Page 37 of A Murder on London Bridge
I drew out Margaret’s journal and laid it on the table. “Here. Written in her own hand. She wrote of seeing Asquith’s ledger—initials, dates, words spoken. He kept track of it all for them. She thought it her fortune once she carried the knowledge to the Queen. Instead, it became her death.”
Hollingsworth bent over the page, his brow furrowing as he traced the lines. “Ambitious, foolish girl. Yet not mistaken.” He straightened, meeting my eyes. “This is why Margaret was silenced. She knew too much.” He gazed at me for a long time before speaking again. “Tonight at the tavern. They also spoke of you, Lady Halloran. You have now taken her place in their suspicions. If they realize you know about this book?—”
“I may meet the same fate as Margaret.” The words broke from me before I could temper them. “We must find that ledger. It is the proof we need. Without it, Margaret is but a dead girl at the stairs, and Asquith, Parquier, and the other conspirators will still be free to weave treason.”
He caught my wrist—not roughly but with force enough to stop me. “You will be cautious. Swear it. Promise me.”
The warmth of his hand burned through the thin fabric of my sleeve. For an instant, I saw in his face not only warning butsomething unspoken—fear for me, yes, but also something more than that.
“I will be careful,” I said even as my pulse quickened. “But I cannot be idle.”
He released me, though his eyes lingered. “Then we will tread this dangerous road together. They have killed once. They will kill again.”
I closed Margaret’s journal with a snap, as if to bind the resolve within me, and handed it to him. “Then we had best move swiftly. They might hide their book. We need to find it before they do.”
Hollingsworth inclined his head, half in respect, half in resignation, while he slipped the journal into his leather satchel. “We’ll speak again tomorrow at the cloistered walk after we break our fast. Until then, bar your door. Trust no one but Anne.”
“I shall.”
A small grin rolled over his lips as he eased the door open. But as he slipped into the passage, a sudden burst of male voices rang out—courtiers returning late from the banquet, their laughter loud, their boots striking stone.
Hollingsworth froze. For the briefest instant, his eyes darted to my door, then to me, calculation flashing. Before I could so much as draw breath, he caught me by the wrist, spun me lightly against the doorframe, and pressed his mouth to mine.
The kiss was firm, practiced, calculated to hold attention—yet something in it set my pulse racing all the same. I felt the heat of his hand at the small of my back, the strength in his shoulders, the warmth of breath between us. The courtiers passed, chuckling, one calling some coarse jest about lovers at midnight.
When their voices faded, Hollingsworth eased back, his lips curving faintly, though his eyes still burned with urgency.
I pressed my fingers to my mouth, breath unsteady. “I am a married woman,” I whispered fiercely.
“In your time,” he murmured, voice low and rough with something that might have been laughter, or regret.
“In every time,” I returned, though the words caught in my throat. I managed a shaky smile. “Although I must admit, you are a rather splendid kisser. The woman who wins your hand will be most fortunate indeed.”
He chuckled softly, a sound half amusement, half resignation, then swept a bow with all the polish of a cavalier. Turning, he strode down the corridor, his cloak whispering against the stone, leaving me pressed against the door with my heart racing and a thousand dangerous thoughts tumbling through my mind.
CHAPTER 20
AN AUDIENCE WITH THE KING
Morning came pale and thin, a veil drawn over a restless night. The chapel bell had barely ceased its summons to morning prayers when I entered the cloistered walk, my breath clouding in the cool air.
Hollingsworth stood in the shadow of an arch, his face drawn, as though sleep had abandoned him. “Good morrow, Lady Halloran. I trust you have broken your fast.”
“I have indeed. How fare you?” The shadows beneath his eyes betrayed him.
“I’ve known nights of better sleep,” he admitted, voice low. Then his gaze hardened, a flicker of steel at last breaking through. “But my decision is made. Asquith’s rooms must be searched, and I’ll be the one to do it.”
Much as I wanted to join him, that would not do. He would worry about my presence when he’d need to focus on the search alone. “How soon?”
“Tonight,” he answered.
“Not earlier?” The matter was rather urgent.
He shook his head. “He comes and goes from his chambers while the sun shines in the sky. But he will be at supper with a naval friend. I’ve arranged for a key to his rooms and a candle that won’t betray its smoke.” A flicker of wryness touched his mouth. “If Providence favors fools and busybodies, perhaps She will favor me tonight.”
I thought of the journal now in Hollingsworth’s keeping, of the assignation note that had led Lady Margaret to her death, and of Merton’s manuscript in my own time, which was no manuscript at all but a ledger of treason. “Be careful.”
“That is the one thing I cannot be,” he said. The moment came to an abrupt end when the Queen’s steward appeared out of nowhere like a shadow that had learned to speak.
