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Chapter

Thirty-Three

NO MORE SHADOWS

B y the time I left Scotland Yard, the gas lamps were still burning, but the streets were beginning to stir. I hadn’t shaved. I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten. And I was fairly certain I smelled like a dog’s breath after a long night in a butcher’s alley.

I went straight to Rosehaven House.

Honeycutt answered the door, as he always did—precise, proper, and impossibly affronted by the sight of me.

He didn’t say a word, but his nose wrinkled with impressive eloquence. A single twitch that conveyed a thousand shades of disdain. Still, he stepped aside and gestured me in with all the dignity of a man escorting a chimney sweep into a drawing room.

“Lady Rosalynd is in the morning room,” he said. “Waiting for news.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

He didn’t thank me back.

I made my way down the corridor, the house quiet, the hush of early morning settling in like mist. I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The fire had burned low, and light from the tall windows had just begun to creep across the floor.

And there she was.

Asleep.

Rosalynd sat curled in one of the armchairs, dressed in another of those plain gowns she favored when no one but family—or me—was likely to see her. A book lay open on her lap, her head tilted to one side, copper hair falling loose from its pins.

She looked exhausted. And lovely. And heartbreakingly vulnerable.

I didn’t speak.

Not yet.

I just stood there and watched her breathe.

I crossed the room in silence, my boots making no sound on the rug.

She’d fallen asleep with one hand curled loosely beneath her chin, the other still resting atop an open book. A faint crease lined her brow, even in sleep—like her mind refused to rest fully, even when her body surrendered.

I crouched beside the chair, careful not to startle her. Then, with a tenderness I hadn’t allowed myself, I reached out and touched her hand—just the back of it, warm and soft beneath my callused fingers.

“Rosalynd,” I said quietly.

She stirred. Her lashes fluttered, and for a heartbeat she blinked in confusion, as if unsure whether she was waking into the same world she’d fallen asleep in. Then her gaze found mine and cleared.

“Steele,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep. “You look … ” Her eyes swept over me. “Good Lord, you look like you’ve crawled out of a coal scuttle.”

I gave a tired smile. “Close. More like a Spitalfields alley and a holding cell at Scotland Yard.”

She sat up straighter, alert now. “What happened?”

“I found your murderer,” I said. “And he talked.”

She blinked away the last remnants of sleep as her gaze swept over me. And then her eyes narrowed.

“You have blood on your collar,” she said. “And heaven knows what’s on your coat.”

I glanced down. There was indeed a smear of dried blood at my collarbone—likely O'Donnell’s, not mine—and my coat, still dusted with alley grime, had seen better centuries.

“I was going for inconspicuous,” I said.

“You look like you lost a fight with a chimney,” she replied dryly. “And only barely survived.”

“Not far off,” I said. “But it was O'Donnell who came out worse.”

She was on her feet, the last of sleep gone from her face. “O’Donnell attacked you?”

“In an alley behind the tavern. Got a bullet in his leg for the trouble. Just a graze, but enough to stop him.”

“You weren’t hurt?” Her concern was all for me, rather than the fact the murderer had been found.

“No.”

She stared at me a moment, her eyes searching mine. Finally, satisfied with what she saw, she asked, “Did he talk?”

“He did more than that. He confessed.”

“Did he, really?”

I nodded. “Heller hired him to kill Walsh. He’d been visiting the Red Hound for weeks, feeling out the regulars. Asking what they’d be willing to do for coin. Quiet, careful—never saying too much. But my informant saw through it. O’Donnell was the one who took the bait.”

“Where is O’Donnell now?”

“In custody. A constable saw the scuffle. We took him to the Yard. He gave a full statement.”

Her voice was quiet, razor-sharp. “Heller paid him to kill Walsh.”

“He called it a family solution. Said the title, the estate—everything—was slipping away. So he decided to remove the obstacles. One by one.”

She exhaled slowly, the weight of it all settling around her. “He would’ve killed both Julia and her babe.”

“But now, he won’t get the chance.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes.”

“And you.”