Chapter Four
On the one hand, Lark reflected, it was good to go to the club, if only to leave his house. He felt like he’d become a hermit in the last year. Things felt more like the old days, less bleak, less submerged Lark’s own negative thoughts.
For months, he’d barely left his home. He was too devastated, too unfit for company, too unwilling to put on a happy face and pretend his heart wasn’t broken. When he did go out, he tended to make a fool of himself, as he had at the Rutherford ball.
The news that Anthony now had a son had not helped, but after the lecture from Fletcher, he was trying.
He was trying not to wallow in misery, to spend time with people so as to not be tempted to wallow, to begin reading gossip sheets and scandal pages again, to reengage with his life.
It was an enormous challenge, especially now that Anthony was a father and thus completely lost to Lark, but he knew he had to move on.
It was a few days since he’d last been at his club.
He’d refrained from invading his store of liquor, at least. He was tempted to drink himself into a stupor and then go to sleep early, because he hadn’t had occasion to leave the house in a few days and he was deep in his grief.
He missed Anthony terribly, but he was also becoming pathetic, and his self-loathing felt like he was digging a deeper hole.
He had to find a way to move on, for his own health and wellbeing, he just didn’t know how.
It wasn’t like Anthony was dead. Anthony was, apparently, alive and thriving. It was Lark who was home alone and losing his mind.
Johnson appeared at his study’s doorway.
“I’m not in to callers,” Lark said, glancing at his clock. It was mid-afternoon. Had he been in better spirits, he might have called for high tea. As it was, he was wearing old clothes and a dressing gown because he hadn’t bothered to dress for company that morning.
“The Duke of Swynford is here, my lord. He says it is quite urgent.”
Hugh pushed into the room. “You’re in to me, Lark,” he said. With a quick gesture, he dismissed the butler.
“Hugh, I cannot—”
“The Marchioness of Beresford is dead.”
Well, that certainly had Lark’s attention. “She’s…what?”
“She died, Lark. After childbirth, she caught some kind of infection and passed last night. It’s not common knowledge yet, but the news will hit the newspaper tomorrow and the funeral will likely be Saturday.
And I found all this out less than thirty minutes ago, so do not ask why I did not tell you sooner. ”
“Oh, god.”
“For what it’s worth, Anthony sent me a note. I imagine he sent it to me so that I would get word to you, so that you did not find out from the paper.”
“He succeeded.”
Lark had no idea what to do with this information. Anthony’s wife was dead. Of all things, that was among the last Lark had imagined. But there was nothing to be done about it. Lark was trying to move on with his life; he and Anthony were no longer friends.
He sighed. “Well, thank you, I guess.”
Hugh started at him, his hands on his hips. “You’ve been a right honorable bastard for months, Lark.”
“I know. And you are hardly the first to berate me for it.”
Hugh stood there for a moment, looking frustrated. He took a deep breath. “I came here because I thought you might want to act. I know his marriage devastated you, but can you pull yourself together and see that he might need you right now?”
“He does not want to see me.”
“I beg to differ. If he did not want to see you, he would have let you find out his wife is dead from the newspaper.”
Lark looked up and met Hugh’s gaze for the first time.
Hugh looked uncharacteristically disheveled.
Normally, the best valet money could buy made certain Hugh never left the house looking anything but impeccable—if a bit old-fashioned; Hugh was not a man who cared much for the latest modish trends, but right now, his hair was mussed and his cravat was askew.
“Is it raining outside?” Lark asked. “Your hair—”
“Did you not hear me?”
“Did you rush over here?”
“In fact I did. I received the note from Anthony and then immediately dressed to go out. I thought you should know as soon as I did. And yes, it is raining out. It is London, after all. When is it not raining?”
Anthony’s wife was dead. He’d wanted Lark to know before the rest of society did.
“Should I go to him?” Lark asked.
“I can’t answer that for you. It’s been less than a day. He may not be ready for visitors yet.”
Lark didn’t know anything about what might have been between Anthony and his wife, but he imagined that Anthony would still struggle with such an abrupt change.
A new baby and the death of his wife inside of a week was quite an emotional jolt.
Lark could picture Anthony struggling with everything and knew he needed help. Lark stood. “I will go.”
“All right. Do you want my help? Shall I come with you?”
“I have not seen Anthony in nearly a year. I believe this is something I must do on my own.”
“If you insist. But if you need anything, please call on me. Anything you need, Lark.”
Lark was touched. “Thank you, Hugh. Your haste is much appreciated.” He went to the hallway and called to his butler. “Ready my carriage, Johnson, if you please. And find my valet. I should like to make myself more presentable.”
“Yes, my lord.” Lark may have imagined it, but Johnson almost looked relieved.
* * *
From the outside, none would know anything out of the ordinary had happened inside Beresford’s London townhouse.
His official residence, that was. Beresford had once had several homes, one of which was reserved almost entirely for his assignations with Lark.
Lark had seen an advertisement for that house’s sale about eight months ago, and he’d mourned the home more than was rational.
But that was the past. The Beresford home, where Anthony had lived with his wife, was a four-story monstrosity that was far more ostentatious than it should have been, and Lark realized suddenly that he’d only been inside it a couple of times.
Because his relationship with Anthony was a well-guarded secret. It was never meant to be public. That was how a sodomite found himself at the end of a noose, after all.
Lark alighted from his carriage and ran to the front door hoping to dodge the rain. Beresford’s butler, Rollins, opened the door as Lark arrived, and Lark pushed his way inside.
Rollins was the butler from the home Lark had visited most frequently, someone Beresford trusted to be discreet. Seeing him was a bit of a relief, although the man looked deeply unhappy to see Lark.
“Beresford is not ready for visitors,” said Rollins with a heavy sigh, as if he were already resigned to this.
“Let me see him. Where is he?”
“The study, my lord. Second floor, on the left.”
Lark found Anthony in his study, sitting in a winged-back chair and sipping from a snifter of whiskey. His face was pale but red around his eyes, as if he’d been crying.
He was so deuced beautiful, even in this state.
It pained Lark to see Anthony without the customary smile on his face, the glint in his eye, but as for the rest of it, Anthony’s curly auburn hair had been trimmed but was still unfashionably long, his skin was still soft and pale, his body was still something that pulled at the baser parts of Lark.
Lark had not laid eyes on this man whom he’d loved so well in nearly a year, and yet he was still utterly besotted.
But now was not the time to think on that.
“Lark!” Anthony said, sitting up.
“Don’t bother with ceremony. Stay seated.”
“What are you—Hugh passed on the news.”
“Yes. We assumed that was your intention.”
Anthony looked miserable. He downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass, set the glass aside, and then wiped a hand over his face. “I won’t lie. It’s been a difficult week.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You aren’t, but all right.”
Lark had never seen Anthony look so sad. It was like all the light had been drained out of him. Lark walked closed and knelt beside the chair.
“I am! You are in mourning. Hugh thought you might need some support, so I came here to offer it.”
Anthony closed his eyes slowly and then opened them again and gazed at Lark. “So here you are.”
“Anything you need, Anthony. I will do everything in my power to give it to you.”
Anthony’s face crumbled. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“If you tell me to leave, I will.”
“No, stay.” There was something plaintive in Anthony’s tone.
“Do you need something? Shall I fetch a servant, or do you need tea, or—”
“Would you mind just…sitting with me for a bit.”
“All right.” Lark stood and moved over to the nearest chair. He perched on the edge.
Anthony was silent for a long time. Lark had never really dealt with grief such as what Anthony seemed to be experiencing.
His parents and sister were all still alive.
An acquaintance from Oxford had died at Waterloo, but Lark hadn’t known him well enough to feel more than a pang of regret when he’d gotten the news.
He felt ill-equipped to help Anthony and certainly had no idea what to say.
So he waited, as patiently as he could, for Anthony to speak.
“I did like her, you know,” Anthony said at last. “Matilda, I mean. Not in the way a husband normally comes to love his wife, but I did care for her, and we became friends of a sort. And to watch the life seep out of her body…”
Anthony stared unfocused at something on the floor, clearly in the throes of some sort of shock.
Of course something like this would be stunning.
Lark had never doubted he would find Anthony mourning, because that was his nature.
He wouldn’t have married someone he didn’t think he could get along with, so of course they’d forged a friendship, even if Anthony could not offer her his whole heart.