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 hiswifeisdeadfrom 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.”
