Page 94 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
I told him everything—the identical stationery, the handwriting that matched the note Elsie had received, the unfinished letter addressed to my dear one. Lady Harriet’s confession. Her veiled warning.
He said nothing for a long moment. Then at last, in a low voice, he murmured, “She suspects you’re close to uncovering the truth.”
“She knows I attended the inquest. That I’ve been asking questions. I won’t stop.”
“No,” he said grimly. “You won’t.” He leaned forward, voice cutting through the carriage’s quiet. “If your life wasn’t in danger before, it is now. Her sights are clearly set on you.”
“She can’t harm me, Steele.”
“Need I remind you that she lured Elsie to her death?”
“I’m not so gullible as to fall for a note, Steele,” I said, gazing out the window. Fog pressed against the glass, softening the glow of the gas lamps into halos. I turned back to him as a thought occurred to me. “The person she was writing to? The one she called my dear one. Could he be involved?”
“Maybe,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “That’s something we need to discuss along with other things I learned earlier. It needs to be tonight. There’s no time to waste.”
“I agree. We could do so at Rosehaven House. The children will be asleep by now. And Cosmos . . . well, he’s likely still out.”
“Not Rosehaven,” he said immediately. “Given the size of your household, we’re likely to be interrupted. It has to be Steele House.”
I hesitated. If we were seen—if anyone discovered I’d gone there at night—the consequences would be considerable. But he was right. What we’d uncovered demanded a swift, private discussion. We needed to speak freely. To plan without restraint. To decide what came next without the weight of propriety pressing in.
Even if it meant being alone in his house.
With him.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
LANTERNLIGHT AND LONGING
We stopped at Rosehaven House only long enough for the footman to disembark. Then we continued on to the rear entrance of Steele House.
When I cast him a questioning look, Steele murmured, “I gave the cabbie our final destination while your footman was retrieving you from Vale House.”
He let us in through the rear service door and led me down a narrow corridor, steeped in darkness—the kind that pressed in like velvet. He struck a match and lit the waiting oil lantern, its flickering glow casting long, shifting shadows across the walls.
We moved in silence, past the butler’s pantry and up the narrow service stairs, our footsteps muffled against the worn treads.
He didn’t speak, didn’t make a fuss—just reached back and took my hand, as if to say,Come along, don’t fall. But the warmth of his touch, the steadiness of his grip, and the quietintimacy of moving through darkness together—I felt it in the depths of my soul.
At the top of the stairs, he led me down a dim corridor and stopped at a heavy oak door.
Steele pushed open the door, and the lantern’s glow spilled into the room ahead of us.
The scent of leather and old paper met me first—rich and warm, like something aged to perfection. Rows of towering bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, their spines gleaming in the soft light. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a gentle amber hue across the carved paneling and dark wood furnishings. Above, a coffered ceiling loomed high, and against the far wall, a brass-railed gallery wrapped around a second tier of books.
It was the kind of room one could vanish into for days—no, years—and never quite reach the end.
I took a step inside, unable to hide my awe.
When I glanced sideways, I found Steele watching me. There was no smugness in his expression—just quiet observation, as if he were trying to read more than my reaction to the bookshelves.
I cleared my throat. “Laurel would adore this room,” I said lightly. “We’d never get her out again.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She’d be welcome to stay.”
Steele crossed to the fireplace and set the lantern on the mantel before ringing for his butler. Milford appeared moments later, as if he’d been waiting just out of sight—which, knowing him, he probably was.
