Page 17 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
Her breath caught, her eyes widening—though not entirely from fear. We were suddenly very close. Too close. I could see the quick rise and fall of her chest, the flicker of challenge in her gaze giving way to something else—something far more dangerous than a knife.
For one suspended beat, neither of us moved. Then I forced myself back, fingers curling around the useless thing.
"Do you see now?" I asked, my voice rougher than I intended. "This isn’t a game, Rosalynd. You walk alone at night with only a useless toy to defend yourself.” I let the penknife drop on the seat next to her. “And I am left to imagine your broken body in the gutter."
Her gaze didn’t waver, but the silence between us stretched, heavy with unspoken things.
"I’ll teach you to shoot," I said at last, my tone brooking no argument.
She recoiled slightly. "Absolutely not. I abhor firearms."
"You’ll abhor being dead—or worse—far more."
"What could possibly be worse than death?"
I leaned in, my voice low and grim. "You don’t want to know, Lady Rosalynd."
A flicker of unease passed across her features, quickly masked. Still, she didn’t argue.
"There’s a revolver I trust—a Webley Bulldog. Short-barreled. Easily concealed. Lightweight enough for a lady’s reticule. It’s the preferred model for those with more sense than sentiment."
Her lips parted in protest, but I raised a hand to stop her.
"I’ll obtain one. And I’ll teach you to use it. Properly."
"You mean to make a marksman of me?"
"I mean to keep you alive."
She looked away then, but not before I saw the war between indignation and reluctant understanding flicker in her eyes. Her hands folded tightly in her lap.
“Where exactly have you been, Rosalynd?”
She tugged her cloak tighter, her mouth tight, her eyes shadowed. “At St. Agnes.”
That gave me pause. “The women’s shelter?”
“The Home for Unwed Mothers,” she corrected, chin lifting. “The matron, Sister Margaret, sent for me. One of the girls was found dead.”
Something cold settled under my ribs. “What happened?”
“She was strangled. They found her body in an alley off Trinity Lane.”
“Was she . . .” I hesitated. “Assaulted?” Some men did unspeakable things to defenseless women.
Her breath caught. “I pray not. It will be up to the examiner to determine that.”
“When did it happen?”
Rosalynd drew in a shaky breath. “Tonight. She went out after dark. Sister Margaret doesn’t know why.”
The old, familiar weight pressed heavier on my chest. “Who’s investigating? Do you know?”
“Dodson,” she spat, frustration flashing hot in her eyes. “You know what that means.”
I exhaled slowly, jaw clenching. Dodson—the sort of man who’d dismiss a dead working girl without a second thought.
“Elsie is just another nameless girl to him. As far as he’s concerned, she went out to meet her lover and met her death instead. I doubt that he even bothered to find a witness.” Her mouth twisted. “Her murderer will never be found.”
