Page 45 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

“Do you want to live here?”

He shrugged and wiped his nose with a less-than-pristine hand.

A knock, and Dawson entered with a tray—several slices of bread, a small dish of butter, and a tall glass of milk. He set it on the same table he had left Croft’s and withdrew.

I nodded to it. “Help yourself.”

For a moment, Will held off; then hunger won out.

I let him eat in peace. It was the least he deserved. When he had finished, he said, “Thank ’ee.”

Somebody had taught him manners.

“Now, Will. You are ten years old—old enough to have a say in how you live, within reason. I shall ask your opinion on matters that concern you, and I shall expect you to give it honestly. In return, I shall be honest with you. That is the arrangement I propose. Do you accept it?”

He weighed it. He was a boy who weighed everything—a boy who had learned that words may be coin or weapon and had not yet decided which I was offering.

“Aye,” he said. “For now.” The little devil had given me back my own words.

“For now is enough. If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Croft again. Could you wait in the morning room?”

“Can I take the food?”

“Of course.”

“A couple of them sandwiches would go down a treat.”

“I shall have Dawson bring some.”

“Thank ’ee kindly, my lord.”

Will kept his shoulders square as he left the library and did not let himself look about the room. He had decided not to be impressed.

I admired him for it more than I cared to examine.

Chapter

Nineteen

North of the River

My next literary salon proved a subdued affair. Heavy rain kept many of my usual guests away, including Peregrine, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and several others whose absence left the afternoon quieter than usual. And throughout it all, Lydia Gray’s empty chair seemed impossible not to notice.

Then, as though London had abruptly wearied of gloom, the weather turned. The rain vanished. Pale spring sunlight broke through the clouds and spilled warmth across Bloomsbury.

A note from Thorne arrived later that same afternoon.

I declined to examine too closely whether my improved spirits owed more to the sunshine or to his handwriting.

Four lines, in the now-familiar hand:

There are several matters I would like to discuss with you. The notebook for one, as well as two others.

I have arranged a private parlor at the Anchor & Crown, Wapping, kept by a man I would trust with my life, as I have done.

Would two o’clock tomorrow suit?

Thorne