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Lord Blackstone sounded a bit too fastidious in Lark’s humble opinion, but she brushed the thought aside in a moment. She didn’t care one lick about this Lord Blackstone or Mr. Branok’s expeditions or Mr. Chumley’s begging.

She only cared about seeing these redstarts.

Seated behind her own section of the wall, she’d discovered a perfect view of the nest through a gap in the stones that allowed her to sit in the grass, instead of kneeling or hunching over like the others.

She would have told the rest of the party about her findings—shared in her wealth, so to speak—but the others had all moved farther east to avoid the patch of nettles to her left. However, the devilish plants were far enough away for her to sit comfortably without any concern about touching the angry, pointed florae, so she remained still, silent, and content.

Until Mr. Chumley’s voice projected toward her again. “Why the stipulation?” he asked loud enough for even Mr. Dunn to turn around with a look of disapproval.

Lark couldn’t blame Mr. Chumley’s stupidity for speaking. He clearly knew very little about bird observation. But Mr. Branok was a skilled bird observer. He knew better than to disrupt silence with conversation.

“I believe it has to do with the lack of focus husbands are prone to have,” Mr. Branok responded in a softer whisper. “How they long for the comfort of their wives.”

Mr. Chumley huffed out a laugh. “If the man knew my level of desperation to escape my wife for a few months, he would not hesitate to include me as his most focused expedition member.”

Lark scowled. The man certainly had a lot of nerve to speak such things about his wife who was just out of earshot.

Her eyes rebelliously wandered toward the gentlemen who were hunched down in the grass, Mr. Chumley’s focus on Mr. Branok, and Mr. Branok’s eyes on the nest.

That is, until they connected with hers. Instead of pulling her gaze away at once, however, Lark locked onto him, hoping to share her disapproval—with their speaking and their topic of conversation.

Before long, Mr. Branok looked away with a lowered gaze, and she pulled her attention to the nest with satisfaction. She wouldn’t waste a single moment longer on the men. Neither of them was worth her time.

She peered through the gap in the wall. The moss and grey feathers the birds had been gathering all week had been fashioned into a proper nest with sturdy walls in a clear bowl shape, though the lingering remains of the bottom of the nest poured out over the stone wall like a petrified waterfall.

How could a bird with only a beak and claws create such a thing? It was quite impressive, really. Almost⁠—

“Lord Blackstone,” Mr. Chumley said, interrupting her thoughts once more. “Where have I heard that name?”

Mr. Branok didn’t respond. Had Lark’s look hushed him for good?

“He wouldn’t be the viscount who started the Blackstone’s Club in London, would he?” Mr. Chumley asked. “I do not know much about clubs, but I’ve heard it is one for misfits.”

He gave a humored laugh, but silence followed.

Lark did everything she could to keep her eyes from Mr. Branok, but she could no longer help herself after his continued silence. Stealing a quick glance at him, she noticed the look of discomfort rushing across his features.

“Yes, that is the very one,” he replied.

Mr. Chumley paused. “You are a member?”

“I am. Though, I’ve never put much stock into gentlemen’s clubs.”

Mr. Chumley cleared his throat. “Oh, yes. Certainly. Nor I. Although if it allows me to go on an expedition…” He ended with a light chuckle, and Mr. Branok smiled tightly in response.

Lark narrowed her eyes. Why did he appear to close off when Lord Blackstone was mentioned? Did he take issue with the man?

Before she could presume an answer, Mr. Branok’s eyes fell on her again, but this time, she looked away first.

Redstarts. Focus on the redstarts.

And yet, between Mr. Dunn’s shining head, Mr. Chumley’s continuous, oblivious words, and Mr. Branok’s strange reaction to Lord Blackstone, Lark had no chance of focusing.

She tried to tamp down her curiosity, but the questions continued to assail her absent mind. Why did Lord Blackstone only allow misfits to join his club? And more importantly, how on earth did Mr. Branok fit into that category?

Perhaps she could ask Uncle Francis. He, himself, was a part of White’s—or was it Beetle’s? Boodle’s? Well, whatever it was, he prided himself on being a member of a gentlemen’s club and would no doubt have heard of Blackstone’s.

Then again, why did she care anyway if Mr. Branok was a part of it or not? The short answer was that she did not care. Or rather, she was trying hard not to.