Page 95 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Your Grace,” he said with a bow.
Steele shrugged out of his greatcoat and handed it over, along with his hat. “See these taken care of, will you? They’re still dripping.”
Then he turned to me. “Lady Rosalynd?”
Taking the cue, I slipped free of my damp cloak and gloves, the library’s warmth already chasing away the lingering chill.
“Where did you put Finch?” Steele asked his butler.
“The blue room, Your Grace. Your man saw to him. From what I understand, he was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.”
“Thank you, Milford. That will be all.”
Once the butler departed, Steele turned to me, “Please take a seat.”
As I curled into a wingback chair near the hearth, Steele poured two glasses of brandy and offered one to me.
“Drink. It will warm you up.”
“Thank you.” I took it gladly, welcoming the heat of the brandy after the damp ride.
For a moment, he remained standing, his gaze on the fire, before finally settling into the chair opposite mine. We sat in comfortable silence while the fire rustled softly between us, its shadows flickering across the room.
It was a lovely moment—unexpected and still. No interruptions, no siblings calling my name or demanding my attention. Just the two of us, the hush of the library, and the warmth of the brandy between my hands.
I let my gaze rest on Steele, on the quiet strength in the set of his shoulders, the way the firelight traced the hard lines of his jaw. There was something calming in his presence, something steady beneath the surface. For all his guardedness—and mine—this silence felt companionable. Safe, somehow.
A log in the hearth crackled sharply, sending up a sudden spray of sparks. And my thoughts turned to the name that had been mentioned.
“Finch?” I asked, curiosity edging into my voice.
“He’s an inquiry agent,” Steele said, cradling his glass of brandy. “Sharp, discreet, and not easily rattled. I asked him to investigate the Vale family.”
Of course he had.
We’d discovered the arc-shaped crest belonged to them—on the carriage seen near the scene of Elsie’s death, and again on the stationery that had lured her to her fate. It made perfect sense to pursue that lead. If I’d been in his position, I would have done the same.
And yet . . . a small flicker of resentment stirred.
He hadn’t told me.
I stared into the fire, the brandy warm in my hands, the weight of his revelations still settling over me.
“You didn’t share that with me,” I said quietly. There was no accusation in my voice—just the truth of it.
He didn’t answer right away. The fire hissed in the silence between us.
“No,” he said at last. “I didn’t.” He didn’t offer excuses. He didn’t look away.
“But then,” I added, “I didn’t tell you I knew Nathaniel Vale either.”
“And now?”
It was a test of our new understanding. “I know better. That’s why I sent the letter to you.”
He gave a slight nod, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, brandy glass hanging loosely in one hand. “Finch had been working on something else for me. A separate matter. Personal. It involved my brother Phillip.”
“Oh?”
