Page 20 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Twenty

LESSONS IN POWDER AND FIRE

T illy had helped me dress by lamplight, her fingers quick and sure as she fastened the last of the buttons on a soft wool gown the color of midnight.

No corset tonight—just a simple chemise and the loose fall of skirts.

I wanted freedom of movement, though I wasn’t entirely certain what form that movement might take.

"Not quite your usual ensemble, milady," Tilly remarked, stepping back to appraise me with a conspiratorial gleam. "But you look daring. Almost wicked."

I arched a brow at her in the mirror. “Daring and wicked.” Was that how I wished to be seen?

She grinned as she slipped a cloak over me. “Shall I go ahead, milady? Make sure no one’s about?”

“Please,” I said, my heart beginning to drum a little harder.

Tilly pulled on her own cloak and slipped out the door like a wisp of smoke.

After giving her sufficient time to ensure no one was about, I made my way down the stairs. She was waiting for me below, holding a small oil lamp, its golden glow flickering across her eager face.

"Coast’s clear," she whispered. "Cook’s asleep, and I locked the scullery door from the inside. We’ll go out the back."

I nodded, lifting my skirts slightly as I followed her through the stillness of the lower hall. The portraits of ancestors loomed dimly in the gloom, their painted eyes seeming to watch as we crept past.

Through the butler’s pantry, past the old bell board, and down a narrow corridor seldom used by anyone but staff, we made our way toward the back of the house. The scent of coal dust and polish lingered in the air, along with something sharper—anticipation.

At the tradesman’s entrance, Tilly set down the lamp and pulled open the heavy door. Fog slipped inside like a living thing.

"He’s just beyond the garden wall," she murmured, clutching her cloak around her. "John Coachman.”

I glanced at her sideways. "You’re quite certain he won’t say anything?"

She sniffed. "If he wants another kiss, he’ll keep his mouth shut."

I stared at her. "Tilly!"

She winked. "Go on now. He’s waiting."

The door closed softly behind me as I stepped into the mist, the chill wrapping around me like a glove.

Just as Tilly had promised, John Coachman waited beside the waiting brougham, his lantern casting a muted glow.

We pulled away from Rosehaven House with barely a sound, the wheels muffled by the low-hanging haze that clung to the cobbled streets.

I drew the curtain back an inch, watching the city slip past in shades of soot and silver.

London at night felt like another world entirely—emptied of clamor and clatter, hushed as if it, too, had fallen into uneasy dreams. The usual chaos of costermongers and hansom cabs had vanished, replaced by gaslight flickers and the occasional shadow flitting across a window.

A lamplighter paused beneath an iron post, his torch held high like a priest performing a private benediction.

It was quieter than I’d expected. Quieter than I liked.

Alone with my thoughts, I tried not to dwell on the impropriety of it all—the unmarked Rosehaven carriage, the midnight meeting, the revolver. And Steele.

Especially Steele.

He had not so much invited me as ordered me. With a tone that suggested refusal was not an option. And I had obeyed. Willingly.

The carriage turned into Pall Mall, the familiar thoroughfare now deserted but for the soft clip of hooves and the distant bark of a dog somewhere near St. James’s.

And then, through the veil of fog, I saw him.

A tall, still figure emerged from the shadows near the Caledonian Club, just beyond the reach of the gas lamp’s glow.

His hat was pulled low, his overcoat buttoned to the throat, the sharp line of his shoulders unmistakable.

He didn’t pace. Didn’t fidget. Merely stepped forward as the carriage drew near, revealing just enough of his face that I knew it was him.

Waiting—as if he’d known I would come.

As the brougham slowed to a stop, I took one last breath and braced myself for whatever this night might become.

Before I could lift a hand, he appeared at the carriage door, his gloved fingers already reaching for the latch. With practiced ease, he opened it and extended a hand.

“Lady Rosalynd.” His voice was low, the single word coiled with restrained energy.

I took his hand—the warmth of it steadying—and stepped down into the fog.

“Steele,” I replied, drawing my cloak tighter. “I trust I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all.” His gaze swept over me, lingering at my eyes.

Then, without turning, he called out, “Driver—take her ladyship’s carriage around to the alley off Half Moon Street. Wait there, out of sight.”

A murmur of assent, the soft clatter of hooves, and the brougham slipped away into the mist.

“I knew you’d come,” he said.

“Oh?” I arched a brow. “So sure of me, were you?”

A flicker of something wry passed across his features. “You’re curious. And far too proud to let me think you’d be cowed by a pistol.”

I gave a soft laugh, the sound breathless in the cold air. “You make it sound like I came here to prove something.”

“Didn’t you?”

He offered his arm, and I took it. The fabric of his coat was warm from his body, and the quiet strength beneath it stirred something deep in my chest.

Without a word, he led me to a narrow servants’ entrance tucked between two stone columns at the rear of the building. The Caledonian was a grand pile of stone and arrogance that, until now, I had only ever passed from the front. No woman—at least no respectable one—ever crossed its threshold.

This is wildly improper , I thought, heart pounding. And I’m doing it anyway .

The brass trim on the heavy door caught the lamplight like a secret glinting in the dark.

After unlocking it with a brass key, Steele guided me inside.

The hush closed around us like a velvet glove as we slipped through a short corridor, then up a narrow staircase that opened onto the private interior of the club.

Curious to know what this secret bastion of masculinity looked like, I took note of everything as we passed.

The upper hallway was a dream of polished wood, marble busts, and oil portraits—one long ode to male accomplishment.

A library door stood slightly ajar, revealing towering bookcases and the ghost of cigar smoke.

The air was thick with quiet reverence and unspoken rules.

The kind of place where decisions that shaped empires were made over port and silence.

“I’d always wondered what lay beyond those doors,” I whispered.

Steele’s mouth quirked slightly as we reached another corridor, this one leading downward. “Nothing that would shock you half as much as this.”

At the end of the hallway, he drew out another key—iron this time—and unlocked the door to the gallery below.

The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a long, narrow chamber. The scent of gun oil and old wood clung to the air—masculine, sharp, faintly metallic. The private shooting gallery was all stone and shadow, lit only by two lamps mounted along the paneled wall.

At the far end stood wooden target boards, riddled with holes, their rings barely visible in the gloom. A narrow padded bench ran along one wall, and above it hung a row of neatly mounted pistols, their polished barrels gleaming like teeth.

The weight of the room pressed inward. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of fabric, seemed to echo in my ears. It was not fear that prickled along my skin. It was something more dangerous. Expectation.

He turned toward me then and, without a word, reached for the clasp of my cloak. His fingers brushed my shoulder as he undid it—lightly, expertly. The gesture was practical. Innocent, even. And yet, it set my heart to a gallop.

I let him ease it from my shoulders, the silk-lined wool whispering against my sleeves.

He folded it neatly and placed it on a nearby chair, beside his own coat.

Then he rolled up his shirtsleeves to the elbow, exposing strong forearms dusted with fine dark hair.

The simplicity of it—bare skin, rolled linen—shouldn’t have undone me. But it did.

I could still feel the heat from where he’d stood close—too close—when he guided me inside and shut the door behind us.

But my eyes were drawn to the center table. There, laid out with almost reverent care, rested a single revolver.

I stood perfectly still as Steele checked the pistol, his hands steady and assured. He had not asked me whether I wished to learn. He had simply said, "Come." As though he knew I would follow.

He turned at last, the pistol resting across his palm. “The Webley Bulldog,” Steele said, his voice echoing lightly in the quiet. “Six-shot. Double-action. Reliable. Easily concealed. Lightweight enough for a lady’s reticule but heavier than you think. Let me show you.”

I stepped forward because I had to. Because pride would not let me do otherwise. But my heart was hammering far too fast, and not from nerves alone. There was no one here to see. No chaperone. No footman.

Only him.

Only me.

I took the pistol in both hands. It dragged my arms down, just as he’d warned.

“Steady,” he murmured, stepping behind me.

And then I felt him—his hand at my waist, gentle but certain. As he positioned me to face the target, I went very still.

“Widen your stance,” he said, his breath warm against my ear. “Loosen your shoulders. Not too much. “Now breathe in slowly. Hold it. And when you're ready—gently squeeze.”

The tension in my body had nothing to do with posture. He moved behind me with quiet ease, adjusting my grip with long fingers, guiding my aim. The brush of his hand along my arm sent a shiver right through my bones.

I ought to have protested. I ought to have demanded he keep his distance. But instead, I breathed in slowly, catching the scent of him—clove, smoke, something wind-worn and elemental.

“You’ll aim just below the center,” he said. “Compensate for the rise.”

“I—” My voice caught. I swallowed and tried again. “Yes.”

He didn’t move away. He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating through his shirtfront. One of his hands still rested at my hip, the other on my wrist.

I should have turned. I should have stepped back. Instead, I fired.

The pistol cracked like a whip, and my arms jolted. His hand caught mine at once, steadying me, as the recoil rang up through my shoulders. But it was the silence that followed that made my skin flush.

I had missed.

Steele reached around me, took the pistol from my hand, and examined the barrel. He said nothing at first. And then “You held your breath too long.”

“I’ll take that into account.”

Once more, he handed me the pistol. And I held it exactly as he showed me, my fingers tight against the grip. The metal was warm now—from my hands or his, I wasn’t sure. Steele stood behind me again, close enough that the back of my gown brushed against him when I breathed too deeply.

His hand slid to my waist once more, guiding me into position. The pressure was light, almost impersonal.

Almost.

“Now,” he said softly, his breath stirring the loose tendrils at my temple. “On the exhale.”

I squeezed the trigger. The crack of the shot reverberated through the chamber. I blinked, startled to find the revolver still in my hands—and a neat hole just left of the center ring.

“Not bad,” Steele said, his tone unreadable.

I lowered the revolver, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

The silence stretched as he remained behind me, his breath still close, too close. I felt his gaze before I turned to face him, my hands still trembling around the weapon. “I hated that.”

“Did you?”

“Yes,” I said. But it came out softer than I intended.

“I believe you,” he murmured as he watched me—not with amusement or condescension, but something deeper. More dangerous. And then his gaze dropped to my mouth, and I forgot how to breathe.

This was not supposed to happen. I had come here for instruction. To learn how to defend myself. But my pulse now thrummed like a bird in a cage, fluttering with every second he did not look away.

He whispered my name. “Rosalynd.”

It was not a question. Not a command. Merely my name, spoken with quiet certainty. It struck somewhere low in my stomach.

He bent forward, slowly, as if unwilling to startle me. As if giving me every chance to stop him.

I should have stepped away.

I should have said something. Anything.

I did none of those things.

The space between us narrowed, our breaths mingling in the dim lamplight. And then, as his lips hovered just above mine?—

“My, my, my! What have we here?”

I jumped back, my breath catching in my throat.

A tall man stood at the gallery threshold.

Older than Steele by a good ten years, his evening coat immaculately tailored, a half-burned cigar smoldering between two fingers.

muttonchop whiskers framed a face too clever by half, and his eyes—sharp, amused, unbothered—flicked from me to Steele, then back again.

“Well,” he said, with a slow, appreciative grin. “Didn’t realize the gallery was hosting private lessons tonight.”

Steele’s voice was calm. “Langford.”

The gentleman leaned casually against the doorframe. “And here I thought you disapproved of club scandal. You bring a woman into the Caledonian after midnight and teach her to shoot?” He gave a mock shudder. “Positively decadent.”

“You’ll keep this to yourself,” Steele said flatly.

Langford chuckled. “Naturally. Though I’m tempted to demand a demonstration at the next committee meeting.” His gaze flicked to me one last time—amused, assessing. Then he tipped his head in farewell and let the door fall shut behind him.

Steele turned to me at once. “We’re leaving.”

I said nothing as he crossed to the chair and shrugged on his coat. My cloak, he settled over my shoulders, his touch brisk, impersonal. Last of all, he dropped the revolver into my reticule.

“I don’t?—”

“The chamber’s empty,” he said curtly. “It only held two bullets.”

“But—”

“I’ll bring you a box of them next time I see you,” he said, already turning away.

Without another word, he opened the door and led me out. We passed through the corridor in silence, the hush of the club pressing in around us—mahogany-paneled walls, dim lighting. No one marked our passage.

Only when we reached the outer steps did he pause and turn to me. “You need not worry about Langford. He won’t talk.”

“Because he is a gentleman?”

“Because he knows what I’ll do to him if he does.”

That was the moment I understood—truly understood—how dangerous the Duke of Steele could be.