon Street. In the middle of the night...

Lark had practically forgotten about the man witnessing their reunion until he roughly cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt, but it’d be best to take this inside, my dear.”

Harriet started and pulled away. Lark got only a brief impression of her dearest friend’s tear-stained face as Harriet turned back to her companion. “Of course. Let’s do that.” Then, she linked her arm securely through Lark’s as they followed the man up the steps and through the front door.

“To my office, please.”

Lark would’ve gone anywhere at that moment.

She settled beside Harriet on a modest settee while the gentleman went about closing the drapes before lighting a lamp, keeping the illumination to a dim glow. Despite her relief and disbelief, Lark acknowledged the thread of caution weaving between the couple and now herself.

There was danger about. A risk. A need for wary care.

“How is it possible you’re here?” Harriet breathed in whispered shock.

Lark looked into the familiar features that would always resemble to some degree those of the tiny girl-child who’d been so near to freezing and starvation. Yet she couldn’t deny the new air of maturity she sensed in the younger woman.

“I was about to ask the same. Where’ve you been? Your letter—”

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