Page 21 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
Tovey’s eyes flared with a deep emotion. “And that person killed her.”
I gave a slow, steady nod. “It would appear so.”
I turned to both men, drawing in a breath. “Thank you, Dr. Loughton, Mr. Tovey. You’ve been thorough—and respectful. That matters.”
Loughton gave a quiet nod, while Tovey murmured, “I just hope you find who did this, sir.”
“I intend to,” I said softly, and then headed out the door.
Outside, the night air hit like a slap—sharp, cold, heavy with mist. My waiting carriage loomed at the curb, the horses shifting anxiously, stamping their hooves against the cobblestones, their ears flicking back. They smelled it, no doubt—the faint scent of death from the mortuary.
For a brief moment, I paused at the foot of the carriage, glancing back at the low stone building, its narrow windows dimly lit, its shadow heavy against the night. Inside, Elsie lay silently waiting for a justice the world rarely bothered to give girls like her.
As I climbed inside, my coachman tipped his hat silently.
I sank back into the seat, the dark leather creaking faintly beneath me. The lantern outside cast a thin glow through the small window, throwing fractured streaks of light across my knees.
Behind the bakery at nine o’clock.
I closed my eyes briefly, mapping the route in my mind. Who had sent the note? Why lure a young girl out into the night, only to leave her dead in an alleyway?
I drew a slow breath, the cold from the mortuary still clinging faintly to my clothes. The horses jolted forward, the wheels rattling softly as we pulled away from the curb.
No, I thought grimly.She never stood a chance. But I’d be damned if I let the bastard who killed her walk free.
Chapter
Nine
A SKIRMISH AT ST GEORGE’S
The pale light of morning filtered through the sheer curtains as I sat at my writing desk, half-heartedly skimming the morning post. A soft knock at the door interrupted my idle sorting.
“Come,” I called.
Our butler, Honeycutt, entered with his usual composed grace. “A note for you, milady. Delivered just now by a footman from Steele House.”
My pulse quickened ever so slightly. I took the envelope, my fingers running lightly over the heavy seal—Steele’s seal. I broke it and unfolded the note.
Lady Rosalynd,
I would like to speak with you this morning. I have news to share.
Steele
My heart gave a small, inexplicable skip, but I quickly forced myself to focus. Where could we meet? I crossed to the window and peered toward Grosvenor Square. Already the morning bustle had begun: maids sweeping steps, carriages rattling past,housekeepers bustling to and fro. I pressed my lips together in thought.
Steele could hardly come here—the whole of Grosvenor Square would be peering through their drapes, the whispers already sharpening:The Duke of Steele calling at Rosehaven again? My, my.
And I certainly couldn’t call openly at Steele House. That would be even more scandalous, more fuel for wagging tongues.
No, we needed someplace discreet, someplace neutral. My mind ticked through the possibilities: A walk in Hyde Park? Too open, too public. The reading room at Hatchard’s bookshop? Tempting, but not private. St. George’s Chapel? Ah.
The side chapel at St. George’s, Mayfair, was often quiet at this hour. It was a sanctuary of calm, and importantly, a place where a lady and a gentleman might exchange hushed words under the guise of private prayer or a charitable visit.
Yes, that would do.
I reached for my own writing paper, smoothing the creamy sheet beneath my hand, dipped my pen, and wrote my reply in swift strokes. With deliberate care, I pressed my private wax seal onto the envelope—a delicate rose motif, faintly perfumed, something only my closest correspondents would recognize. And now, so would Steele.
