Page 32

Chapter

Thirty-One

THE WEIGHT OF THE TRUTH

I stood just inside the doorway, painfully aware of my state—no corset, only a simple gown hastily buttoned, my copper hair pulled into a single braid that hung over one shoulder. I hadn’t even taken time to don a shawl. My breathing, no matter how I willed it to slow, remained shallow and uneven.

His gaze found mine—then dropped, just for a moment, to the rise and fall of my chest.

A flicker passed through his expression. Not surprise, exactly. Something sharper. His eyes darkened, and one brow lifted in subtle, unmistakable acknowledgment. My skin prickled beneath the fabric.

Then, as if summoned by some vestige of his better nature, he looked away.

“My apologies,” he said, his voice low and rough-edged, “for calling at such a late hour—and for rushing you into a state of ... informal attire.”

It was the faintest smile that touched his lips, not quite smug, not quite sincere. But it made my pulse quicken all the same.

I drew myself up—or tried to, as best one can without a corset—and offered a faint, steady smile. “You came at my invitation, Your Grace. I have no cause to object.”

As the chill of the night clung to my skin—I really should have brought a shawl—I stepped inside and let the door click softly shut behind me. Moving past him, I settled into the chair nearest the fire, where the flames crackled in the hearth.

“Tell me about your visit to Walsh House.” Of course, he remained standing, one hand resting on the back of the opposite chair. Heaven forbid he should sit down.

Still, I was supremely grateful for the turn to a safer topic—anything to pull us away from the tension simmering between us.

“I wondered if I would be admitted,” I said. “But I needn’t have worried. Mr. Anstruther, the butler, let me in. Lucretia—Charles’s wife—was in her rooms, prostrate with grief.”

Steele gave a slow nod. “I’ve met Anstruther. Old guard. Loyal.”

“It was from him I learned the most. The tea that poisoned Charles arrived the day before, around noon. A packet Julia had sent. A housemaid found it later that evening in the morning room. There was a note attached, stating it was to be used for Charles’s tea and his alone.”

“An odd thing, that,” Steele murmured.

“I thought so as well.”

“Did the note arrive with the packet?”

“I didn’t ask Anstruther.” I hesitated. “But Julia wouldn’t write something so specific.”

“Unless,” he said mildly, “she wanted to ensure no one else died from the hemlock.”

“She didn’t lace it with hemlock!” I shot back, heart quickening.

He lifted a brow. “I’m arguing the other side, Lady Rosalynd.”

I exhaled, tense. “The packet was delivered by one of our footmen. He was dressed in Rosehaven House livery.”

Steele frowned. “Then there’s no chance it was intercepted before arriving at Walsh House.”

“None.”

A pause.

“So,” he said at last, “the poison must have been added after the tea arrived.”

“I believe so,” I replied. “But the real question is—who would have done it?”

“Who in the house held a grudge against Charles?” Steele asked, his tone low and probing.

“No one. He’d only just arrived. There wasn’t time for anyone to turn against him.”

“Would someone be so loyal to Julia they would have acted on her behalf?” he pressed.

I shook my head. “I don’t see how his death would benefit Julia.”

“I can.” He remained standing by the fire, his shadow cast long across the hearth rug. The room was dim but for the flickering glow of coals and the sharp glint in his eyes—watchful, calculating, as if fitting puzzle pieces together in real time. “How familiar are you with primogeniture law?”

“Enough to know the basics. The oldest son inherits everything.”

He turned to face me fully then, his expression carved from granite. “The title passed to Charles the moment his father breathed his last. As the legitimate firstborn son, he inherited everything.”

A chill wrapped around my spine, colder than the night air seeping beneath the windowpanes. “Leaving Julia with nothing,” I murmured.

“Unless her late husband left her something in his will,” Steele said.

“Which he didn’t,” I replied. “The only thing she’s entitled to is the dower house. But with no annual sum to live on, the inheritance is worthless.”

“She was left at Charles’s mercy,” Steele said grimly.

“But what happens now that Charles is dead?” I asked.

He began to pace again, slowly and deliberately. “If Julia’s child is a girl,” Steele said, “the title moves to the next male heir—likely a cousin.”

“Edwin Heller,” I supplied.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “But if the child is a boy, and Charles left no issue, then?—”

“Her son becomes Lord Walsh,” I finished.

He nodded once.

“And all of it would revert to Julia’s son?” I asked. “The estate, the house, the fortune?”

“The title, certainly,” Steele said. “The entailed properties as well. As for personal wealth—only what remains, and only if it hasn’t already been claimed or hidden. But the moment she gives birth to a son, she ceases to be a powerless widow. She becomes the mother of a peer.”

The fire hissed softly in the grate, but I no longer felt its warmth. Steele’s words echoed in my mind, stark and undeniable. The mother of a peer . Not merely a shift in status—an upheaval. A threat. And that would make her a target.

I drew in a slow breath, my fingers curling tightly around the armrest of my chair. “So that’s why she’s in danger.”

Steele’s gaze flicked to mine. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to.

“She’s gone from an inconvenient widow to the sole guardian of the heir presumptive,” I said slowly, as the pieces clicked into place. “If her child is a boy, she holds the key to everything. And if something were to happen to her before the birth … ”

He gave a single, grave nod. “Then the path clears. The title passes to Heller. And he—unlike a newborn—can sign documents. Control land. Shift assets.”

I swallowed hard, a fresh wave of unease washing over me. “They wouldn’t have to harm the child if Julia didn’t live long enough to deliver him.”

“If the child is never born,” Steele added quietly, “there’s nothing to contest.”

A silence settled between us, heavy as a funeral shroud.

“All this time,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper, “I thought it was vengeance for funds being stolen. But it wasn’t personal, was it?”

“No,” Steele replied. “It was business.” The word made my skin crawl.

“And business,” I murmured, “kills without blinking.” I looked up at him. “Edwin Heller murdered Charles.”

“And his father before him,” Steele said grimly.

I sat back, the air thinning around me as the truth settled in. “Four deaths. There had to be four—Charles’s father, then Charles himself … ” I hesitated, the next words catching in my throat. “And then Julia and her unborn child.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“He needed them all gone,” I said at last, my voice unsteady. “Because if even one of them lived, everything would come crashing down around him.”

The enormity of it settled over me like a weight. I took a step toward Steele—not out of anger or bravado, but something far more fragile. I needed something solid to hold on to, someone who wouldn’t flinch in the face of what I now knew.

The air seemed to thrum, heavy with the weight of all that had passed—and all that might still come. Steele didn’t move, but his gaze fixed on mine with unsettling intensity, like a blade held steady in a trembling hand.

Drawn by something I didn’t fully understand, I closed the distance between us.

“Rosalynd.” He reached for me—not roughly, not in possession, but as if compelled. His fingers curled gently around my throat, a caress more electric than threatening. His thumb brushed across my lower lip, feather-light and devastating. I was suddenly aware of my breathing again—too shallow, too fast—as if my body had remembered its own yearning before my mind had caught up.

Heaven only knew what might have happened next. But a coal dropped in the grate, hissing and crackling as it struck the iron fender, tossing a spray of sparks toward the rug.

We both startled. Just enough to break the spell.

Breath catching, I stepped back as heat rose to my cheeks. The space between us suddenly felt charged in a different way—too close, too exposed. Without a word, I walked away, pretending to busy myself with smoothing my skirts, though my hands trembled slightly. I needed a moment—just one—to collect myself, to remember why we were here. What was at stake.

I drew in a steadying breath and fixed my gaze on the wallpaper. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to turn around. I was afraid of what I’d feel if I looked at him—what I might see reflected in his eyes. The nearness, the heat, the brush of his thumb across my mouth. It all lived too vividly beneath my skin. Needing the quiet to reorder myself, I clung to the silence. But silence, especially with Steele, never stayed quiet for long.

“I should have asked sooner,” I said, my voice low. “Did you find Lord Nicholas?”

A pause. Then the shift of fabric as he straightened behind me.

“No,” Steele said simply. “I didn’t.”

I turned back to face him, frowning. “You didn’t?”

“I spent the better part of the evening combing through his usual haunts—his club, the gaming rooms in Kensington, even that disreputable little theatre he frequents when the mood strikes. Nothing. Not a word, not a whisper.”

His jaw tightened, but only slightly—a flicker of emotion behind the calm. “It’s unlike him to disappear without leaving some sort of trail. Even when he’s trying to avoid me.”

I crossed the room slowly, the sense of dread I’d been pushing aside all evening creeping back in. “Do you think someone’s harmed him?”

“I don’t know.” He looked up at me then, something colder than frustration in his eyes. “But if they have, they’ll regret it.”

The words hung in the air between us, sharp and absolute.

“How do we prove Edwin Heller committed these murders?” I asked, my voice quieter now, more measured.

“We set a trap.”

I crossed my arms, the chill of the room settling through the thin fabric of my gown. “What kind?”

His gaze flicked to the fire, then back to me. “Killers and thieves will do anything for money. That’s always been true. You dangle enough of it in front of them, and they reveal who they are.”

I studied his face, searching for the thread of a plan.

“You already have something in mind, don’t you?”

His mouth curved—just barely. “The bait’s already set.”

I blinked. “Already?”

“I put the word out earlier tonight. A whisper in the right ear. A suggestion of something valuable. A reward for information.”

“You believe someone will come forward?”

“Someone always does. The murderer would have said something to someone. Or someone noticed a newfound wealth.

“How long before you know?”

“I expect to hear something by tomorrow.”

He looked at me then—truly looked at me. There was something in his expression I couldn’t quite name. Not triumph. Not satisfaction. Something quieter. Protective. Then, without another word, he turned and strode toward the door. He paused, hand on the handle. Glanced back.

I exhaled, tension unspooling in my shoulders. “You’ll keep me informed?”

“Of course.”

And then he disappeared into the night, leaving only the scent of cold air, woodsmoke, and the lingering echo of something I didn’t dare name.