Page 112 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
His brows lifted slightly. “What line is that?”
“Theimproperone.” As if he didn’t know.
“Ah. I see. So anything up tothatline would be acceptable?”
I gave a half-shrug. “I suppose.”
He leaned in, voice a low tease. “I’m going to need a bit more assurance than that, Lady Rosalynd. After all,myreputation might suffer.”
I laughed. “I doubt it. No one would dare besmirch the proud, arrogant?—”
“—Duke of Steele.” He brought my hand to his lips as his gaze locked on mine. “Say yes, Rosalynd.”
How could I ever deny him? He made the world brighter, sharper, more alive.
“Yes.”
He crooked a finger beneath my chin, his smile deepening. “My sweet Rosalynd, what splendid times we’re going to have.”
And then, to prove his point, he kissed me.
It wasn’t the first time. Nor, dare I say, would it be the last.
The mystery was over. The danger passed. But as his arms slipped around me and the hush of the library wrapped around us like a held breath, this wasn’t a farewell.
It was only a beginning.
Epilogue
The fire crackled low in the marble hearth, casting a soft amber glow across the room’s silk-papered walls. Mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound volumes framed a gilt-framed painting of a hunting scene—one detail, a wounded fox, rendered with unnerving precision. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, mingling with the faintest trace of cigars and something medicinal.
Mr. A. Drayton stood before the window, one hand tucked neatly into the pocket of his velvet smoking jacket, the other cradling a glass of cognac he had yet to taste. His dark blond hair was combed back from a high brow, his clean-shaven jaw lending an air of civility to a face otherwise too sharp. Too still. The sort of man who never raised his voice—because he never needed to.
Behind him, the man known only as Mercer cleared his throat. “Nathaniel Vale has been charged with murder and kidnapping. He’s likely to hang.”
Drayton didn’t turn. “A pity. All that promise, squandered on botanical purity and moral posturing. He always did cling to his illusions.” A pause. “In the end, he was weak. And weakness has no place in this world.”
Mercer shifted. “We’ll need to rethink our narcotics supply.”
“Obviously,” Drayton said coolly. “The laboratory must be cleared before the authorities think to search it—if they haven’t already. Burn everything. Have it done by someone who knows how to deal with a locked door.”
“And the product?”
Drayton finally turned, his pale eyes narrowing. “We’ll source elsewhere. There are chemists in Belgium. Pharmacists in Marseille. Even the Americans are playing with opiate derivatives now. A minor disruption, nothing more.”
He crossed to the desk and retrieved a leather-bound ledger, several pages marked with red ribbon. “Nathaniel was useful, yes. But never indispensable. He provided volume, not innovation. That can be replaced.”
Mercer nodded, though his brow furrowed. “It’ll take time.”
Drayton smiled faintly. “Time is a luxury we can afford. Society is still blind. And the appetite for oblivion only grows.”
“I received a note from Lady Harriet. With Nathaniel’s arrest, her world is crumbling. She’s grown . . . desperate.”
“She sealed her fate the moment she wrote that note. If you’re going to lure a girl to her death, best not to leave the evidence in your study drawer.” His pale blue eyes gleamed in the firelight. “She’ll be socially ruined. No great loss.”
“She might talk.”
“She knows nothing. Next to nothing. But keep an eye on her. She may need to be . . . dealt with.”
