Page 22 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Aye, Edmund Hollingsworth, at your service, madam. Newly come from the Levant.” He bowed, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Though I confess myself flattered to be recognized so swiftly.”
Heat rushed into my cheeks. “Forgive me. I thought ... I mistook you for someone else.
He arched a brow. “And yet, you knew my name.” His smile was quick, edged with curiosity. “Most in this palace scarce recall it, for I’ve been gone these three years.”
The words tangled on my tongue, but I bit them back.I saw your portrait,I thought wildly.Hanging in Hollingsworth House—in my own time.The pearl glinted now at his ear, the same lustrous drop I had seen framed in oil and gilt. It was impossible, yet here he stood, flesh and blood before me.
The words tangled on my tongue, but the truth slipped out in a rush. “I—I saw your portrait. The earring gave you away.”
His gaze lingered on me—steady, searching, as though trying to fit me into a puzzle he hadn’t quite assembled. But whatever passed behind his eyes, he masked it with ease. “Did it?” hemurmured. His fingers brushed the pearl that gleamed against his ear—a lustrous drop, the color of moonlight. “A trinket from the Indies, by way of the South Seas. Won off a Dutch prize, and not without risk.” He tilted his head slightly. “I must count myself fortunate, to be so memorable.”
My pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. The earring, the voice, the infuriating tilt of that smile—it was all so familiar. And yethewas not. Older. Weathered by sun and sea. A stranger, and yet not a stranger. I ought to have curtsied, murmured some graceful excuse, and fled. Instead, I stood there gaping like a half-witted milkmaid, my mind scrambling for sense while my feet refused to move.
Then—by some miracle—herescuedme. He offered his arm with the sort of polished gallantry that came naturally to men who wore swords as easily as smiles. “This chamber is rather thick with perfume, powder, and posturing knaves,” he said. “Might I suggest a turn about the gallery instead? I’d very much like to become better acquainted.”
For a moment, I hesitated. Every instinct screamed I should keep my distance—from his knowing smile, from this impossible resemblance, from whatever madness had placed me in a world I barely understood.
And yet … my hand rose of its own accord, settling lightly on his offered arm.
“Very well,” I said, schooling my voice to steadiness. “But only a short turn.”
A lie, of course. Nothing about this man—or this moment—would prove short.
He steered me away from the press of courtiers, guiding me down a quieter passage where the din of laughter and perfume-drenched boasts faded behind us. His stride was long, unhurried, as though the whole palace belonged to him.
The gallery lay just beyond a pair of carved doors left ajar, opening into a long, high-ceilinged room lined with portraits, tall windows, and shadowed alcoves. Mullioned panes filtered the spring light into slanted bars that striped the floor, catching the gilt edges of frames and the occasional glint of polished armor in a painted scene. Here, the air was cooler and the hush so complete it felt as though the very walls held their breath.
Only a pair of elderly gentlemen sat dozing on a velvet bench at the far end, their wigs askew, leaving the rest of the gallery blessedly empty.
He glanced down at me as we entered the hush of the gallery. “You speak my name with such familiarity,” he said, his voice pitched low, meant only for me. “And yet I find myself at a disadvantage—for yours, madam, I do not know.”
I drew a steadying breath. “Kathleen Halloran,” I said quietly, the name foreign on my tongue. “Widow of Sir Robert Halloran.”
His brows lifted. “Ah—Lady Halloran, then.” The title rolled easily from his tongue, smooth as aged brandy. But there was a glint beneath it, something sharper, more discerning. “Sir Robert, you say? A fine sailor. I never served under his command, but his name was known in every port and spoken with respect.”
The sudden warmth in my chest startled me. For all the falseness of this world. Whatever trick or dream or madness I’d stumbled into, Anne’s grief earlier, and now this man’s quiet reverence made Robert’s death feel real. Real enough to ache.
His smile softened. “And the widow of Sir Robert Halloran holds the Queen’s favor. That explains why every jackanapes in Whitehall is buzzing about you.”
A prickle ran across my skin. “I do not seek theirs.” The last thing I wished was to call attention to myself. I’d be perfectly happy disappearing into the wainscoting.
He lifted a hand, palm outward, forestalling my protest. “Do not be alarmed. When a queen singles out a lady, the whole palace takes note. It is nothing more mysterious than gossip doing its work. But fear not.” His voice dropped, low and steady. “Not every ear at Whitehall delights in mischief. Some of us would rather keep a confidence than trade it.”
His words steadied me, though unease lingered. Could I truly trust him? I had already betrayed myself once by blurting his name. If he pressed further, if he guessed too much, heaven help me.
“Mm.” He let me off the hook with a half-smile, as though filing the matter away for later. “A man could do worse than be called upon by such a wonderful lady, especially when she did it with such urgency.” He tilted his head. “Shall I take it, then, that you wish to be friends?”
The steadiness in his gaze disarmed me. Despite the foreign cut of his coat and the air of salt and distance about him, there was something in his manner that felt … familiar.
“Yes,” I said softly, surprised at how much I meant it. “Friends.”
He offered a small bow of acknowledgment, more sincere than courtly. “Then you may count on me, my lady. These halls are full of wolves in satin, and a lone dove makes easy prey. Better you have an old sailor at your side than none at all.”
I managed a laugh, faint but real, as tension unwound in my chest. For the first time since I had awakened in this bewildering century, I did not feel entirely alone.
I clutched his arm, my heart still pounding. He didn’t know me. Not the way the Hollingsworth of my own world did. And yet he played his part as though we shared an understanding, slipping into the ruse with the grace of a practiced actor.
“Lady Halloran.” Catherine’s steward appeared suddenly, a severe man in plain black, his eyes hard as flint. “Her Majesty requires your presence.”
