Page 86 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
An invitation to Vale House, wrapped in civility and respectability.
Though the invitation included Cosmos, he wouldn’t be able to attend. On the ride home from Kew Gardens, Claire had invited him to supper tomorrow so he could examine her 'patch.’ At night. In the dark. Unless Cosmos possessed supernatural vision, which he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to conduct a proper inspection. At least one that involved barren ground. But Cosmos, being Cosmos, had accepted without the least hesitation. Truly, the mind boggled.
But never mind him. I needed to decide what to do about Vale’s invitation. I should refuse it. That was the commonsense thing to do. But the thing of it was, I needed answers. No, more than that. I needed proof. And I wouldn’t get it from a distance. For that, I would need to get up close.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I moved to my writing desk and dipped my pen in ink.
Dear Dr. Vale,
Thank you for your kind invitation. I would be pleased to join you for dinner tomorrow evening.
Yours,
Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven
I sealed the envelope with a decisive press of wax and pulled the bell for a footman.
Let the trap be set.
Chapter
Thirty
FINCH’S REPORT
The day after my argument with Rosalynd, I sat alone in the library at Steele House, one hand wrapped around a snifter of brandy, the other cradling my jaw, still aching from the strain of holding my temper with Rosalynd. Not that I’d succeeded.
I had to admit, she’d been right to be furious. But wrong to think I didn’t trust her. It wasn’t her I distrusted. It was the world she insisted on walking into—without armor, without backup. Without me.
As I lost myself in my musings, a log crackled in the hearth. The clock ticked with a rhythm I couldn’t bear.
I drained the glass just as Milford stepped into the room. “Mr. Finch has arrived, Your Grace.”
“Send him in.”
Finch entered a moment later, all wiry tension and narrow eyes, a leather folder tucked beneath one arm. His greatcoat was streaked with soot, his boots damp with London’s filth.
He paused just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping the study. The lamplight caught a glint of chestnut in his unkempt hair and the shadows etched deep beneath his eyes.
“You look like you’ve spent the day crawling through chimneys,” I said, motioning him in.
“Gutterwork. Might as well be the same,” he muttered, flicking off his gloves. “Stinks worse, anyhow.”
I gestured toward the armchair opposite mine. “Sit.”
Finch gave it a wary glance. “Your staff might object. I’ll ruin the upholstery.”
“If I may, Mr. Finch,” Milford interjected smoothly, “I can have your coat seen to while you meet with His Grace.”
Finch shrugged out of the coat and handed it over. “Much obliged.”
“There you are,” I said. “Would you care for something to eat?”
“If you’re offering.” He sank into the chair with a weary grunt. “It’s been a damn long day.”
I turned to Milford. “A plate of cold meats and cheese for Mr. Finch. And a pot of strong tea.”
Milford glanced toward my guest, the faintest glint of amusement in his eye. “Perhaps Mr. Finch would prefer something stronger, Your Grace.”
