Page 21 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

The answer told me nothing. Yet something in the speed with which he dismissed the subject made me suspect it was not as unimportant as he wished me to believe.

"There is something else."

Mainwaring's expression tightened. "What now?"

"The Everthorne house party. You said you were there."

The wine glass stilled in his hand. "I attended, yes. Along with dozens of others. Why do you ask?"

"Because Miss Gray believed the truth about that night had never been properly told. And now she is dead." I leaned forward slightly. "I find myself wondering whether there is a connection."

"That is preposterous." But wariness had crept into his voice, and his fingers whitened around the stem of his glass. "Miss Gray was a servant. She would have known nothing beyond gossip and speculation."

"She was companion to the Dowager Marchioness," I corrected. "A position of considerable trust."

Mainwaring set down his glass with a sharp click. "Lady Larkspur, what exactly are you suggesting?"

"I am not suggesting anything. I am asking." I kept my voice calm, reasonable—the tone I had learned to wield like a blade sheathed in velvet. "Who else was at that party? Who was present the night that young woman was ruined?"

"This is ancient history⁠—"

"History that ended with a young woman's destruction."

His face paled. A muscle twitched along his jaw. "You are treading on dangerous ground."

"Am I? Then help me understand why. What happened that night, Mr. Mainwaring?"

He drew a breath. When he once again spoke, his voice had the clipped precision of a man choosing each word as though it might detonate. "What happened was that a foolish girl was found in a compromising position. The shame of it led to her withdrawal from society. There is nothing more to tell."

"But who was she found with? That detail has always been rather conveniently vague."

He stood abruptly. "I will not be interrogated in this manner⁠—"

"Were you close to the family?" I continued, unmoved.

He hesitated, then seemed to decide that refusing to answer would appear worse than compliance. "I was a friend of William's. The elder son and heir. We were at Oxford together."

"And what did you see that night?"

"Nothing." The word came too quickly. "I saw nothing. I came upon Emily after she had been—" He stopped, swallowed. "After it was over."

"Did she say who was responsible?"

"She was too distraught to speak coherently. By the following morning, her father had taken her away."

"What became of her?"

"She was married off. To some nobody in the country. Do not ask me for his name. I never knew it."

"And the current Marquis of Everthorne? Why was he named as her abuser?"

Mainwaring's gaze shifted—not to me, but to some middle distance, as though he were looking at something he would rather not see. "I cannot say. I left the following morning. A week later, he’d taken a commission."

“You know, don’t you? You know who attacked Emily.”

He moved toward the door with jerky, agitated steps. "You have no idea what you are meddling with, Lady Larkspur. Some doors are better left closed. Some questions are better left unasked. And some young women⁠—"

He stopped, as though a hand had closed around his throat.