Page 50 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“But now we know she is real and not a figment of our imagination. Her presence at the inquest means she was heavily invested in its findings. And, just as importantly, she didn’t want to be seen.”
We stood together for a moment in silence, watching as the carriage vanished into the fog of traffic. The noise of the street pressed in—hoofbeats, the shout of a driver, the distant clang of bells—but neither of us moved.
Then, quietly, Steele offered his arm. “Come. There’s something we need to discuss.”
I took it without hesitation.
He led me to his carriage and opened the door. I climbed in, my mind still spinning with the implications of what we’d just seen.
As the door shut behind us and the carriage lurched into motion, I expected him to speak of the inquest. Of Dodson’s indifference. Of the veiled woman and the crest.
But he had something else in mind. “I’ve made arrangements at the Caledonian Club tonight for your shooting lesson.”
I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
His tone was even, unflinching. “We will be using its shooting gallery.”
“We never discussed?—”
“We did,” he said. “Four nights ago, when you brandished a penknife and I told you I’d teach you to shoot.”
“I never agreed to it.” I folded my hands tightly in my lap. “I have no desire to use a firearm.”
“And I’ve no desire to see you walk into a dark alley with nothing but good intentions and a penknife.”
I bristled. “It’s a perfectly serviceable?—”
“It’s a decorative letter opener with delusions of usefulness,” he cut in, calm as ever. “You don’t have to like it. But you do have to learn. Be at the club by midnight.”
Much as I abhorred the thought of handling a firearm, I had to admit he was right. My penknife—dainty, dull, and better suited to trimming ribbon—would offer little protection against someone intent on hurting me. But it wasn’t that alone that gave me pause.
What else would I be learning tonight?
The feel of a pistol in my hand? The weight of responsibility in its aim?
Or something far more dangerous—like what it meant to be alone with him, in a room built for violence, with nothing between us but breath and tension?
Regardless of my troubled thoughts, I gave him the only possible answer. “Very well. I’ll come.”
He didn’t smile. But something in his posture eased.
As the carriage rumbled onward, I turned to the window, the glass cool beneath my gloved fingers, and wondered what the night would bring.
Chapter
Twenty
LESSONS IN POWDER AND FIRE
Tilly had helped me dress by lamplight, her fingers quick and sure as she fastened the last of the buttons on a soft wool gown the color of midnight. No corset tonight—just a simple chemise and the loose fall of skirts. I wanted freedom of movement, though I wasn’t entirely certain what form that movement might take.
"Not quite your usual ensemble, milady," Tilly remarked, stepping back to appraise me with a conspiratorial gleam. "But you look daring. Almost wicked."
I arched a brow at her in the mirror. “Daring and wicked.” Was that how I wished to be seen?
She grinned as she slipped a cloak over me. “Shall I go ahead, milady? Make sure no one’s about?”
“Please,” I said, my heart beginning to drum a little harder.
