Page 85 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

A reluctant breath escaped me that was not quite a laugh. "Very well."

"You, meanwhile, have a task of your own, and it is the most important of the lot."

I knew what he would suggest before he said a word. "Anne."

He nodded.

"I want her to find out where Westmere has taken Linnet. He will not have told her—he thinks her ornamental—but a wife hears a great deal a husband never means her to hear. A direction let slip to a coachman. A name on a letter left out on a desk. If anyone alive can learn where that carriage went this morning, it is the woman who pours his coffee."

The room fell quiet.

For the first time since Bexley had opened the door and Thorne had stepped inside, something inside me eased. Not peace. Nothing so complete as that. But direction.

"I will talk to Anne, and you will direct your manservant to look for the ginger-haired man."

"I will visit my solicitors as well and set matters in motion." He reached for my hands and closed them between his own. "Take heart, Lark. We will prevail."

I wanted to believe him. And for the first time since Linnet had been taken, I found that I did.

For today, that would have to be enough.

Chapter

Thirty-Three

A Name and a Face

Islept poorly.

Not because of my leg, though it complained with its customary enthusiasm the moment I attempted to stand the following morning. No. It was my thoughts that had kept the watch. They spent the whole of the night chasing the same circles they had chased since I left Lark's house, and they were no nearer the center by dawn than they had been at midnight.

Linnet. The ginger-haired man. Kent. Miss Preston's statement. Each one a separate thread, and yet every thread now appeared knotted to every other.

By half past eight, I had given up the pretense of further rest and gone down. Breakfast had been set out in the morning room, as it always was: eggs, deviled kidneys, bacon, sausages, and fried potatoes steaming under the covers of the chafing dishes, toast and butter and marmalade ranged along the table. Considerably more than one man intended to eat, and a good deal more than one man should. After taking his morning constitutional, Ajax stationed himself by the hearth with the patience of a creature who knew some of the fare would find its way to the floor.

I had only just taken my seat and poured a cup of coffee when Dawson appeared in the doorway.

"Good morning, my lord."

"Good morning." I drank. The coffee was hot and strong and the first thing all morning that had behaved as I wished it to. "I have a task for you."

His expression sharpened at once. "I will be glad to do it, my lord.”

"We are looking for a man." That got the whole of his attention. "Description?"

"Ginger hair. A scar down the left cheek. Broken nose."

"Occupation?"

"General villainy."

"Ah." He inclined his head with grave respect. "A specialist."

“One might say so. He runs errands for other villains. I need you to find him." I set down my cup. “A witness—Miss Preston—saw him push Lydia Gray into the path of the carriage that killed her.”

Dawson became dead serious. “A villain indeed, my lord.”

I pushed my notebook across the table. “I talked to her yesterday. Her account is there, near enough word for word. He frequents Bloomsbury—public houses, lodging houses, whatever corners men of his sort inhabit. I want his name. His associates. And where he sleeps."