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Lark was happy to oblige, sharing information about the mute swans mating for life—“Quite like the puffins”—how they ate aquatic vegetation, and how predatorial they become during breeding season.
By the time they caught up with the others, the Shepherds were marveling at Lark’s knowledge and about the birds themselves, thanking Lark profusely for sharing the spot with them.
“It was my pleasure,” Lark assured them. “Bird observing is far better when shared with others.”
She, more than anyone, knew the truth in those words.
They joined the rest of the party, and Aunt and Uncle asked after Lark’s location until Mr. Branok spoke about the mallards nearby.
“I’ve a few of these in my collection,” Mr. Gibbon said, motioning to the ducks as they stood together in a half-circle, facing the water licking the shoreline.
“Collection?” the younger Mr. Kay asked.
“Indeed. I’ve a room dedicated to the several birds I’ve had stuffed. Unique ones, too. Parrots. Buzzards. Even flamingos.”
Lark hid her look of disgust. Taxidermy. She could never understand such a thing—especially done by those who claimed to love birds.
“You know,” Uncle Francis interrupted, “I went to an exotic animal shop once. Cutler’s Emporium of Curious Creatures. I went there to speak with…Well, never mind whom. I did, indeed, see the most curious of creatures, though, while there. All living, too. Iguanas, snakes, even a marmoset.”
“Mr. Branok,” Mr. Chumley said thoughtfully, ignoring Uncle’s words, “the owner of your club has a particular affinity for mounting, does he not?”
Mr. Branok’s jaw visibly stiffened. “He does.”
Lark watched him carefully. Just like before when his club had been mentioned, Mr. Branok grew silent, as if closing off to avoid any mention of it. She still had yet to decipher why, though—and more importantly, what sort of misfit he was to have joined such a club.
“Does he have a large collection?” Mr. Gibbon asked, intrigued.
“Yes. Quite a number of rare animals.”
“Marvelous,” Mr. Gibbon breathed. “I’d love to see.”
“You’ll have to get past Lord Blackstone first,” Mr. Chumley said with a chuckle.
“Blackstone?” Uncle Francis’s blurted question ended the conversation between the others. “As in…Blackstone’s?”
Lark stared, wondering at his sudden exclamation.
“Yes,” Mr. Chumley replied stiffly. “I believe that is what I said.”
The lines in Uncle’s forehead increased tenfold as he faced Mr. Branok. “You belong to said club?”
Mr. Branok shifted his footing. “I do.”
“For how many years?”
“Five, sir.”
Uncle didn’t respond. Lark stared between him and Mr. Branok, anxious to decipher what was occurring, but neither man would look at her—and now avoided each other.
The conversation shifted to the ducks once again as Mr. Gibbon asked a clarifying question about which was male and female, but Lark didn’t hear Mr. Branok’s response, for Uncle pulled Lark behind the group, shifting away to speak in a whisper.
“Did you know Mr. Branok belonged to Blackstone’s?” he asked.
Lark shrugged. “He has mentioned it a time or two to the other gentlemen, but I quite forgot until now. I believe Lord Blackstone funds his excursions.”
Uncle didn’t respond, merely looked away, deep in thought.
Lark had been tempted to ask him about the club long ago, but ever since she’d fallen into the nettle, she’d been determined to forget any thought or care about anything related to Mr. Branok.
