Page 26 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

"I would prefer it," Thorne said. There was a beat of mutual recognition—two men accustomed to being underestimated.

"Well." Peregrine adjusted his gloves. "I shall leave you to the Romans. They are dreary company, but less likely to gossip than the Egyptologists.”

“We’ll see if we can fit the Egyptian exhibit into our visit,” I said.

“You won’t be disappointed.” He inclined his head before strolling away.

"A friend of yours?" Thorne asked.

"One of the best. And sharper than he lets on."

"I gathered as much." For a few moments, we considered the Roman antiquities, and then he asked, "So, how do you wish to proceed?"

"I will call on Lydia's landlady and search the rooms. And we must identify everyone who was at that Everthorne house party. Lydia did say that was the start." I stopped and gazed at him. “Do you recall who was in attendance?”

He let his gaze drift past me, somewhere beyond the gallery, as though casting back to a half-remembered time. “It was to be a shooting party, that much I recall. Several of William’s friends were there. Mainwaring for one. But the others? Sorry. Can’t remember their names.” He brushed a hand across his brow. “There were ladies there as well. Father was in a tear to find William a wife. The morning started out fine enough. But then the weather turned, and we returned to the house. That’s when I started drinking.”

“We have to find out who was there.”

“My grandmother kept meticulous records—guest lists, seating, correspondence. I can send for them.”

I hated to pin my hopes on a dowager’s journals alone. “What about Mainwaring? He resides in town. We should press him.”

He appeared relieved by my suggestion. “Leave it to me. Whatever happened that night, he’ll know at least a piece of it."

“Lydia was killed because she threatened to expose the truth,” I said. “Whoever is responsible will move to silence anyone asking questions. So please take care.”

He looked at me steadily. “That applies to you as well, Lady Larkspur. Are you certain you wish to be involved in this?"

“I’m already involved. Lydia Gray read her last poem in my drawing room. She was frightened, and I did nothing about it. The least I can do now is seek justice for her.”

Something shifted in his face—the faintest easing, as though a weight had been redistributed rather than removed.

"Then we begin. I will send for my grandmother's papers and track down Mainwaring. You call on the landlady. And if there is any trace of the notebook⁠—"

"If there is any trace, I will find it."

It was not a lie. Merely a deferral. I told myself there was a difference.

He drew a card from his waistcoat pocket and held it out. "My direction in town. If you learn anything—or find yourself in any difficulty—send word."

I took the card. Our fingers did not touch, but the space between them felt oddly charged, like the air before a storm.

"Thank you, Thorne.”

"Thank you, Lady Larkspur." He inclined his head and walked away, lightly leaning on his walking stick. The slight unevenness of his stride was just visible—a private cost, carried quietly, that most people would never notice.

I stood among the Romans for a time, turning his card over in my gloved hands, thinking about trust and its costs.

When I stepped outside, the March sunshine struck me with almost startling force after the cool gloom of the gallery. The contrast felt apt—the move from shadow into light, from the dark uncertainty surrounding Lydia's death into the slow, deliberate work of uncovering it. We had agreed to begin. I would decipher her notebook. And when I knew whether Thorne's concern was genuine or the most convincing performance I had ever witnessed, I would decide whether to trust him with everything.

Until then, the notebook would remain locked in my desk. Some truths could not be rushed. They had to be earned.

Chapter

Twelve

Miss Gray’s Lodgings