Page 47 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

The room seemed quieter suddenly. Beyond the window came the distant rattle of cartwheels over wet stone.

"Did she say why?"

"No. Only that the atmosphere in the house changed afterward."

I looked again at the copied initials, though in truth I was watching him from beneath my lashes—the careful stillness he wore like armor, the way his thumb pressed once, hard, against the edge of the table before releasing. "Were you able to discover anything about Croome and Brookes?"

Thorne nodded once. "Croome was the second son of a baronet. He died in India in '51."

"Just as Mainwaring claimed."

"Yes." He paused, and something crossed his face. "Brookes is living in Edinburgh. I have not yet learned more than that, but my solicitors are making enquiries."

"Then Mainwaring was telling the truth. At least in part."

The coal shifted softly in the grate.

Thorne's expression altered then. Only slightly. A shift around the eyes, a stillness that had not been there a moment before. "There is more.”

A small knot tightened beneath my ribs.

"I received a reply this morning from my solicitor regarding the institution in Kent."

My fingers tightened around my teacup as Edgar's voice returned to me with dreadful clarity. A clergyman who spoke very highly of an institution in Kent. An institution where he wanted to put Linnet. My pulse rose so quickly I felt it in my throat, and I had to concentrate on keeping my hand steady around the porcelain.

Thorne must have noticed because his expression gentled immediately, some of that careful stillness breaking into open concern. "Lark⁠—"

"What sort of institution?" My voice came out flatter than I intended, the tone I used when I did not trust myself to sound otherwise.

"A private asylum. Though it presents itself as a charitable retreat for nervous ladies and women of delicate constitution."

Revulsion moved through me so swiftly I had to set the cup back into its saucer before I dropped it. The china rattled once against the wood. "It is revolting that women may simply be hidden away because they are troublesome to someone else."

For a few moments, he studied me, his gaze steady and unhurried in a way that made me feel entirely seen and slightly exposed both at once. "I sense this is personal for you."

I looked down at my hands while I considered denying it. My gloved fingers had curled into the fabric of my skirt without my noticing. But then I answered truthfully. "I have a sister. Linnet. She is eighteen years old. Deaf since birth. Loves to paint." My throat tightened unexpectedly, the words catching. "I had to fight my brother Edgar for custody of her. And now he wants to put her into an institution in Kent. Grimshaw's place, I think. She would never see the light of day again."

He placed his hand over mine and kept it there for a time before he slowly withdrew it—reluctantly, I thought, though I told myself I imagined the reluctance because it suited me to believe it. The warmth of his palm lingered after he had gone.

Down below, somewhere in the taproom, came the muted sound of laughter and the dull scrape of tankards against wood. Ordinary sounds. Comfortingly ordinary after the conversation we had just had.

"There is one additional matter I'd like to discuss with you," he said. "It's personal."

Chapter

Twenty

The Weight of Obligation

"Very well," Lark said, setting down her cup.

For the first time since entering the tavern, I found myself wishing I had ordered whiskey instead of tea.

I had rehearsed this half a dozen ways on the ride over, and every version had abandoned me the moment I saw her face. My hand found the edge of the table and gripped it—an old habit, the same one that steadied me before addressing men under fire. Ridiculous, that a conversation over bread and butter should require the same discipline as a battlefield. And yet here I was, marshaling myself.

"Yesterday, my estate manager arrived in London. He brought with him a boy of ten years of age. His name is William, though he goes by Will. His mother was a housemaid at Everthorne Manor. Sarah Hodge. She died of a fever a fortnight ago in a village near the estate, and her sister cannot keep the child."

The words felt strangely heavy once spoken aloud, as though naming the boy made him more real, more mine to fail or not fail.