Page 80 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

I scarcely noticed him leave. I sat frozen, with the letter still open in my lap, reading E. over and over, as if by staring at that single initial I might compel it to surrender more than it contained.

A voice sounded from the open sitting room door. Deep. Familiar. Threaded through with concern.

"Lark?"

I glanced up.

Thorne stood in the entrance, the lamplight catching the pale line of the scar along his jaw.

For one brief moment, relief hit me so hard it was almost painful—a clean, bright thing cutting through the dark. Then I remembered why I was sitting there, and the cold came back.

His expression changed in the space of a breath. He had taken one look at my face and read the whole of it. "What has happened?"

“Edgar has taken Linnet.”

Chapter

Thirty-One

A Way Through

She held out a letter, her hand unsteady, her face bloodless.

I read it once, quickly, then again, slower—as though a second pass might rearrange the words into something less damning. It did not. "He means to commit her to the asylum."

Lark only nodded. She was holding herself upright by will alone, and the will was failing her by degrees.

Her cousin was faring little better. I turned to her butler, who had followed me into the morning room. "Bring tea. And something stronger—whiskey, brandy, whatever's nearest. Something to eat as well."

Relief crossed his face—the relief of a man handed a task he could perform instead of standing helpless in the wreckage. "At once, my lord."

I turned to Lark’s cousin who seemed ready to collapse. “Mrs. Selwyn, please sit down. You've both had a shock." And then I crossed to Lark and took her hands in mine. They were like ice, the fingers stiff. "Here." I stripped off my coat and settled it about her shoulders, then folded her hands between my own and chafed them, coaxing the warmth back. She let me, without a word. That told me how far she had gone.

“He left you a letter. You weren't home when he came?”

"No. I—we—" she gestured toward her cousin "—we'd gone to Kent. To Elmwood House."

She had not waited, then. Not for my return from Edinburgh, nor for the report from my solicitors. She'd had a reason; Lark did nothing without one. "Why?"

"While you were away, Anne sent word that Edgar had set the thing in motion. The committal. He was only waiting for a convenient moment." Her breath caught. "And God help me, I handed him one by going to Kent.” Something broke behind her eyes. "I should have waited for you."

My heart bled for her. “He would have taken her regardless, Lark." At least I could offer her that small comfort.

Bexley returned with the tea, the spirit, and a plate of sandwiches. I poured for both women and added a measure of whiskey to each cup. By the time they had drunk and eaten a little, some color had crept back into Lark’s face.

"Thank you," Lark said, sounding steadier after the food and drink.

Mrs. Selwyn, however, had not regained her equilibrium as she remained quite pale. In the next instant, she set down her cup with shaking hands. "If you don't mind, Lark, I'll go up. It's been a long day."

"No—of course." Lark rose and embraced her. "Go and rest. Thank you for coming with me to Kent."

"Lord Everthorne." Mrs. Selwyn paused at the door. "I'll leave her in your capable hands."

I came to my feet and bowed. “Do not fret yourself, Mrs. Selwyn. I’ll take good care of her."

Once her cousin had left, I turned to Lark. “Tell me about Elmwood House.” It would give her mind something to hold that was not her sister.

She told it plainly. The high wall. The clergyman Grimshaw, who met them on the steps all kindness and lavender water. The cold physician, Strode, who asked more questions than she liked.