Page 10 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

“I believe sleep won,” I said, taking my seat. “It simply left me no rest in victory.”

“That sounds like a poet’s complaint. Miss Gray would approve.”

The mention of Lydia sent a flicker through me, though I kept my tone even. “She was to deliver her poem yesterday.”

Miriam folded her letter. “Then let us hope the editors possess the necessary courage to publish it.”

I reached for the teapot. The scent of oolong tea rose, steadying, familiar. My hands poured without spilling, though my thoughts felt less certain. “Do we have plans today?” I asked, grasping for ordinary matters.

“Mrs. Hartley is calling at eleven regarding the charitable sewing circle. And you promised Mrs. Wilmot you would review the subscription list for the lending library.” She paused. “Or we could postpone both if your mind is elsewhere.”

“No,” I said. “Work is often the cure for overthinking.”

A sudden burst of motion drew our attention.

Linnet entered the room with the unselfconscious brightness of someone who had not spent the night wrestling ghosts, holding an envelope aloft like a trophy. She came to my side and thrust the letter toward me. “Lord Charles,” she signed.

I took the note and broke the seal. The handwriting was bold, almost impatient.

“He requests the pleasure of your company for a drive in the Park this afternoon at three, should the weather prove agreeable,” I signed.

Miriam’s brows rose. “The young man wastes no time.”

Linnet clasped her hands. Hopeful for my approval, no doubt.

I turned to Miriam, the arbiter of propriety. “What do you think?”

Miriam regarded us both thoughtfully. “A drive in daylight, in Hyde Park, in an open carriage, is entirely proper. Provided a maid accompanies Linnet.”

Linnet made a face at the word maid.

“Non-negotiable,” Miriam said.

I handed back the letter. “You may go, Linnie. But take shawls. The wind near the Serpentine has teeth.”

She beamed and crossed to the sideboard, practically skipping along the way.

For a moment I let myself watch her as she returned with toast, poured herself a cup of tea. The ease of her movement, the lightness in her expression. Life continued.

Perhaps Lydia’s fears were exaggerated. Perhaps⁠—

My gaze fell upon the morning papers lying beside the silver pot. I reached for The Times. The notice was small. Easily overlooked among shipping reports and parliamentary proceedings.

WOMAN KILLED IN BLOOMSBURY STREET ACCIDENT

Miss Lydia Gray, aged 52, was struck by a horse-drawn carriage yesterday afternoon while crossing Gower Street. Witnesses report she stepped into the road suddenly. She died at the scene. Authorities have called the incident accidental.

The words blurred. The teacup slipped from my hand, its contents spilling across the table.

Linnet startled, half-rose. “Lark?” she signed.

I could not speak. I folded the paper once, sharply, as though the motion might contain what it held.

Linnet touched my sleeve, eyes wide.

“It is nothing you need concern yourself with,” I signed carefully as I spoke, forcing steadiness into my voice. “A sad notice only. Why don’t you see whether Cook has those seed cakes you like? And tell Bexley Lord Charles will call for you at three.”

She hesitated, searching my face.