Page 7 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Because he is a very busy man, and this is hardly a place he’d?—”
Her mouth curved slowly into a sly, knowing smile far too old for her years. “You like him, don’t you?”
“That is absolute nonsense,” I hissed under my breath, feeling my face heat in earnest.
Petunia gave me a look—a wide-eyed, secretive little glance—then giggled softly and hopped down from the ottoman. She skipped back across the room to the settee she’d previously occupied, flopping onto the cushions with a satisfied little smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.
As the laughter and chatter bubbled on around me, I gazed fondly at my family. Cosmos’s scholarly ways, Julia’s gentle warmth, Fox’s sharp intelligence, Laurel’s quiet reading, Chrissie’s glowing excitement, and Grandmother’s clipped no-nonsense commentary about which debutantes were behavingwith dignity, and which were, in her words, “on a ruinous flirtation path.” Holly and Ivy sat curled up together on the settee, whispering behind their teacups and clearly plotting something. Mischief was always more effective in pairs. And most of all, Petunia, wise beyond her years, her sharp little eyes seeing more than they should.
It was all so familiar, so dear. And yet, my thoughts, unwelcome and persistent, strayed to the Duke of Steele.
It was foolish, really. I had no business thinking of him, no business recalling the quiet intensity of his gaze or the wry twist of his mouth when he allowed himself the rare indulgence of amusement. He had come to tea—a precursor to a discussion of the investigation. Once we’d identified the murderer and made sure justice was meted, I had gone out of my way to avoid further meetings.
Because I knew myself.
I knew how dangerous it would be to let that acquaintance deepen, how easily the walls I had so carefully built around my heart could begin to crack if I allowed him near. The Duke of Steele was brilliant, compelling—and far too attractive for my comfort.
No, I could not afford such distractions. Not with so many depending on me, not with responsibilities stacked one atop another like fragile china. Whatever foolish stirrings he awoke in me, I would see them safely smothered.
With a soft sigh, I straightened in my chair, forcing my thoughts back to the here and now, to the sound of Julia’s laughter, to Chrissie’s dreamy sighs over the Spring Ball, to Petunia’s giggles as she whispered secrets to the twins.
This was where I belonged.
And I would remind myself of that as many times as it took.
Chapter
Four
ST. AGNES HOME FOR UNWED MOTHERS
The Rosehaven carriage rattled along the slick, rain-drenched streets, wheels splashing through puddles as the wind pressed sharp and damp against the windows. I drew my cloak tighter, shivering slightly despite the enclosed warmth. It was a raw, blustery April day. London at its dreariest, all gray skies, biting drizzle, and wind that slipped cold fingers beneath even the stoutest cloak.
When we pulled up before the modest brick house on Trinity Lane that was St. Agnes, the rain was falling steadily, dripping from the eaves and streaking the narrow windows. The building stood tucked between the narrow lanes of Chapel Place and Vineyard, its brick façade softened by ivy, its bell tower rising modestly above the huddled rooftops. Children’s voices echoed faintly from the green nearby, mingling with the steady hammering of a tinsmith’s workshop. The air smelled of coal smoke, damp stone, and a faint trace of lilac from the mission’s garden across the way — a rare softness in the heart of Clerkenwell’s hard-edged streets.
After the footman helped me down, his gloved hand firm in mine, I hurried up the steps, the wind tugging at my skirts and teasing my curls loose beneath my bonnet.
The door opened almost at once after I knocked, spilling out a faint wash of warmth and the familiar scent of lavender soap.
“Lady Rosalynd!” came the cheerful voice of Sister Margaret, bustling forward with a broad smile. It wasn’t a surprise visit. I’d sent a note ahead. She was a sturdy woman in her fifties, her round, sensible face framed by a starched white wimple beneath her black veil. Her habit was plain but immaculately kept, and she moved with the brisk authority of someone long accustomed to managing both chaos and confession. Her gray eyes were sharp but kind, her voice brisk and warm with the faintest northern lilt. “Come in, come in. Heavens, you must be chilled through! We’ll sit and have a cup of tea before you go pokin’ round the place.”
I laughed softly, brushing rain from my sleeves as I stepped inside. “Thank you, Sister Margaret. I wouldn’t say no to that.”
A few minutes later, I sat near the small fire in Sister Margaret’s narrow office, cradling a steaming cup of tea between my gloved hands, grateful for the warmth seeping slowly into my fingers. Rain tapped softly at the windowpanes, and in the hallway beyond, I could hear the muffled sounds of the girls moving about their tasks.
“We’ve been packed to the rafters these past few months,” Sister Margaret said, settling opposite me with her own mug. “I’ve twenty beds, Lady Rosalynd—only twenty. And these days, we’re squeezin’ in two girls to a bed more often than I’d like.”
I felt my brow crease in concern. “Two to a bed?”
She nodded, her tired eyes glinting faintly. “Aye. We’ve no choice. The need’s too great. Word gets out when there’s a place that treats girls kindly. And they come—bless ’em, they come. But every new girl stretches our stores thinner. Food, linens,coal, medicine—all dearer than ever, and it’s all we can do not to turn anyone away.”
I took a thoughtful sip, letting the warm tea ease the chill from my chest. “Where do the girls come from? How do they find their way here?” Some, of course, I knew. But I expected others would be new to me.
Her expression softened, though her voice stayed brisk. “Some come off the streets — no roof, no food, turned out by their families as soon as they learn the truth. Others . . . others come from what folk call respectable homes. You’d be surprised, Lady Rosalynd, how many so-called gentlemen of quality take advantage of their servants, only to cast them off the moment there’s trouble. It’s a cruel world for girls like these.”
A tight ache stirred behind my ribs. “How awful,” I murmured.
“Aye. But we do what we can.” She straightened a little. “No one here’s got a spotless past, but they deserve kindness. They deserve a chance to rebuild.”
