Page 23 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering. “Because it’s a place of death. Because you are a lady of standing. Because I refuse to drag you into dark alleys and mortuary cellars when?—”
“When I canhelp,” I shot back, my voice rising despite myself. “I will not sit at home embroidering handkerchiefs while there is a murder to solve!”
His eyes darkened. “You do not understand what you will see there—what you willsmellthere.” He drew in a long, measured breath. “I will return to the mortuary. I’ll examine the crest more closely and describe it to you.”
“No.”
His head snapped toward me. “Rosalynd, I will brook no argument about this.”
I lifted my chin. “You have no dominion over me, sir. I shall do as I please.”
His mouth flattened into a hard line. “And how, exactly, do you propose to gain entrance to the mortuary?”
“The same way you did.”
“I,” he said coldly, arrogantly, “am the Duke of Steele.”
“And I,” I countered hotly, “am the daughter of an earl—one who knew Elsie and cares about finding justice for her.”
“I will forbid them from allowing you entry.”
“You wouldn’t dare?—”
“Ahem . . . ”
Both our heads snapped up at the tall rector who loomed beside the pew, his brow lifted in delicate inquiry, his clerical collar stark against his black coat.
“Your Grace, milady, is there,” he asked gently, “some sort of . . . problem?”
“No,” Steele and I said in unison, our voices too quick, too bright.
There was a brief, crackling pause.
I smoothed my skirts, feeling the hot flush rise in my cheeks. Steele arched an arrogant brow. Of course he did.
It was only then—as the hush of the chapel pressed in—that I became acutely aware of just hownot alonewe were.
My stomach dipped.
Several individuals had gathered in the side aisles and pews, their faces turned discreetly away, though I caught the unmistakable gleam of curiosity in their eyes. Our voices, low at first, had clearly risen with our tempers, carrying far beyond the quiet corner where we’d believed ourselves hidden.
With a sudden jolt of mortification, I spotted her—Lady Broadbottom. A stalwart patroness of the Society for the Advancement of Women, whose appetite for scandalous tidbits was matched only by her remarkable ability to spread them across half of Mayfair by teatime. She stood near the pillar, her eyes wide, her lace-gloved hand pressed delicately to her bosom.
Steele went still beside me, his awareness settling between us like a sudden weight.
“We should go,” I murmured tightly, my voice all ice and civility.
“Yes,” Steele said, his tone clipped, controlled. “We should.”
He paused just long enough to incline his head to the rector. “Thank you for your time, Rector. Forgive the disruption.”
The older man gave a small, knowing nod, saying nothing.
With as much dignity as we could muster, we rose in unison, heads held high, smoothing away any signs of discomfiture. Without another glance—neither right nor left—we turned and walked, side by side, down the length of the chapel.
The long path to the door felt like a gauntlet, though we kept our eyes fixed ahead, our steps perfectly measured, every inch the noblewoman and the duke, as though we hadn’t just been caught in a most undignified quarrel.
Only when the great oak doors closed behind us and the cool air struck my cheeks did I let out a slow, shaky breath.
