Page 17 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

“Or guilt,” she said. “Be careful, Lark.”

The other mourners began to disperse, moving in ones and twos along the gravel paths. I should have followed. Instead, I found myself walking toward the grave. Toward him.

I watched him register my approach, watched the brief calculation in his eyes—whether to stay or retreat. He stayed.

“Lady Larkspur.” His voice was low, measured, with a roughness beneath it that suggested words did not come easily to him—or at least not the polite kind.

“You know my name,” I said. “You have the advantage of me, my lord.”

It was not entirely true. I knew his name, his title, and his reputation. But I wanted to hear how he introduced himself—what he chose to reveal.

“Julian Ashcombe.” He did not use the title.

“You paid for the funeral. The undertaker informed me when I tried to arrange it as well.”

“Miss Gray served my grandmother for several years. I thought she deserved better than a pauper’s grave and a verdict that amounted to a shrug.”

The bluntness of it startled me. No pleasantries, no social varnish. He spoke the way soldiers speak—stripped of ornament, aimed at the truth.

“We agree on that point,” I said carefully. “The verdict was a disgrace.”

“The verdict was a convenience.” His jaw tightened. “Misadventure. A word designed to close doors rather than open them.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The wind stirred the branches overhead, sending a scatter of fallen leaves across the fresh earth. Below us, the gravediggers waited at a respectful distance, leaning on their shovels.

“You believe it was deliberate,” I said. Not a question.

His eyes met mine—steady and utterly without pretense. “A black carriage with no markings, driving at speed through a street she walked every day, that did not stop. Yes, Lady Larkspur. I believe it was deliberate.”

I had thought the same. Hearing it spoken aloud, by a man who clearly knew more than he was saying, made the ground feel less steady beneath my feet.

“Why your interest in Lydia’s death?” When I didn’t answer immediately, he continued. “I saw you at the inquest. You asked questions the coroner did not ask.”

The bluntness of his question surprised me. But then, I supposed that was the point. He sought to elicit an honest answer from me.

"She was my friend," I said carefully. "She came to see me the morning she died. She’d written a poem. I didn't see it, but I believe it would have exposed a rot in public institutions and named the men responsible. She planned to deliver it to a literary magazine that very day."

I watched him as I spoke, looking for the flinch, the flicker of guilt, any sign that his concern for Lydia Gray was performance rather than conviction. I saw none. But I had known charming liars before.

He studied me for a long moment—not with the appraising eye of a man intent on seduction, but with the careful scrutiny of someone deciding whether to trust.

“Perhaps we should compare what we know,” he finally said.

The words hung between us. An offer. An alliance. From a man called the Devil of Everthorne, in a cemetery, over the grave of a woman who had died for telling the truth.

“Not here,” he said. “And not at your home. Your literary salon is already linked with controversy. My presence would make it worse.”

“You are remarkably well informed,” I said, my voice cooler than I intended.

“I make it my business to understand the terrain before I enter it.” He held my gaze without apology. “I am not your enemy, Lady Larkspur. But I may be the most dangerous ally you’ve ever had.”

Before I could respond, a movement at the edge of my vision made me turn. A man stood some thirty yards away, half-obscured by a stone angel’s outstretched wing. He was not mourning. He was watching.

I knew him at once—the unfamiliar gentleman from my salon. The one who had scoffed at Lydia’s poem. The one Linnet had drawn in her sketchbook, watching Miss Gray with cold-blooded calculation.

He was watching us now with the same flat, assessing stare.

“Do you see him?” I said quietly.