Page 16 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
The carriage jolted as he obeyed, the wheels creaking into motion, carrying me through the dark.
I turned slightly, gaze drifting toward the fog-laced window, the street beyond little more than shadow and mist. And then shortly before we arrived back at Grosvenor Square, movement caught my eye—a faint shift in the gloom.
A lone figure. Slim. Hooded. Female. Walking steadily down the far side of the street.
My brow drew down, irritation flickering to life. What woman in her right mind was walking alone at this hour? And then, under the faint glow of a lamppost, the figure passed, and I caught it—the gleam of copper curls slipping loose from the hood.
Rosalynd.
Something jolted hard in my chest, cutting through the exhaustion, the anger, the suffocating weight pressing down on me. Once more, I rapped sharply on the roof. “Stop.”
Before the driver could fully pull up the horses, I was out, boots striking wet cobblestones, coat swirling faintly in the cold.
“Lady Rosalynd.”
She froze.
Good. She damn well ought to.
She turned slowly, drawing herself up, her chin lifting with all that stiff pride I knew too well. “Your Grace. What are you doing here?”
I stepped closer, voice low, still edged. “I might ask you the same. Out walking the streets alone at night. Have you lost all sense?”
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing. “My carriage broke down a couple of streets back. So I thought I’d walk home.”
My gaze swept over her, noticing the damp cloak clinging to her, curls falling loose, the pale line of her throat where the fabric gapped open. My jaw tightened.
Behind me, the carriage waited, the driver silent on his perch. I flicked a glance over my shoulder.
“Get in.”
“Rosehaven is barely a street over.”
“Get in. I won’t repeat myself.”
For a heartbeat, she stood frozen, stubbornness bristling in every line of her body. But the cold crept closer, the fog curled tighter. And she knew as well as I did that she had little choice.
With a sharp exhale, she gathered her skirts. I stepped forward, caught her elbow, and handed her up, a fleeting brush of her arm through the wool that jolted harder than I liked.
She settled into the seat with a rustle of damp fabric. I climbed in after her, folding myself into the seat opposite, the warmth of the carriage pressing close.
For a moment, I said nothing. Just stared.
Then—
"You might have been robbed," I said sharply. "Or worse. You know what sort of men roam these streets after dark."
"I'm not helpless," she shot back, her chin lifting in defiance.
"No?" I arched a brow. "And how, pray, would you defend yourself?"
With great ceremony, she reached into her reticule and withdrew a delicate object. A penknife—hardly longer than a knitting needle, its mother-of-pearl handle glinting under the carriage lamp.
"With this," she said with a proud little tilt of her head.
I stared at it. Then at her.
"That, my lady, is a toy. Pretty, no doubt, but a footpad would take it from you in a heartbeat and use it against you.” In one swift motion, I leaned closer, plucked it from her fingers, and pressed the blunt edge to her throat.
