Page 101 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
I crossed to the wardrobe and retrieved my cloak and gloves. The note I tucked into the lining of my reticule, fingers clenching the clasp shut.
Chrissie watched me closely. “Rosie . . . what’s really going on?”
“I’ll explain later,” I said gently. “Truly.”
I descended the stairs with care, forcing my steps to remain steady. To rush would only raise alarm.
At the foot, Honeycutt emerged from the corridor, brows drawn tight. “Going out, milady?”
“Just a short visit to St. Agnes. No need for concern.”
“Shall I send a footman to accompany you?”
“No.” I smiled, though the lie burned. “Best not. I need privacy.”
His lips pressed into a grim line as he handed me an umbrella. “Best take this, milady. It’s drizzling.”
He opened the door, but did not step aside. “It’s not my place to question you, Lady Rosalynd, but the neighborhood you intend to visit is?—”
“I’ll be perfectly safe,” I said quietly, panic needling just beneath the surface. I was running out of time. “Please, let me pass.”
He bowed—but not before murmuring, “Take care, milady.”
“I shall. And Honeycutt, don’t follow me. Remain here.”
His alarm was clear, but he nodded all the same.
I stepped out into the damp. The clouds above were a bruised purple, the air thick with the scent of wet cobblestones—and danger.
At the corner of Grosvenor Square, the hackney waited, still and shadowed. The horse stamped once as I approached, breath curling in the cold. The driver, an older man in a threadbare coat, sat hunched with the reins loose in his hands. He tipped his cap. “Afternoon, miss.”
I nodded once, not trusting my voice. He wasn’t part of it. Just another piece moved into place.
The carriage door clicked open.
“Step inside, Lady Rosalynd,” came the unmistakable voice of Nathaniel Vale, smooth, cultured, and ice-cold.
I hesitated.
“Now,” he said.
Heart hammering, I climbed in. The door shut behind me, sealing out the square.
Vale lounged across from me, impeccably dressed, his hat resting beside him like this were a casual outing. But his eyes gleamed with something sharp and unnatural beneath their civility.
He rapped the ceiling with his cane, and the hackney rolled forward.
I sat rigid. “Where is she?”
He offered a faint smile, tilting his head like a cat toying with a bird.
“You’ll see her soon enough,” he said. “Though whether she remains alive . . . well, that depends on you.” He extended a gloved hand. “The note, if you please.”
I opened my reticule and handed it over. “I came alone. As you asked.”
“I saw.”
I stared at him. “You’ve kidnapped a pregnant woman, threatened to murder her. And you dare to sit there like a gentleman?”
