Page 80 of A Murder in Mayfair
The inspector nodded to his detective. “Get it down in writing. Full statement.”
O’Donnell spat blood onto the floor. “Glad to.” His smile revealed two rows of blackened teeth. “If I’m going to meet my maker. So will he.”
Chapter
Thirty-Three
NO MORE SHADOWS
By the time I left Scotland Yard, the gas lamps were still burning, but the streets were beginning to stir. I hadn’t shaved. I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten. And I was fairly certain I smelled like a dog’s breath after a long night in a butcher’s alley.
I went straight to Rosehaven House.
Honeycutt answered the door, as he always did—precise, proper, and impossibly affronted by the sight of me.
He didn’t say a word, but his nose wrinkled with impressive eloquence. A single twitch that conveyed a thousand shades of disdain. Still, he stepped aside and gestured me in with all the dignity of a man escorting a chimney sweep into a drawing room.
“Lady Rosalynd is in the morning room,” he said. “Waiting for news.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
He didn’t thank me back.
I made my way down the corridor, the house quiet, the hush of early morning settling in like mist. I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The fire had burned low, and light from the tall windows had just begun to creep across the floor.
And there she was.
Asleep.
Rosalynd sat curled in one of the armchairs, dressed in another of those plain gowns she favored when no one but family—or me—was likely to see her. A book lay open on her lap, her head tilted to one side, copper hair falling loose from its pins.
She looked exhausted. And lovely. And heartbreakingly vulnerable.
I didn’t speak.
Not yet.
I just stood there and watched her breathe.
I crossed the room in silence, my boots making no sound on the rug.
She’d fallen asleep with one hand curled loosely beneath her chin, the other still resting atop an open book. A faint crease lined her brow, even in sleep—like her mind refused to rest fully, even when her body surrendered.
I crouched beside the chair, careful not to startle her. Then, with a tenderness I hadn’t allowed myself, I reached out and touched her hand—just the back of it, warm and soft beneath my callused fingers.
“Rosalynd,” I said quietly.
She stirred. Her lashes fluttered, and for a heartbeat she blinked in confusion, as if unsure whether she was waking into the same world she’d fallen asleep in. Then her gaze found mine and cleared.
“Steele,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep. “You look … ” Her eyes swept over me. “Good Lord, you look like you’ve crawled out of a coal scuttle.”
I gave a tired smile. “Close. More like a Spitalfields alley and a holding cell at Scotland Yard.”
She sat up straighter, alert now. “What happened?”
“I found your murderer,” I said. “And he talked.”
