Page 7 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Am I wrong in assuming this visit isn’t solely about a gift for Lord Rutledge?”
I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “Oh?” He had struck true, of course, but I wasn’t about to give the whole game away.
His smile deepened. “At your supper, I mentioned something rather … incendiary.”
“You caught me out,” I admitted with a soft laugh. “How clever of you. I confess, I haven’t stopped thinking of it since. Curiosity has always been one of my besetting sins.” I let the admission hang for a moment, then added more softly, “Won’t you tell me more?”
He glanced about the alcove, as though the tapestry itself might carry tales to untrustworthy ears, and lowered his voice. “It’s an account from the seventeenth century. Private, unsigned, but authenticated. It describes a series of meetings held just days before the Great Fire. A gathering of men—some of them high-ranking—discussing how best to manage a … political inconvenience.”
My brow rose. “What sort of inconvenience?”
“The Queen,” he said, voice low. “Catherine of Braganza.”
I drew in a sharp breath. Catherine. The name was more than history to me; it was memory. My governess had spoken of her during my lessons, weaving tales of the lonely Portuguese princess who had crossed the sea to marry a king, only to find herself mistrusted by his people. I could still recall sitting at the schoolroom window as a child, chin propped on my hand, listening wide-eyed while Miss Whitcombe described how Londoners had blamed their queen for plague and fire, howpamphleteers painted her as a foreign witch when she was guilty of nothing more than her faith and her birth.
Those stories had sparked my imagination, filling my mind with images of a brave young woman trapped in a court of vipers, her every glance misread, her every word twisted. I had felt for her then with a child’s fervent sympathy, and now—hearing Merton’s words—I felt it all over again.
To think that men of power had truly conspired against her, men who had bowed in her presence while plotting her downfall, sent a chill racing down my spine.
“It suggests that a plot was in motion,” he went on, “something meant to remove her or damage her influence at court. It speaks of a scandal. A betrayal. And it includes a name.” He paused, savoring the moment. “An ancestor of someone quite powerful today. A Cabinet minister, in fact.”
To imagine that such treachery might still cast its shadow across a family name in 1925 was almost too much to fathom. I folded my arms tightly across my chest, more to steady myself than from doubt. “You are certain?”
“I am. I have verified the name through records. If this becomes public knowledge and tied to treason, it could discredit the entire family line.”
A gleam lit his eyes—not fear, but relish. He looked positively enlivened by the thought, as though he had stumbled upon a delightful puzzle rather than a weapon capable of shattering lives.
“Mr. Merton, forgive me for saying so,” I said slowly, “but you sound almost gleeful at the prospect of someone’s ruin.”
He chuckled softly, utterly untroubled. “History is rarely polite, Lady Rutledge. It favors those who seize it. A well-timed revelation can ruin dynasties or elevate commoners. It has always been so.”
A cold unease tightened in my chest. He meant to wield this discovery—not guard it. Did he not see that secrets of such magnitude would not remain tidy within his shop, wrapped up like one of his rare books? That powerful men would go to any lengths—any lengths—to silence him?
“What do you intend to do with it?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
He gave a slow, pleased smile, the smile of a man who believes himself the master of a dangerous game. “Hold a private auction. A gathering of collectors. Let the highest bidder decide what becomes of it.”
My pulse flickered uneasily. He meant to profit from it. And in doing so, he would become the agent of another man’s destruction, heedless of the danger to himself. “You cannot be serious.”
“Entirely.”
“This is dangerous, Merton. You have stumbled across something much larger than provenance and paper. If this falls into the wrong hands?—”
“It fell into mine,” he said calmly. “And I intend to be very careful with it.”
“Lock. It. Up.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice to match his. “I mean it. Whatever this is, it does not want to stay buried. And someone—possibly more than one someone—may go to great lengths to keep it hidden. They will not stop at ruining reputations. They will come for you.”
He gave a small, indulgent nod, as though humoring a nervous child. “I appreciate your concern. But I know exactly what I am doing.”
I was not so sure. I had seen what people were willing to do for far less than a manuscript that could topple a minister. As I stepped back into the street a few minutes later, the spring wind tugging at my coat and the city’s noise rising around me, I couldnot rid myself of the conviction that Mr. Merton had just placed himself in terrible peril. And he would pay for his hubris with his life.
CHAPTER 4
A TRAGIC DEATH
Saturday mornings at our Eaton Square home had become my favorite ritual. No pressing engagements. No society obligations. Just strong coffee, a warm fire, and the comfort of Robert quietly working his way through a plate of eggs while I lingered over toast with marmalade and pretended not to eye his last strip of bacon.
The breakfast room overlooked our small back garden—clipped hedges, neat gravel paths, and the stubborn roses that refused to surrender to London soot. Sunlight streamed through the windows, striking the silver toast rack and glinting off Robert’s teacup, while the fire in the grate provided a cheerful counterpoint to the late spring chill.
