Page 22 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Honeycutt,” I called softly, rising from my writing desk.
He appeared as if conjured, his dignified presence filling the doorway with unshakable calm. “Milady?”
I offered him the sealed envelope. “Please have the footman deliver this to Steele House at once. He should use our back passage, go through the garden gate, and circle the square discreetly. I have no wish to attract the attention of our neighbors.”
Honeycutt inclined his head with all the solemnity of a man entrusted with state secrets. “Naturally, milady.”
For a heartbeat, I allowed myself a small smile—the sort reserved only for the unflappable Honeycutt, whose quiet competence had steadied Rosehaven House through every storm. “Thank you,” I murmured.
He gave another slight bow. “It shall be done, milady.”
St.George’s stood in quiet splendor at the south end of Hanover Square, its graceful stone façade softened by centuries of London weather. Within, the great wooden pews gleamed under the muted light, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of hands and prayer books.
The air was cool and faintly scented with beeswax and damp stone. Echoes of muffled footsteps drifted from the far aisles, but here in the side chapel—tucked away from the main congregation—the hush was deep and nearly absolute. Colored light spilled through stained glass windows, casting fractured rubies and sapphires across the flagstones. Small devotional candles flickered near the altar, their flames shivering gently in the stillness.
It was a place of quiet reflection, of whispered prayers and hidden griefs. And on this particular morning, it was a place for a secret meeting.
I sat in one of the side pews, gloved hands folded neatly, my eyes lifting to the small alcove’s vaulted ceiling. Somewhere beyond these walls, London hummed and bustled. But here, time seemed to slow, the weight of the centuries pressing softly against the present moment.
The heavy oak door creaked softly, and I lifted my head.
Steele, his tall figure momentarily outlined in the pale light of the nave. Dressed in his dark, impeccably cut coat, he lookedevery inch the man accustomed to moving between the smoky chambers of the House of Lords and the darker corners of London.
Our eyes met—a flicker, an unspoken acknowledgment—before he crossed the stone floor with his usual measured stride, boots whispering faintly over the worn flagstones.
He came to stand beside the pew where I sat and dipped his head. “Lady Rosalynd.” His voice was pitched low, careful not to disturb the hush.
I inclined my head, sliding to the side to make room for him. He hesitated only a heartbeat before accepting my silent invitation, his presence filling the narrow space beside me. I couldn’t help but react—to the quiet heat radiating off him, to the faint, woodsy scent of his coat, to the sheer essence of him that pressed against my careful composure.
Thankfully, he gave no sign of noticing. Without a word, he reached inside his coat and retrieved a small notebook, which he flipped open and turned toward me. “I found this message hidden in a pocket in Elsie’s dress,” he murmured in the hush of the nave.
Meet me behind the bakery at the corner of St. John’s Lane and Albion Place at nine o’clock. Tell no one.
I frowned, eyes flicking over the hastily copied lines before glancing up sharply. “You didn’t keep the original?”
“No,” he said smoothly. “I wasn’t about to carry away evidence that would be needed for the inquest.”
“But you saw it closely?” I pressed, my pulse quickening.
“As closely as the light allowed. Fine cardstock, no common paper. There was . . . something in the corner.” He hesitated. “A faint mark, perhaps. Nearly invisible to the eye.”
A thrill ran through me, my breath quickening. “An embossed maker’s mark.”
His gaze sharpened. “Possibly. Or a family crest.”
“Were you wearing gloves?”
“Of course.”
I leaned forward, urgent now. “If I can examine the original, I might be able to identify it. I know the stationers the upper houses use—Wigmore & Sons, Bexley & Thorne, Sandringham’s on Bond Street. They each have distinctive marks.”
Steele straightened abruptly, tension flashing across his face. “Absolutely not.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You are not walking into a mortuary, Rosalynd,” he said tightly. “That is no place for you.”
My spine stiffened. “And why, exactly, is it no place for me?”
