Page 92 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
Herself, more than likely. “Ah,” I murmured.
“You were not alone,” she said. “His Grace, the Duke of Steele, was seated beside you.”
I met her gaze. “Yes.”
“One might mistake such proximity for intimacy.”
“Then one would be mistaken.”
A pause followed—heavy and deliberate—before Nathaniel returned.
“Lady Rosalynd has devoted admirable time and energy to the plight of vulnerable women,” he said smoothly, as if to dispel the lingering chill in the air. “Her work in Clerkenwell is especially commendable.”
How curious, coming from a man who recoiled from anything less than immaculate.
Lady Harriet’s gaze did not shift from mine. “Yes,” she said, her voice soft but laced with steel. “Quite the cause.”
I held her eyes for a heartbeat longer than courtesy required. Whatever polite mask she wore, something sharper lay beneath. She knew I’d been at the inquest with Steele. And for all her protestations of learning it through a “reliable source,” I would have wagered my gloves she’d been the one seated just a few rows behind.
There could be only one reason to mention it—to warn me off.
Did she fear discovery? Or was she protecting something—someone—closer to home? Either way, Lady Harriet was no passive aunt arranging flowers and managing dinner menus. She was watching. Measuring. Guarding something with quiet ferocity.
She was someone to be wary of.
A footman appeared in the doorway. “Lady Harriet, Doctor Vale, dinner is served.”
We rose, the moment carefully folded away beneath the rustle of skirts and the scrape of chairs. The dining room, though narrow, was handsomely appointed, its long table aglow with candlelight. I was seated beside Nathaniel, with Lady Harriet at the head, her posture erect, her expression serene.
“There ought to be four, to balance the numbers,” Lady Harriet said. “But Henry had a prior engagement.”
“No need to apologize, Lady Harriet. At Rosehaven House, I never know how many will turn up for dinner. We might be three or ten. Cosmos will attend a lecture and invite someone he finds fascinating on a whim.”
“That’s not what happened with me,” Nathaniel said, sounding affronted. “His invitation was extended days ago.”
“Oh, he told Cook,” I said with a laugh. “But failed to inform me. Not the first time, and I daresay not the last.”
“How does your cook manage?” Lady Harriet sounded faintly appalled.
“She always prepares for six. If extra guests don’t materialize, nothing goes to waste. The staff enjoy it, or we send the surplus to a soup kitchen we support.”
The meal continued in a haze of civil conversation. Nathaniel spoke at length about orchids and alpine herbs, and I responded with interest—or at least the appearance of it. Beneath the talk of botany and foreign travel, something darker stirred beneath the surface. Lady Harriet watched me like a hawk, her words polished to a fine gleam, but too fine to be kind.
And all the while, I thought of the rooms I hadn’t seen.
When the second course was cleared, I set down my fork and turned politely to my hostess. “Lady Harriet, forgive me, but Ifind myself in need of the necessary.” I even managed a demure blush.
“No need to apologize,” Nathaniel said at once. “I’ll have a footman show you the way.”
“You’re most kind.”
I followed the servant as he guided me up the stairs and gestured toward a door. “Just here, milady.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, voice touched with false distress. As soon as his footsteps retreated down the hall, I turned in the opposite direction, heart ticking fast beneath my stays.
Several doors lined the corridor. The first revealed a linen closet, the second a dim parlor. The third, slightly ajar, opened onto a small, private study. A faintly musty scent lingered in the air—lavender and dust. Lace doilies covered the arms of two rigid chairs. A single writing desk stood beneath the window, flanked by a narrow bookcase. It was a tidy space, but not a warm one.
Feminine, meticulous, impersonal.
