Page 5 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

Linnet’s eyes widened as she followed the movement of his lips. Before I could assist, he lifted his hands and signed, a touch hesitant but unmistakable: “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Linnet’s whole face lit, her fingers flying in reply. “You sign!” she answered, the movement graceful as birds in flight.

“Only a little,” he admitted, smiling. “Enough to make myself understood, I hope.”

He continued speaking, careful to keep his face turned fully toward her. After a few sentences, however, his composure wavered beneath the constancy of her gaze.

“I beg your pardon,” he said quietly. “It is…unnerving, to be so entirely seen. One does not realize how often one looks away.”

Linnet’s expression softened at once. “It helps me understand,” she signed. “I read your lips as others listen to voices. It is my way.”

He held her gaze a moment longer, as though choosing not to retreat this time. “Then I am glad of it,” he said. “To be understood seems a rare privilege.”

Miriam, ever the chaperone, cleared her throat softly. “Lord Charles, I trust you find the exhibition agreeable?”

“Very much so,” he said, his gaze flicking from Miriam to me, then returning to Linnet. “Though I think the company improves it considerably.”

Linnet blushed—faintly, delightfully—and for the first time I saw her wholly unguarded, something she rarely did with strangers.

He fell into step beside us as we moved along the gallery’s central aisle. Miriam, satisfied by his civility, followed at a discreet distance.

The galleries were hushed and fragrant with oil and varnish. The air shimmered faintly with the heat of many lamps. Rows of gilt frames caught the morning light, while crimson draperies softened the echo of our footsteps.

Lord Charles paused before a landscape hung at eye level, the brushwork alive with sunlight breaking through clouds over a quiet river bend. “This one,” he said, gesturing lightly, “reminds me of my aunt’s estate in Somerset. She says she can feel the breeze in paintings such as these.”

Linnet studied the strokes of pale blue and silver. “It feels alive,” she signed. “I can almost see the water move.”

He watched her hands closely, reading each motion before replying, “You have a poet’s eye, Lady Linnet.”

Color rose in her cheeks, and she signed again, smaller this time. “I see what others miss.”

“That’s a rare gift.”

I pretended not to hear the warmth in his answering tone.

We moved on together, past portraits of grandees and allegories of virtue, until Linnet stopped before a smaller canvas near the end of the room—a study of a young woman reading by candlelight. The paint glowed softly, each brushstroke tender as a breath. The hush of the gallery seemed to deepen around us.

“She reminds me of you,” Lord Charles said quietly, addressing Linnet. “Serene, but listening to something beyond the world.”

Linnet met his gaze, understanding more than words could convey. Her fingers trembled slightly as she replied, “Perhaps she hears with her heart.”

For a long moment, none of us spoke. Even Miriam, usually so brisk, looked away to hide the emotion in her face. I found myself oddly moved—by Linnet’s serenity, by the earnest gentleness of this man who treated her difference as a wonder rather than a defect.

At length, Lord Charles drew a steadying breath. “Lady Larkspur,” he said, turning slightly toward me so Linnet could still see his lips, “might I have the honor of calling upon you and your sister? To continue our conversation—about art, of course.”

Linnet’s eyes brightened, though she kept her composure. I hesitated, my instinct warring between caution and gratitude. Too much attention from a handsome gentleman could set a young woman’s hopes dangerously high. Yet he had behaved with irreproachable courtesy.

I smiled politely. “We hold a small literary salon every Tuesday at two o’clock at my home. It is an informal gathering—readings, discussion, a bit of tea, and conversation. If you care to attend, you would be most welcome.”

He inclined his head, clearly understanding more than I said. “That would be a privilege. I should be glad to hear Miss Linnet’s opinions again.”

Linnet signed with quiet humor, “He means see, not hear.”

He laughed, unoffended. “Then I shall look forward to seeing you both.”

He accompanied us as far as the entrance hall, pausing near the marble vestibule where sunlight poured through the high windows. A group of ladies passed, casting appraising glances our way, whispering behind their fans. I could almost feel the shift in the air—the small, perilous thrill of notice that follows a handsome man in society.

Lord Charles appeared not to see them. “I often visit the Institution on quiet mornings,” he said conversationally. “If there is another exhibition you and your sister wish to see, Lady Larkspur, I should be happy to act as your guide.”