Page 52 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Oh?” I arched a brow. “So sure of me, were you?”
A flicker of something wry passed across his features. “You’re curious. And far too proud to let me think you’d be cowed by a pistol.”
I gave a soft laugh, the sound breathless in the cold air. “You make it sound like I came here to prove something.”
“Didn’t you?”
He offered his arm, and I took it. The fabric of his coat was warm from his body, and the quiet strength beneath it stirred something deep in my chest.
Without a word, he led me to a narrow servants’ entrance tucked between two stone columns at the rear of the building. The Caledonian was a grand pile of stone and arrogance that, until now, I had only ever passed from the front. No woman—at least no respectable one—ever crossed its threshold.
This is wildly improper, I thought, heart pounding.And I’m doing it anyway.
The brass trim on the heavy door caught the lamplight like a secret glinting in the dark. After unlocking it with a brass key, Steele guided me inside. The hush closed around us like a velvet glove as we slipped through a short corridor, then up a narrow staircase that opened onto the private interior of the club.
Curious to know what this secret bastion of masculinity looked like, I took note of everything as we passed. The upperhallway was a dream of polished wood, marble busts, and oil portraits—one long ode to male accomplishment. A library door stood slightly ajar, revealing towering bookcases and the ghost of cigar smoke. The air was thick with quiet reverence and unspoken rules. The kind of place where decisions that shaped empires were made over port and silence.
“I’d always wondered what lay beyond those doors,” I whispered.
Steele’s mouth quirked slightly as we reached another corridor, this one leading downward. “Nothing that would shock you half as much as this.”
At the end of the hallway, he drew out another key—iron this time—and unlocked the door to the gallery below.
The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a long, narrow chamber. The scent of gun oil and old wood clung to the air—masculine, sharp, faintly metallic. The private shooting gallery was all stone and shadow, lit only by two lamps mounted along the paneled wall.
At the far end stood wooden target boards, riddled with holes, their rings barely visible in the gloom. A narrow padded bench ran along one wall, and above it hung a row of neatly mounted pistols, their polished barrels gleaming like teeth.
The weight of the room pressed inward. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of fabric, seemed to echo in my ears. It was not fear that prickled along my skin. It was something more dangerous. Expectation.
He turned toward me then and, without a word, reached for the clasp of my cloak. His fingers brushed my shoulder as he undid it—lightly, expertly. The gesture was practical. Innocent, even. And yet, it set my heart to a gallop.
I let him ease it from my shoulders, the silk-lined wool whispering against my sleeves. He folded it neatly and placed it on a nearby chair, beside his own coat. Then he rolled uphis shirtsleeves to the elbow, exposing strong forearms dusted with fine dark hair. The simplicity of it—bare skin, rolled linen—shouldn’t have undone me. But it did.
I could still feel the heat from where he’d stood close—too close—when he guided me inside and shut the door behind us.
But my eyes were drawn to the center table. There, laid out with almost reverent care, rested a single revolver.
I stood perfectly still as Steele checked the pistol, his hands steady and assured. He had not asked me whether I wished to learn. He had simply said, "Come." As though he knew I would follow.
He turned at last, the pistol resting across his palm. “The Webley Bulldog,” Steele said, his voice echoing lightly in the quiet. “Six-shot. Double-action. Reliable. Easily concealed. Lightweight enough for a lady’s reticule but heavier than you think. Let me show you.”
I stepped forward because I had to. Because pride would not let me do otherwise. But my heart was hammering far too fast, and not from nerves alone. There was no one here to see. No chaperone. No footman.
Only him.
Only me.
I took the pistol in both hands. It dragged my arms down, just as he’d warned.
“Steady,” he murmured, stepping behind me.
And then I felt him—his hand at my waist, gentle but certain. As he positioned me to face the target, I went very still.
“Widen your stance,” he said, his breath warm against my ear. “Loosen your shoulders. Not too much. “Now breathe in slowly. Hold it. And when you're ready—gently squeeze.”
The tension in my body had nothing to do with posture. He moved behind me with quiet ease, adjusting my grip with longfingers, guiding my aim. The brush of his hand along my arm sent a shiver right through my bones.
I ought to have protested. I ought to have demanded he keep his distance. But instead, I breathed in slowly, catching the scent of him—clove, smoke, something wind-worn and elemental.
