Page 42 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

“Thank you for believing in me,” he answered.

We were so close I could smell the wool of his coat and his cologne—something clean and faintly bitter, cedar and a darker note I could not name.

The clock on the mantel ticked on, indifferent, and I was aware—acutely, foolishly—of every inch of the small distance between us, and of how little it would take to make it smaller. He was watching me with that stillness of his, one I could not read for what it held in check.

But whatever this was, it was not the thing we’d wanted to discuss.

“I best go,” Thorne said as he came to his feet. “You’ll let me know what you find, if anything.”

I came to my feet and nodded. “And you’ll do the same?”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “I will.”

For one suspended moment, neither of us moved.

Then he bowed his head and walked out.

I stood very still after the door closed behind him, his grandmother’s journal clasped tightly in my hands. This was dangerous territory. I had expected many complications when I began looking into Lydia Gray’s death. Scandal. Resistance. Powerful men with secrets to protect. But I had never anticipated this unsettling awareness of the man now entangled in the investigation beside me.

My life did not allow for such distractions. Such complications.

I would need to remember that.

Because Lydia was dead. And somewhere within the pages of his grandmother’s journal and Lydia’s notebook was the reason why.

Chapter

Eighteen

An Inheritance of a Different Kind

Croft’s letter had said only that he was bringing a matter to London that required my presence in person. I had assumed it was estate business of some weight that needed my consent.

I did not expect him to arrive before ten this evening. The journey from Yorkshire took the better part of a day even by express train. So I settled in the library to wait. A fire burned low in the grate, throwing a subdued amber light across the room. Rain whispered now and then against the windows. A book lay open in my hand, untouched this past hour, and a snifter of brandy stood at my elbow.

The mantel clock had only just struck ten when footsteps sounded in the hall.

A moment later Dawson opened the library door. “Mr. Croft has arrived, my lord. And—” he hesitated, which was unlike him “—he has a boy with him.”

“A boy?”

“Ten years of age, perhaps. From the estate.” Dawson’s face was composed in the blankness he reserved for matters he did not yet understand. “Mr. Croft asks whether he might speak with you privately first.”

“Of course. Show him in. The boy can wait in the morning room. And bring coffee and sandwiches. Croft will want feeding after such a journey.”

“Very good, my lord.”

I rose as Croft entered. He was a square, weathered man of fifty, dressed in the plain dark coat he had worn in every weather since I had known him in the Crimea. He carried his hat in one hand and a leather satchel in the other. The journey south had marked him about the eyes, but his bearing was as it always was: a sergeant’s bearing, attentive and unsurprised.

“My lord.”

“Croft. Sit down. Dawson is bringing refreshment.”

He did not sit. “If you’ll forgive me, my lord, I would prefer to deliver my report standing. It is short.”

I knew that tone. It belonged to the moments before a casualty list was read. “Very well. You’ll not mind my sitting.” The damp had gotten into my leg.

“No, of course not, my lord.”