Page 76 of A Murder in Mayfair
Heaven only knew what might have happened next. But a coal dropped in the grate, hissing and crackling as it struck the iron fender, tossing a spray of sparks toward the rug.
We both startled. Just enough to break the spell.
Breath catching, I stepped back as heat rose to my cheeks. The space between us suddenly felt charged in a different way—too close, too exposed. Without a word, I walked away, pretending to busy myself with smoothing my skirts, though my hands trembled slightly. I needed a moment—just one—to collect myself, to remember why we were here. What was at stake.
I drew in a steadying breath and fixed my gaze on the wallpaper. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to turn around. I was afraid of what I’d feel if I looked at him—what I might see reflected in his eyes. The nearness, the heat, the brush of his thumb across my mouth. It all lived too vividly beneath my skin. Needing the quiet to reorder myself, I clung to the silence. But silence, especially with Steele, never stayed quiet for long.
“I should have asked sooner,” I said, my voice low. “Did you find Lord Nicholas?”
A pause. Then the shift of fabric as he straightened behind me.
“No,” Steele said simply. “I didn’t.”
I turned back to face him, frowning. “You didn’t?”
“I spent the better part of the evening combing through his usual haunts—his club, the gaming rooms in Kensington, even that disreputable little theatre he frequents when the mood strikes. Nothing. Not a word, not a whisper.”
His jaw tightened, but only slightly—a flicker of emotion behind the calm. “It’s unlike him to disappear without leaving some sort of trail. Even when he’s trying to avoid me.”
I crossed the room slowly, the sense of dread I’d been pushing aside all evening creeping back in. “Do you think someone’s harmed him?”
“I don’t know.” He looked up at me then, something colder than frustration in his eyes. “But if they have, they’ll regret it.”
The words hung in the air between us, sharp and absolute.
“How do we prove Edwin Heller committed these murders?” I asked, my voice quieter now, more measured.
“We set a trap.”
I crossed my arms, the chill of the room settling through the thin fabric of my gown. “What kind?”
His gaze flicked to the fire, then back to me. “Killers and thieves will do anything for money. That’s always been true. You dangle enough of it in front of them, and they reveal who they are.”
I studied his face, searching for the thread of a plan.
“You already have something in mind, don’t you?”
His mouth curved—just barely. “The bait’s already set.”
I blinked. “Already?”
“I put the word out earlier tonight. A whisper in the right ear. A suggestion of something valuable. A reward for information.”
“You believe someone will come forward?”
“Someone always does. The murderer would have said something to someone. Or someone noticed a newfound wealth.
“How long before you know?”
“I expect to hear something by tomorrow.”
He looked at me then—truly looked at me. There was something in his expression I couldn’t quite name. Not triumph. Not satisfaction. Something quieter. Protective. Then, without another word, he turned and strode toward the door. He paused, hand on the handle. Glanced back.
I exhaled, tension unspooling in my shoulders. “You’ll keep me informed?”
“Of course.”
And then he disappeared into the night, leaving only the scent of cold air, woodsmoke, and the lingering echo of something I didn’t dare name.
