Page 3 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Indeed,” Merton said. “Letters, old books, particularly those presumed lost during key moments in history.”
“Any discoveries of late?”
Merton hesitated—just enough to make us all lean in—then smiled as if letting us in on a delicious secret. “As a matter of fact, yes. Though I hesitate to say too much just yet.”
“You can’t leave us hanging, sir,” Marlowe said, grinning. “We’re utterly captivated.”
“Well, then,” Merton said, eyes glinting, “but only among friends. I’ve recently acquired a manuscript—quite rare, possibly quite significant.”
“A manuscript?” Richard leaned forward.
“London. 1666,” Merton said, lowering his voice.
The effect was immediate. The room quieted, and even the candle flames seemed to still.
“The year of the Great Fire?” Emma whispered.
Merton nodded solemnly. “I believe this document contains an account not found in the known records.”
“What sort of account?” I asked, intrigued despite myself.
He smiled. “That, Lady Rutledge, is what I am in the process of verifying. But if I’m right, it may reveal truths long buried.”
Robert’s tone turned measured. “And does it mention anyone by name?”
“Ah,” Merton said, with maddening vagueness. “That is the very question, isn’t it? But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. More soon, I hope.”
A chill tickled down my spine—not cold exactly, but a curious, quiet knowing. There was something in his tone. Something in the way he spoke of the past like it still had power to strike.
But I refused to be concerned about something that might not come to pass. Not during our glorious dinner. “Shall we make our way to the drawing room? We can enjoy our dessert there, along with coffee and tea.”
Once we assembled there, the conversation drifted. Talk of the spring season. A new comedy on the West End. A scandal involving an heiress, a poet, and a mislaid engagement ring. But I couldn’t quite shake the feeling Merton’s words had stirred.
Before too long, our guests made their farewells, each offering effusive praise and warm gratitude for the lovely meal. As the door clicked shut behind the last departing guest, Robert lingered beside me, his gaze soft as it swept over the candlelit room.
“That was a splendid dinner,” he said quietly. “Everything was just right—the food, the company, the atmosphere. And you,Catherine…” He brushed a curl from my cheek. “You were the heart of it all.”
I tilted my head, eyes dancing. “Flattery will get you … anything you want, My Lord.”
His smile curved slow and warm. “Is that so?” He leaned down and kissed me—lightly, teasingly, a brush of lips that still managed to leave me breathless. When he pulled back, his thumb traced a small circle at my wrist.
“Splendid as the evening was, however, I sense you’re troubled,” his voice quiet but certain.
Not a surprise he’d correctly assessed my mood. He’d always been able to read me like a book.
“Merton’s manuscript. It unsettles me.”
His eyes met mine. “It unsettles me, too. There’s something about the way he phrased it.”
I nodded. “Would it be too inquisitive of me to find out more?”
A faint smile curved his lips. “Would it stop you if I said yes?”
“Not in the least,” I said, grinning.
“Then by all means,” he said. “Pay Mr. Merton a visit.”
Though I hadn’t yet named it aloud, a quiet certainty stirred within me. Whatever truths lay hidden in that manuscript, they weren’t merely historical. They were dangerous.
