Page 93 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
I stepped inside.
Crossing to the desk, I found its surface carefully arranged—papers stacked with fussy precision, the inkwell capped, the pen wiped clean. Atop the pile lay a sheet of cream stationery. My breath caught.
It was identical to the note that had lured Elsie to her death.
And the handwriting—angular, deliberate, tightly controlled—was unmistakably the same.
Harriet Vale’s hand.
My pulse quickened. Who was she writing to this time?
I bent closer and read the first few lines:
My dear one,
You asked about Nathaniel in your most recent letter. I do not know the extent of what he has done, but I suspect he was rather reckless. The girl's death was a misstep. I dealt with heras best I could. Unfortunately, matters did not go as I wished. I pray you understand. You always have in the past.
To my horror, Nathaniel has developed a troubling fascination with Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven—yes, the very same who attended the inquest in the company of the Duke of Steele. He regards her as a suitable vessel for producing robust issue in the furtherance of the Vale line. Something will need to be done about her. I await your guidance.
Your loving . . .
The writing stopped there, the final stroke trailing off into a ghost of ink. As if she’d been interrupted. Or changed her mind.
I turned the note, searching for more—an address, a signature—but found nothing further.
An urgent pounding echoed from the front door, and my heart skipped. Voices followed—sharp, overlapping.
It had to be Steele. After reading my note, he could no more resist coming to the rescue than I could resist risking danger.
I slipped out of the study, closed the door behind me, and made my way down the stairs. At the bottom, Nathaniel intercepted me.
“Lady Rosalynd,” he said, brow furrowed, “a footman has arrived from Rosehaven House. Your sister, Petunia, has taken ill.”
“Oh no.” My breath caught as I clutched my hands to my chest.
“A physician is on his way, but she’s asking for you.”
“I’m so sorry, Dr. Vale,” I said breathlessly. “I must take my leave.”
“Of course. Do send word about her condition.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Within minutes, my cloak had been fetched, and I was escorted to the waiting carriage by one of our footmen, his umbrella shielding me against the worst of the rain.
Steele was inside the hackney, waiting in the shadows.
“You got my note,” I said, settling across from him as the footman climbed up beside the cabbie.
“What if I hadn’t been home?” His voice was taut, his jaw clenched.
“But you were.”
His gaze sharpened. “You take too many chances, Rosalynd.”
I met his eyes steadily. “Would you rather waste time scolding me, or shall I tell you what I found?”
He exhaled through his nose, fury held just beneath the surface. “The latter.”
