Page 91 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
No silks. No sparkle. Nothing Nathaniel Vale might deem ostentatious. He was a man who valued modesty in women, or at least gave every indication of doing so. The violet wool, with its high neck, long, snug sleeves, and plum velvet ribbon at the waist, certainly met his criteria. And the gown's color complemented my copper hair without making a spectacle of it. I had no desire to charm. Respectable and forgettable was the impression I wished to make.
I fastened a cameo at my collar—one that had belonged to my mother—then reached for my gloves. But before descending the stairs, I crossed to my writing desk and drew out a sheet of personal stationery. My note was brief, just enough to inform Steele of my destination. But no more than that. He would likely come charging to the ‘rescue.’ But hopefully, not until I’d discovered something useful.
I signed it with a simpleR, sealed it with wax, and descended to the front hall where Honeycutt waited.
Before climbing into the waiting carriage, I handed him Steele’s note. “Please have this delivered to His Grace’s residence, but don’t do so until an hour past my departure."
He took the letter with a composed nod. "Very good, milady.”
Vale House was situatedon Park Crescent, the pale stucco facade curving with the architecture of the crescent itself. The house was elegant without being ostentatious—respectable, refined, and rather too clean. Gas lamps flickered along the pavement, casting trembling shadows up the steps.
An elderly butler answered my knock and led me through a hall lined with framed botanical prints. The scent of beeswax and old lavender lingered in the air, accompanied by a faint medicinal tang I couldn't place.
The drawing room was modest in size and tastefully appointed—pale grey walls, Queen Anne chairs, a pianoforte draped in lace. Everything had its place, and nothing felt lived in. It was a room meant to receive guests, not comfort its inhabitants.
Nathaniel Vale rose as I entered, darkly dressed and perfectly polished.
“Lady Rosalynd,” he said with a small bow. “You honor us.”
“Thank you for having me,” I replied, offering my hand.
He held it lightly, then turned toward the woman seated beside the hearth.
“May I introduce my aunt, Lady Harriet.”
I curtsied. “You are kind to receive me.”
“Lady Rosalynd.” Her voice was cool, clipped. “A pleasure.”
Lady Harriet’s gown was an unadorned steel grey, her silver-threaded hair coiled into a neat knot at the nape of her neck. Herexpression hovered somewhere between stern and impassive—not quite a frown, yet nowhere near a smile. Had Vale not mentioned they were Anglicans, I might have taken her for a Quaker.
After inviting me to sit, Nathaniel claimed a chair near the fire. I perched across from Lady Harriet, careful to smooth my skirts and keep my posture composed. A footman appeared almost instantly, bearing a silver tray of sherry, as though the entire exchange had been choreographed.
“How fares your grandmother, the dowager countess?” Lady Harriet inquired, her tone polite but not precisely warm.
“Quite well, thank you for asking. She thrives on routine and ceremony.”
Lady Harriet inclined her head. “Yes. I imagine she does.”
The sherry was poured and offered, and Lady Harriet accepted hers with the faintest nod before continuing. “Nathaniel tells me you have a number of siblings. A large family, is it not?”
“Larger than most, I daresay. It keeps life interesting.”
“Indeed.” The word carried just enough weight to suggest that Lady Harriet found ‘interesting’ a rather suspect condition.
I took a sip of sherry to hide a smile. She hadn’t said anything overtly rude. But I was most definitely being assessed.
Nathaniel, perhaps sensing his aunt’s desire for a private word, rose with a glance at the clock. “If you’ll forgive me, Aunt—Lady Rosalynd—I’ve a pollination trial underway in the conservatory. If I don’t attend to it now, the timing will be off.”
Lady Harriet nodded. “By all means, see to it. We shall endeavor to entertain ourselves.”
With a slight bow, he departed, leaving only the low tick of the mantel clock between us.
Lady Harriet took a measured sip of sherry. “You were at Elsie Leonard’s inquest several days ago.”
I tilted my head, feigning mild surprise. “Oh? Were you there?”
Her mouth gave the faintest twitch. “I learned of it from a reliable source.”
