Page 10 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Ten

A brOTHER’S RECKONING

“ Y ou find what just happened amusing?” Rosalynd’s face was flushed with outrage.

I fought back a smile. “You have to admit it was rather.”

Lady Rosalynd and I had just stepped out of the church into the crisp morning air, the chapel doors thudding shut behind us.

“I do not, Your Grace. By teatime, half of Mayfair will know we were seen arguing at St. George’s.”

“And that’s a problem for you.” I hadn’t meant it to sound quite so glib—but there it was.

Her furious gaze landed on me. “Of course, it’s a problem. We’ve just barely weathered the tittle tattle surrounding Walsh’s murder. Last thing I wish is to start that again.”

“Then, let’s see you home.” Spotting a passing hackney, I stepped off the curb and raised my arm. After the driver pulled to a halt, I opened the door and held out my hand to her.

But she refused to take it. “I’d prefer to go alone. We’ve attracted quite enough notice already.”

“I’m afraid I must disappoint you. We need to speak privately.”

She pressed her lips together. After a pause, she relented with a sigh. “Very well. I suppose the damage is already done.”

As we settled into the carriage, I leaned back. “You didn’t bring your maid.”

“I didn’t expect an audience. St. George’s is usually empty at this hour. A miscalculation, clearly. Now, what is it you wished to discuss?”

I turned my head to look out the window. “Your visit to the mortuary.”

That earned me a sharp glance. “You expressly forbade me from going.”

“You’ll go regardless. As you so clearly stated, you don’t need my permission.” I met her gaze. “So the only reasonable course is for me to arrange it. At two o’clock this afternoon. That gives me time to keep an appointment.”

She tilted her head, studying me. “This isn’t a convenient excuse, is it? A way to keep me safely tucked away while you investigate alone?”

“You have a suspicious nature, Lady Rosalynd.”

“Only when I’m being managed.”

“I prefer protected.”

She arched a brow. “Semantics. Now then—what’s your plan?”

“I’ll send my unmarked carriage to collect you at two. It will take you to St. James’s, where I’ll be waiting. You will remain in the carriage while I retrieve Elsie’s things. Under no circumstance are you to enter the mortuary.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she gave a terse nod.

“Afterward, I suggest a return visit to St. Agnes.”

“That was already my intention. Last night I only spoke with Sister Margaret. The girls were grieving, as one might expect. I hope today they’ll be in a better state to talk.”

I hesitated. “Dodson will frown upon your actions if he were to find out. You’ll need to plan what you will say if you do.”

“I have no intention of staying out of it, as I informed him last night.” She hesitated a moment. “But you’re right. I’ll simply tell him as a benefactress of St. Agnes, I’m helping the young ladies cope with their grief.”

“A reasonable explanation, although I doubt he’ll fall for it.”

“You’re not afraid of him, are you?”

“My fear is for you, Lady Rosalynd. He can be a nasty brute. If he does anything to harm you?—”

“He won’t. I’ll bring protection.”

She was probably thinking of that useless penknife of hers. A lot of good it would do her against Dodson. I decided to keep my counsel. She was riled up already. “Just be careful, that’s all I ask.”

“I will.” She gave me a long, level look. “What will you be doing, Your Grace, while I’m interrogating the residents of the Home?”

“I’ll be speaking with the constable who found Elsie’s body. I want him to walk me through the scene. With any luck, I’ll find something that was overlooked.”

Her expression softened—just a touch. “You’re quite good at this.”

I allowed myself a faint smile. “It’s not my first enquiry. I’ve done this before.”

Outside, the city churned past—oblivious to our plans, indifferent to the loss we carried between us. But one thing was becoming increasingly clear. Despite the strategies I was so carefully laying, Lady Rosalynd had a singular talent for throwing every one of them into disarray.

Once I delivered her safely to Rosehaven House, I dismissed the hackney and summoned my own carriage.

Phillip’s bachelor lodgings were not far, but the short journey offered me just enough time to brace myself. Not that anything could fully prepare me for what I found.

The moment I stepped inside, the air hit me like a wall—cloying perfume, stale wine, and something worse I chose not to name.

Phillip’s valet, Harrington, met me in the entrance hall, pale and anxious. “Your Grace?—”

“Where is he?” I bit out.

Harrington coughed. “In his bedchamber, sir.”

I didn’t wait for more. My boots rang out on the hardwood as I strode down the corridor. The door to Phillip’s bedchamber stood ajar. I pushed it open without knocking.

And there he was, shirtless and grinning, his arm slung around a half-naked woman draped across him like an ornament.

“Phillip.” My voice cut like a blade.

He lifted his head, eyes bleary but amused. “Warwick? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need to speak with you. Alone.”

He stretched lazily and trailed his fingers along the woman’s bare shoulder. “Can it wait?”

“Get her out,” I snapped.

Phillip sighed dramatically before whispering something in the woman’s ear.

She giggled, slid from the bed, and with practiced ease scooped up her clothes.

I turned away, jaw tight, as she dressed, glancing back just in time to see her tuck a crumpled wad of bills into her bodice. She winked at me as she sauntered out.

I shot Harrington a look. “ This was your idea?”

The valet cleared his throat. “It was the only way to keep him in, Your Grace.”

Meaning his choices had come down to drunkenness, cards, or rogering a woman. Marvelous.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Phillip. Trousers. Now. I’ll wait in the sitting room.”

He gave me a lazy salute. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

I turned sharply and strode out before my temper got the better of me. But in the corridor, I came to a sudden halt and addressed the valet. “I’m concerned about Lord Phillip and his, er, bed sport activities. Does he take . . . necessary precautions?”

Harrington didn’t so much as blink. “Yes, Your Grace. His lordship arranges for a regular supply of French letters from a chemist in Holborn. A dozen or so,” he added with quiet efficiency.

“Monthly?”

“Weekly,” Harrington added with quiet certainty.

I blinked. “Good God.”

“His lordship is nothing if not . . . diligent.”

I snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

In the sitting room, I planted myself near the fireplace, arms crossed, blood simmering just beneath the surface.

Minutes later, Phillip strolled in, shirt half-buttoned, trousers wrinkled, hair a rumpled mess.

The very picture of careless charm—and yes, beauty.

All three Thornburn siblings shared that curse.

“You need a bath.”

Without bothering to comment, he flopped into a chair, stretching out like a cat in the sun. “To what do I owe the honor, dear brother? Making sure your little investment hasn’t gone to rot?”

I refused to rise to the bait. “I’ve cut your allowance, Phillip. I pay for these rooms. I pay for your food. I pay for Harrington. And yet you manage to find money—for cards, for drink.” I curled my lip. “For women.”

“Ahh, it’s the women that rankles. Not everyone leads the life of a monk.”

“I do not—” I bit back the retort and forced my tone flat. “How are you paying for it all?”

He leaned back, trying for nonchalance. “Friends lend. Favors are exchanged . . .”

“No.” I stepped forward, letting the weight of my anger settle. “Tell me exactly how you’re paying for your disreputable habits. Because if I don’t know, I can’t stop you from destroying yourself.”

The easy air in the room vanished. Tension stretched taut between us.

Phillip looked away, his fingers drumming the chair’s armrest. “You’re overreacting.”

My voice dropped, soft but cutting. “Am I?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve . . . found a few people. Made a few arrangements. You’d be surprised how easily doors open when one’s brother is the Duke of Steele.”

A chill crept down my spine. “Names. I want names.”

He gave a careless shrug. “What does it matter?”

“It matters because they’ll own you. And through you, they’ll try to own me. And Nicholas. And Mother.”

Something hot rose within him. “Don’t you dare bring Mother into this!”

“Why not? She’s already worrying herself sick over you. She knows, Phillip. She knows.”

“Not the full extent of it, surely.”

“No,” I said softly. She did not know the worst of it, and thank God for that. “But enough.”

His jaw clenched. “So what if I drink? Gamble? Keep company with whoever I please? I’m not married. I have no responsibilities.”

I exhaled slowly, fighting the surge of frustration. “You bear the name of a ducal house,” I said tightly. “You’re gambling with more than coin, Phillip. You’re gambling with our name, our reputation, legacy. Can’t you see that?”

He turned his face away. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of shame—maybe even fear.

But then he stood abruptly, flashing that same easy grin.

“Well,” he said breezily, standing with a stretch, “I do appreciate the visit, brother. Shall we call this lecture concluded?”

My hands curled into fists at my sides, but I forced myself to stay still. “Not nearly.” Without another word, I turned on my heel and strode out before fury overran reason.

I wasn’t done with Phillip—not by a long shot.

Outside his lodgings, I dismissed the carriage with a curt word to my coachman and turned up my collar against the sharp wind.

No sense broadcasting my next call.

I didn’t want the world—the press, the House of Lords, close acquaintances—knowing the Duke of Steele was about to hire a private enquiry agent. But I needed answers. If Phillip wouldn’t give them to me, I’d get them another way.

The man I had in mind kept offices just off Hatton Garden, on a narrow side street that still smelled of coal smoke and damp wool. The sort of place easily overlooked, which suited him perfectly.

Caleb Finch.

Some years back, we’d crossed paths. I’d come to admire the man’s keen instincts and refusal to be cowed by rank or wealth.

He didn’t bow or scrape, but neither did he boast. In a world where too many men talked and too few listened, Finch had the rare good sense to observe before opening his mouth.

I hailed a hackney and gave the driver Finch’s address. Halfway there, my stomach growled—loud and insistent. A sharp reminder it hadn’t been fed. So it was not in the best of moods, I arrived at my destination.

The bell above Finch’s door gave a soft clang as I stepped inside.

He looked up from his desk, a half-eaten meat pie in one hand, a stack of what appeared to be case notes in the other. Chestnut hair, brushed back carelessly from a lined but intelligent face. Late forties, maybe. Sharp blue eyes, faintly amused.

“Well, well,” he drawled, setting down the pie. “Thought I felt the air shift. What’s brought his nibs, the Duke of Steele, into my disreputable establishment?”

I shut the door behind me. “A favor. A quiet one.”

Growing serious, he raised a brow. “Trouble?”

“Possibly.” I crossed to the chair opposite his desk and sat. “My brother Phillip.”

Finch leaned back, laced his fingers over his stomach. “You want me to keep an eye on him?”

“I want to know who he’s seeing. Where he’s going. Who’s lending him money. He’s in deep—and I need to know how deep before he drags the rest of the family and our good name under.”

Finch nodded slowly. “You think he’s being used?”

“I think he’s being reckless. And reckless men make excellent pawns.”

“I’ll need to be discreet.”

“You always are. That’s why I came to you.”

His lips twitched into something close to a smile. “And here I thought it was my charm.”

I gave a low chuckle despite myself. “That too.”

Finch turned serious. “Anyplace you want me to start?”

“He keeps bachelor quarters off Brook Street. I was just there. A woman left not long before I did—black hair, theatrical makeup, walked like she thought every man was watching. Might be something. Might be nothing.”

“I’ll find out.” Finch pushed a clean sheet of paper across the desk and jotted a few notes. “You’ll want daily reports?”

“Every other day will do, unless something urgent crops up.”

He nodded again. “Same terms as last time?”

I reached into my coat and handed over a sealed envelope. “A bit more than that. You’ll be earning it.”

Finch slipped the envelope into a drawer without looking. “Then I suppose I’d better start doing so.”

Coming to his feet, he extended a hand.

I rose and shook it. His grip was firm. Dependable. “I trust you, Finch.”

“I know. That’s why I’ll get it done.”