Page 78 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

I stepped down onto the pavement, my limbs aching with the weariness of too many hours spent sitting upright. Miriam followed, gathering her skirts, muttering something uncharitable about the railways under her breath.

The front door opened before we reached it. That was rather unusual. Doors at Everly House were opened only when one knocked, and not before.

More unusual still was the expression on Bexley's face. Our butler was not a man given to displays of emotion. I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen him unsettled. He looked positively grim.

A knot formed in my stomach as I stepped into the house. “Bexley?”

“Lady Larkspur.”

“What is it?”

His gaze flickered briefly toward Miriam. Then back to me. “Lord Westmere called this morning.”

Every muscle in my body tightened. The hall, the long-case clock, the looking-glass above the side table—all of it seemed to recede, until there was only Bexley standing before me and whatever he had not yet said.

“When?”

“Shortly after ten o'clock.”

A sick feeling spread through me. “What did he want?”

Bexley hesitated. The pause lasted only a second. It was enough.

"Where's Linnet?"

"His lordship took her, my lady.”

For a moment, I simply stared at him. The words made perfect sense, and that was the horror of them. There was no misunderstanding to take refuge in, no second meaning, no hope that the day's exhaustion had muddled plain English into something worse than it was. Edgar had done the thing he promised he would do.

My grip tightened on Miriam's arm until I felt the bone beneath her sleeve. She did not pull away. She did not say a word. She only moved closer, the way she had moved closer beside the iron gate in Kent, as though her nearness might keep the floor from opening beneath me.

"No."

“I'm afraid so, my lady.”

“No. It can't be.” The words came out sharper this time, edged with something I did not recognize in my own voice. “He cannot.”

Bexley said nothing. Because we both knew that he could.

That was the cruelty of it. Not a single act of villainy that might be undone, but the whole weight of the world arranged behind him. The law cared nothing for what a woman wanted, or feared, or knew to be true. A brother might do as he pleased with an unmarried sister, and the more respectable his manner of doing it, the less anyone would ask.

"Did he say where he was taking her?"

"He said nothing to me, my lady." Something worked briefly in Bexley’s face, which he swiftly mastered. "We were not permitted to interfere. I am more sorry than I can say." He drew a breath. "He left a letter for you. It's on the table in the morning room."

I was already moving. Past Bexley, past the hall, my bonnet still tied beneath my chin. Miriam followed close behind.

The letter lay exactly where Bexley had said. One sheet of folded paper. My name written across the front in Edgar's hand—that small, upright, merciless hand that had never in its life formed a tender word.

I broke the seal and read.

Lark,

Your continued refusal to acknowledge the realities of our sister's condition has left me with little choice but to intervene.

Linnet has today been placed under my supervision.

Arrangements have been made for her to be examined by a physician of suitable standing. Upon receipt of the necessary certifications, provisions for her future care will proceed accordingly.