Page 108 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
He stood and crossed to Vale’s motionless body. For a long moment, he just stared down at him.
I watched as his jaw tightened, the muscle there ticking once. His hands curled at his sides, then flexed open again. The fire in his eyes had cooled to something harder. Not rage—judgment.
Here lay a man who had orchestrated pain without remorse. Who had killed. A man who had hunted the vulnerable like prey and cloaked it all in the trappings of respectability.
Steele's gaze drifted over Vale’s bloodied form, and something passed through his expression—something raw and haunted. Not pity. But the weight of knowing that even justice, when it came, could never truly make the scales right.
How much mercy did a man like that deserve? None.
I saw the moment that conclusion settled in his bones. When the indecision cleared, and duty took its place. His shoulders squared. His chin lifted.
Steele’s eyes met mine—cool now, resolute. “You’re right. We wouldn’t want him to miss his appointment with the gallows.”
Chapter
Thirty-Six
AN ENDING AND A BEGINNING
Once we’d wrapped Vale’s wound—with strips of my petticoat, mind you—and tied him up with ropes Finch had found, Steele led me to the hackney waiting outside.
“Go home,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Wash. Dress. Breathe.”
“Chrissie and I were meant to attend Lady Findley’s ball. But now?—”
It was fully dark. Somewhere, church bells rang out the hour. Eight chimes.
“She and Grandmother will have left by now,” I murmured.
“You must go,” Steele said. “Show the world that nothing is amiss.”
“But—”
“As soon as Vale’s arrest becomes known, the whispers will start. People saw you with him at Kew Gardens. They’ll remember that. They’ll talk. They’ll wonder what part you played. And if your name is tied to his in any way . . .” Heexhaled. “It will ruin you, Rosalynd. You must not be connected to this. Not a whisper. Not a hint.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to be there when they hauled him away in chains. To see justice begin.
But then I thought of Chrissie. Of her flushed cheeks when she spoke of Lord Sefton. Of how excited she’d been. A single stain on my reputation would spread to hers. And the wolves of society would tear us both apart.
So I nodded. Just once. And offered no further protest. Not for myself. For her.
Steele moved to the hackney and pulled open the door. As he reached to help me in, I turned to him.
“You will tell me what I missed?”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I will make it my mission to keep you informed.”
I held his gaze a moment longer, then allowed him to help me into the carriage. I did not look back.
The hackney rocked gently through the streets, its wheels hissing over damp stone. My cloak was stiff with dried blood, its hem dark and sodden where it had brushed the floor. Though my gown had been spared the worst, it still bore smudges and a tear from where I’d fallen. I sat rigid, hands clasped in my lap, the echo of the gunshot still ringing in my ears.
Some time later, the carriage rolled to a stop before Rosehaven House.
Before the driver could dismount, I opened the door and stepped down into the gaslit hush of the square. The night air was cool against my skin, the lamplight flickering across the cobblestones like ghosts reluctant to leave.
The front door opened before I could knock.
Honeycutt stood in the entryway, dressed in his evening livery, his composure cracking for perhaps the first time in recorded history.
