Page 4 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

“It never is with you.”

He swept out, leaving a wake of barely suppressed fury. The moment the door closed, I sank back into my chair, suddenly exhausted.

“Well,” Miriam said briskly, “that was invigorating. Anyone care for more tea?”

I looked at Linnet, who had been watching me with wide, anxious eyes. I reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand.

“You are safe here,” I signed with my free hand. “Always.”

She nodded, but her fear lingered beneath her brave face. Edgar’s threats were not idle. He wanted her locked away where she could not embarrass him, where she wouldn’t exist as evidence that the Everly bloodline was anything less than perfect.

Over my dead body.

I forced a smile and brushed my thumb over her knuckles. “Enough of him,” I signed. “Tomorrow, we shall have an outing—just the three of us. The British Institution has a new exhibition of paintings. You will like it, I think.”

Her eyes brightened, the worry easing from her face. She released a breath of laughter and signed back, “A treat?”

“A treat,” I confirmed, feeling the knot in my chest loosen. A day for beauty—and for forgetting men like Edgar existed.

Chapter

Three

Portraits in Light

The following morning dawned clear and mild, London’s air washed clean by a night of soft rain. By the time our carriage drew up before the British Institution, the sun had broken through the clouds, gilding the columns and sending pale reflections dancing across the puddles.

Linnet pressed her gloved hands to the window, her eyes alight with anticipation. Miriam, seated opposite, adjusted her bonnet ribbons. “It is just as well we came early,” she remarked. “By noon, the rooms will be insufferably crowded.”

We descended from the carriage to find the street alive with the clatter of hooves, the calls of flower sellers, and the bright scatter of parasols—the restless energy of Pall Mall written in color and motion.

Inside the Institution, a uniformed attendant accepted our cards with a bow and gestured toward the central hall. A dozen or so fashionable visitors were already there, murmuring in appreciation before canvases of kings, soldiers, and pastoral scenes.

Linnet moved slowly at first, her gaze darting from painting to painting. Then, as color and shape drew her in, she forgot herself entirely. She studied each work as if it might speak—tilting her head, reading expressions, tracing invisible lines in the air with one gloved fingertip. I watched her, smiling, until Miriam touched my arm.

“She looks so happy,” Miriam whispered. “You’ve done right to bring her.”

Before I could reply, movement across the room caught my attention. A gentleman stood a short distance away, his focus not on the art but on Linnet. He was tall and well-made, his coat of sober blue fitting him with effortless precision. There was nothing of idle curiosity in his expression—only quiet fascination, as though he were observing a rare harmony few others could perceive.

When Linnet turned toward a portrait of a young woman, the gentleman stepped nearer, keeping a respectful distance. I followed, wary yet intrigued.

Leaning close, Miriam whispered, “Do you know him?”

“I do not.”

As we approached, the gentleman glanced up and bowed.

“Forgive me,” he said in a low, even voice, careful to keep his face turned toward Linnet. “But I believe I have seen the young lady before. At Braidwood’s Academy, perhaps?”

Startled, I shook my head. “My sister attended there some years ago. You are acquainted with the school?”

“My aunt, Lady Caroline Merriton, is one of its benefactresses,” he replied, bowing. “I am Lord Charles Merriton.”

Understanding dawned at once. I dipped into a small curtsy.

“Lady Larkspur Everly,” I said, indicating myself. Then, turning slightly, “My sister, Lady Linnet Everly. And this is Mrs. Selwyn, who has the thankless task of keeping us in order.”

Miriam inclined her head with dignified amusement.