Page 33 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
He rubbed the back of his neck. “A fine one. Black lacquered. Glossy wheels. Looked like it had come from Belgravia, not Blackfriars.”
“You see who was inside?”
“No, sir. Curtains drawn. But it didn’t belong there. It had no business on that street, at that hour.”
“Did it have a crest?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s what caught my eye. A faint mark painted on the side panel. Could’ve been a family crest or livery. I couldn’t make it out fully. Just the shape.”
“What kind of shape?”
Collins frowned. “Curved. Circular maybe. Or a ribbon. It wasn’t clear. The lamps didn’t strike it well—it had rained earlier, and the reflections muddled everything.”
“But you’re certain it wasn’t a tradesman’s?”
“I’ve worked this beat four years, sir,” he said. “It’s a working neighborhood. Same sorts pass through most days. Traders. Servants. The baker's boy who always runs late. That carriage wasn’t from around here.”
“If you see it again—you don’t approach. You follow.” I drew a leather case from my coat and retrieved one of my cards. Handing it to him, I said, “And then you notify me directly.”
He nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
I left him standing beneath the eaves as the clouds began to gather again, the first cold drops pattering against the stones.
A fine carriage, parked behind the bakery. More than likely to determine the best location to commit murder.
He’d relied on doing his filthy deed in secrecy. But he hadn’t accounted for us.
Chapter
Thirteen
THE WEIGHT OF WHAT WE KNOW
The afternoon shadows had grown long by the time I departed St. Agnes. As the carriage rocked gently through the clamorous streets of London, Marie’s words played again and again in my mind. Elsie had been taken advantage of—preyed upon by a gentleman in the grand house where she’d worked as a maid. When she confided she was with child, he cast her aside. Then she overheard something—something dangerous enough to send her fleeing for her life. But it hadn’t saved her. He’d found her all the same . . . and silenced her forever.
Upon my arrival home, I was cheerfully greeted by one of our footmen. Unfortunately, in my mood, I could not respond in kind. Lifting my skirts, I wearily climbed the grand staircase while portraits of my ancestors watched my ascent with silent eyes. They’d never faced what I faced now. Never carried such terrible knowledge in their hearts.
As I entered my bedchamber, the familiar hush of the damask-papered walls and the golden hush of afternoon light spilling through the lace curtains offered a semblance of comfort—but not relief. Not today. The shadows of St. Agnes clung to me still, the image of Elsie’s lifeless body etched behind my eyes. I longed for a moment’s solitude, a breath of calm before duty came knocking once more.
“Tilly?” I called softly, lowering myself onto the vanity stool, the silk cushion sighing beneath me as I did.
She appeared from the adjoining dressing room, a pile of freshly pressed linens in her arms. "You look pale as milk, milady. Shall I ring for tea?" Tilly was perhaps five years older than me, with intelligent brown eyes that missed little.
“Yes, but a bath first, please. The hottest water you can manage." I began pulling pins from my hair, letting it fall in waves past my shoulders. "I feel as though I shall never be clean again."
Tilly set down the linens and moved swiftly toward the door leading to the small bathing chamber. "Rose salts, milady?"
"Yes, please. And Tilly?" The maid paused, her hand on the door handle. "I'm not to be disturbed once I'm bathing. Not for anyone."
"Of course, milady.”
The sound of running water soon filled the air as Tilly turned the taps in the modern bathroom‚ one of the improvements Cosmos had insisted upon when he inherited the title. Steam began to curl from beneath the door, carrying with it the promise of temporary peace and the sweet scent of roses.
When I finally sank into the porcelain tub, the hot water seemed to draw some of the tension from my bones, though it could not wash away the memory of what I'd discovered. The water had grown tepid by the time I emerged, wrapping myself in a thick Turkish towel before donning my deep burgundy wool wrapper. The April evening had turned chilly, and I was grateful for its warmth as I moved to the window. My reflection in the glass showed hollowed cheeks and shadows beneath my eyes.I would need to compose myself before facing my family at dinner.
But first, I had a duty to perform. Steele would need to know what I had learned, though the telling would cost me dearly. I sat at my writing desk—a delicate rosewood piece that had belonged to my mother— and retrieved a sheet of cream-colored paper bearing my personal seal.
I dipped my pen in the crystal inkwell, pausing as a drop of black ink trembled at the nib's tip like a tear I refused to shed.
