Chapter Sixteen
Before Anthony’s marriage, it had been common for Lark and Anthony to drop by each other’s homes.
At the time, Anthony had owned several London residences and had set the most discreet aside for his romantic trysts, although he and Lark saw so much of each other, Anthony mostly lived there.
It felt instinctual to pop over to Anthony’s house on a whim, but times had changed.
Anthony’s more formal home—he’d sold the rest of his London properties recently; he’d told Lark he’d put the money into a fund for Henry—was widely known to be his home.
So Lark had to be more careful about his impromptu visits, and he had yet to spend a night here.
Anthony refused to be parted from his son overnight, so they hadn’t had time or opportunity for trysts.
A few stolen kisses made up their romantic relationship right now.
Lark didn’t know how to behave anymore. He thought to throw caution to the wind, but he didn’t know how well he trusted Anthony’s servants.
He left his home during regular calling hours.
He stopped to buy a newspaper and a scandal sheet and scanned both as he walked.
He cared little for the actual news—Sir Walter Scott had written a new novel and also found some ancient artifacts in Edinburgh Castle that were on display now; some old theater had been renovated and was reopening in South London; another of the king’s sons had succumbed to matrimony; it was all enough to put a man to sleep—but there were a few good items in the scandal sheets.
A certain Lord D— had been caught canoodling with Lady C— at the opera, while Lady C—’s husband was on the Continent for some kind of business opportunity.
Lord D— could have been anyone; Devonshire, Donegall, Derby, Lark wasn’t sure.
Next, Lord S— was having an affair with an actress, but that was referring to Swansea and Lark already knew about it.
Then there was a Miss R— who had jilted Lord M— at the altar, which Lark was surprised he hadn’t heard about yet.
It must have been a wedding with a limited guest list. Probably just as well.
Lord M— could have been Marlborough, whom Lark had seen around town chasing skirts all Season. Rumor had it he planned to marry soon.
Lark loved this kind of nonsense. It was a nice distraction from how fraught everything in his life felt lately.
Of course, Lark was just as high profile as any of these men.
Lark was a direct descendant of Edward III’s son John of Gaunt, and thus a descendant of William the Conqueror, and he was somewhere deep in the line of succession.
His father was the powerful Duke of Beaufort, a kind but strong-willed man whom Lark was fairly certain would outlive everyone.
Thus Lark had yet to inherit the title he knew would come to him and that he felt a certain amount of obligation toward, but he also had a younger brother who would happily give the title to his son.
It meant, though, that all of society knew who Lark was.
His family was prominent enough, and enough of his cousins were married to minor royals, that he could probably get away with more than he thought, that his money and his title could make a lot of accusations go away.
He just didn’t want the attention or risk.
He didn’t want to be made an example of. He didn’t want to be Charlie Ingle.
Society knew that Lark and Anthony were friends. It wouldn’t be odd for him to call on a friend.
He walked up the stoop of Anthony’s town house and rang the bell. The butler let him right in and murmured, “My lord is in the nursery.”
Lark took that to mean he should go up there. Lark had been here enough recently that he knew the staff and his way around his house, so he took a deep breath and ascended the stairs.
He found Anthony sitting in a rocking chair with his back to the door. He didn’t appear to hear Lark approach, despite the creak in one of the boards at the top of the stairs. Instead, he was rocking the baby and singing softly.
It would never cease to surprise Lark that Anthony had taken to fatherhood this way. A year ago, this man had wanted children even less than he wanted to get married. But now, here he was, singing to his infant son.
Lark took in the sight, since he had at least a moment before Anthony noticed he was there.
The problem with all of this was that Lark loved this man, and loving this man had changed the entire trajectory of his life.
Lark had pressured Anthony into getting married because he didn’t have the strength to commit to a marriage himself, not when he loved Anthony as much as he did.
It wasn’t a matter of his sexual proclivities; he was attracted to women as well and had always imagined he’d marry one. But he couldn’t do that now.
So what would he do instead? It wasn’t like he could move in here, or marry Anthony, or even let word of this affair leak out to the public. He supposed they could carry on in separate residences, and Anthony might be more willing to spend nights together when Henry was older.
Or they could go somewhere more discreet.
Anthony had an entailed estate in the countryside, in Kent, and it was far enough from civilization that no one would think it odd if Lark accompanied him, perhaps to assist with his business affairs—they were friends, after all—or even because a child could always use another father figure.
A kind uncle who taught him…manly things.
Lark wasn’t sure what those would be. How to ride a horse, perhaps. How to dance. How to treat a lady.
Was Lark actually contemplating leaving London so that he and Anthony could raise Henry together?
Well, Lark was clearly losing his mind. Enough woolgathering. He cleared his throat.
Anthony started and turned around.
“Lark. How long have you been standing there?”
“I don’t know. A few minutes. Long enough to hear you sing.”
Anthony used his legs to rotate the chair to face Lark. He remained seating and continued to rock the baby. “I’d be embarrassed, but you’ve heard me sing plenty.”
Lark walked into the room. “Indeed. At breakfast when the conversation lulls. In the bath. When you’re puttering around your house and think no one is listening. And, apparently, to your son.”
“He seems to like it. It calms him down when he…grows ornery.”
“Ornery?”
“Sometimes, he gets this fierce look on his face right before he lets out a yowl that will pierce your ears, and even when you make sure all of his needs are attended to, still he screams. It takes a lot to get him to calm down. I find rocking and singing helps.”
“An important discovery.” Anthony seemed to be alone. “Where is Mrs. Church?”
“She’s having dinner with her family. I gave her the afternoon off.”
“I’m amazed you have not hired a legion of staff to attend to the baby.”
“I gave that some thought, and I decided that, because he’s my family, I wanted to try to be as good a father as I could. My father wasn’t around much, but I want to be here for little Henry.”
“That’s admirable.”
“Admirable and stupid. You were not here a half hour ago. This little man has a good pair of lungs on him. I had no idea what to do. Mrs. Church should be able to take time off as needed, but I need another person here to help when she does.”
“Funny you should mention that.”
“Do you perhaps have a nanny in your pocket?”
“No, but I’ve been thinking.”
“That sounds dangerous. What have you been thinking?” Anthony rotated his neck. “Sorry, I’ve been sitting at a weird angle. I have a kink in my neck.”
“Get up,” Lark said. “Give me the baby.”
Anthony hesitated, but then he stood and handed Henry to Lark. Lark cradled the boy in his arms while Anthony stretched his shoulders.
Little Henry smelled a little like spoiled milk, but it was oddly pleasant.
His little body fit nicely in the crook of Lark’s arm.
He cracked open an eye as if to ascertain whether the new man in his immediate presence was friend or foe and seemed to decide on the former.
He closed his eye and seemed to fall back to sleep.
Lark’s heart ached with how darling this little child was, but he supposed he had missed the wailing.
“I had a thought,” Lark said.
“About the staff?”
“About us. Maybe when the Season is over, we should go somewhere…less crowded. As a sort of trial for whether us living in close proximity will lead us to bliss or murder.”
“Ah.” Anthony nodded. “I had been considering the same scheme. It’s odd, having spent less time among Society this season, I find I don’t miss it as much as I expected.
I love it, don’t get me wrong. I love the balls and parties and the ritual and all of it, but I find that I don’t need it the way I once did. Perhaps it’s a sign of aging.”
“In other words, the social whirl of London does not have the same anchor on you as it once did.”
“Correct. And perhaps the thing to do would be to take Henry and Mrs. Church and her family and hie off to the country for the summer and live as a married couple might. Did I ever drag you to my estate in Kent?”
“No, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”
“After my father died, I took everything out of the master’s chambers and bought entirely new furniture. There’s an adjacent chamber for the mistress of the house, and the decor there is a bit more feminine, more to Matilda’s taste, but we can alter it however you like.”
“Or I can just sleep in your bed.”
“You could. I don’t know where you will keep your trousseau, however. My dressing room is usually quite full.”
“Of course it is.”
Anthony smiled. “I imagine I could make room for a few pairs of trousers and your appallingly dull waistcoats.”
“Apologies for not festooning my body in whatever riotous colors are fashionable right now.”