Page 51 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

As I helped her climb inside, the fog softened the edges of her figure beneath the streetlamps. I forbade my thoughts from straying into dangerous territory. We were involved in a murder investigation. It would not do to think of Lark as an attractive woman.

Still, I allowed myself the pleasure of holding her gloved hand longer than necessary, my thumb resting once, briefly, against the inside of her wrist before I released her. "You'll send word of any developments."

"Of course. I shall expect the same from you."

Reluctantly, I released her and stepped back before closing the carriage door.

A moment later the hansom rattled away into the gathering dusk. I remained where I was, watching until it disappeared into the fog, my hand still faintly warm where hers had rested in it.

Only then did movement across the street catch my attention.

A man lingered near the mouth of an alley. Thin face. Dark coat. Narrow shoulders. His attention remained fixed on Lark's departing carriage with far too much intensity to be casual.

Every soft thing in me hardened at once, the old readiness returning to my limbs before conscious thought caught up with it. As I stepped off the curb toward him, he stiffened. Then he turned sharply and hurried away.

I swore under my breath and went after him, but my damn leg betrayed me almost immediately. Pain shot upward with every uneven stride, and I gritted my teeth against it, refusing to slow.

By the time I reached the alley mouth, the man had vanished into the fog. I stood there a long moment, breathing hard, my hand braced against the wet brick, and felt the evening's fragile peace go out of me like a tide withdrawing.

Chapter

Twenty-One

Ashes in Bloomsbury

Iwoke to shouting in the street and the violent ringing of bells. For one disoriented instant I thought I was dreaming. Then came the unmistakable smell of smoke, and I jerked upright in bed.

Another shout echoed outside. Male voices. Running feet. Somewhere in the distance, horses. The darkness beyond my curtains pulsed faintly orange.

A sharp knock sounded at my door. “Lark?” Miriam’s voice. “Are you awake?”

“I am now.” I tossed back the covers and rushed to the door. Miriam stood in the corridor wrapped in a dark wool dressing gown over her nightclothes, her silver hair escaping its pins beneath an aggressively practical bonnet she had evidently jammed onto her head in haste.

“There’s a fire somewhere in Bloomsbury,” she said. “Cook claims half the neighborhood is in the street.”

As though to confirm it, another bell began clanging somewhere beyond the square. Not church bells. Alarm bells.

Sounds reached us from above where the staff quarters were located. Doors opening. Footsteps. One of the maids hurried past us clutching a shawl around her shoulders.

“Which building?” I asked.

“I can’t tell.” Miriam glanced toward the stairwell. “But it’s near Hartwell Lane.”

Something cold moved through me.

Hartwell Lane.

I took the stairs to the drawing room on the first floor and pulled back the curtain.

Smoke drifted through the darkness in long grey ribbons. Farther down the square, an orange glow pulsed against the low clouds. Figures moved below—servants, gentlemen pulling on coats as they emerged into the street, women in wrappers and shawls.

London always seemed held together by routine and exhaustion. But fire stripped the city down to something older. Primitive. Fearful.

Another shout rose from below.

“More water!”

“Move aside there!”