Page 11 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

I smiled. It felt like porcelain—smooth and brittle. “Go on.”

She nodded and slipped from the room, though she glanced back once before the door closed behind her.

Only then did I draw breath.

Miriam reached across the table and took the paper from my hand. She read without comment, but the line of her mouth hardened.

“An accident,” she said at last.

“No.” The word came sharp as glass. “She was on her way to the periodical office. She was resolved. Clear-headed. She would not have wandered into the road like a distracted child.”

“People misjudge horses,” Miriam said gently.

“People do,” I agreed. “Lydia Gray did not.” The certainty in my voice startled even me.

Miriam studied my face. “What did she tell you yesterday?”

“That someone had begun asking questions about her past. That a man had taken an interest in her movements.” My throat tightened. “She gave me something to keep safe.”

Understanding dawned slowly in Miriam’s eyes. “You think she was pushed.”

“I think she was removed.”

The words lay between us, heavy and inevitable.

Miriam folded the newspaper with deliberate care. “Lark, if that is true, you stand very near to whatever frightened her.”

“I know.”

“And you mean to involve yourself.”

“I already am involved.”

She held my gaze a long moment. Then she said nothing further—which frightened me more than protest would have.

All that day the house felt subtly altered. The same footsteps moved through the corridors, the same doors opened and closed, yet an undercurrent ran beneath it all—the sense of being observed from somewhere just out of sight.

The notebook lay in the drawer of my desk. I did not open it. I did not need to. Its presence was enough.

At quarter to three, Bexley appeared at the morning room door. “Lord Charles, my lady.”

Of course he had come a few minutes before the hour promised.

I set down the letter I had not truly been reading and rose, smoothing my skirts before stepping into the hall. Lord Charles stood near the entrance table, hat in hand, speaking quietly with Bexley. He turned as I approached and bowed.

“Lady Larkspur.”

“Lord Charles. You are punctual.”

“I try never to keep a lady waiting.”

“I shall send for my sister. A maid will accompany her.”

He inclined his head, stepping aside as I gave the instruction.

Moments later Linnet descended the staircase, bonnet tied, gloves on, the maid following with shawl and reticule. My sister’s expression shone with anticipation, so open and unguarded that it caught at me unexpectedly.

I adjusted the ribbon at her bonnet, though it sat perfectly well. Something to do with my hands. “You will remain in the Park,” I signed.