Page 53 of A Murder on London Bridge
“I met Hollingsworth.”
Robert blinked. “What?”
“Not our Hollingsworth, of course,” I said quickly. “His ancestor—Edmund, the first marquis. I saw King Charles grant him the title with my own eyes, in the privy garden at Whitehall. I never knew that, Robert. Our Hollingsworth never once mentioned it.”
When doubt flickered across his face, I pressed on. “Edmund became a true friend. We shared confidences, plotted how to expose the men conspiring against the Queen. At the Swan Tavern, we overheard their plans. They started the Great Fire to conceal their attempt to murder Her Majesty.”
He studied me carefully, weighing my troubled expression, my worried gaze. “You’re still there,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” I admitted. “When I close my eyes, I walk Whitehall’s corridors again. In my dreams, I speak with Edmund, hear the conspirators whispering in the dark. Sleep brings no rest. It only carries me back. And until Merton’s murderer is unmasked, I fear I shall never fully return to the present.”
His hand closed over mine—strong, trembling, almost desperate. “God help me, Catherine, I cannot bear the thought of losing you again.”
“You won’t lose me,” I whispered. “But I have to finish this. Only then will I truly come back to you.”
He bowed his head, exhaling hard, then lifted his gaze to mine. “What do you propose?”
Relief swept through me. He was listening. And somehow, I had made him understand. “We convene the investigative committee,” I said quickly. “I may not be strong enough to dash about London, but I can host the meetings here. I can charge the others with the legwork, set them to follow the clues. Together, we can unravel this knot without my collapsing in the street from the effort.”
He regarded me for a long moment, the struggle written across his face. Duty warred with dread; love with the memory of the glass bottle dripping beside my bed. Then he rubbed a hand over his jaw and let out a faint, frayed laugh. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.”
“What?” Hope fluttered in my chest.
“You will only think,” he said. “You’ll do nothing more.”
“It’s the only work I can do,” I replied, earning the ghost of a smile for my trouble.
He looked to the door, as if weighing the consequences of following through on what I’d suggested. After a while, he returned his gaze to me and nodded once, slow and grave. “Very well. We will meet in the library during which time you will remain seated. The meeting will last no more than an hour.”
“That’s not enough time.” It would take most of that time to explain the circumstances surrounding Merton’s murder, never mind my time in the seventeenth century.
“An hour and a half. That’s my final offer.”
“Fine.” There was no use in arguing for more. He was determined.
His eyes sharpened. “You will rest beforehand. At least two hours in bed.”
“Two?” When he frowned, I quickly said, “Fine.”
“If you falter in the slightest—if your head swims, if your vision blurs, if you so much as wince—I will end it then and there. Do you understand me?”
“I do,” I said. “I accept your conditions.”
His shoulders eased by a degree. “Tomorrow afternoon at three,” he said. “I’ll telephone everyone.” He paused, then added softly, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For giving me something less than terror to live with.” He squeezed my hand. “Now, let’s get you back to bed. If you are to play general from the library, you shall do it with your strength in hand.”
I allowed him to help me rise. When the room tilted, he steadied me with a palm at my back. We stood for a moment—my head on his shoulder, his breath in my hair—before he guided me to the door with the care of a man carrying crystal through a crowded room.
In the corridor I glanced up at him. “Robert?”
“Yes?”
“If I falter, end it.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “If you falter, I shall carry you upstairs myself.” He kissed my brow, then tucked my hand into his arm. “Come, Lady Rutledge. We have until tomorrow to behave.”
