Page 22 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Two

INK AND VELVET

T he air inside the Caledonian was thick with cigar smoke, leather polish, and the particular stillness of power at rest. Gentlemen murmured over newspapers, a fire snapped softly in the grate, and the day’s scandals simmered just below the surface.

I handed my gloves and walking stick to the steward and made my way toward the back lounge, where discretion flowed more freely than whisky. Tucked in my inner coat pocket was a folded sketch: a rendering of the arc-shaped crest from the carriage Rosalynd and I had seen outside the inquest.

We hadn’t spoken of it last night at the shooting gallery. Of course we hadn’t. She’d come to learn how to shoot. But something else had transpired.

The memory surfaced—unbidden and unwelcome. Her breath, warm against my cheek. Steady hands wrapped around the revolver. Her maddening scent. That moment when we’d almost?—

Ruthlessly, I pushed the thought aside. There was work to be done.

At the far end of the lounge, I caught the eye of Gibbons, the senior steward. He was older than most of the drapery and twice as observant.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing with the ease of long familiarity. “Something I can assist you with?”

I passed him the sketch. “Have you seen this crest before?”

The steward took the drawing I handed him and examined it carefully beneath the wall sconce. His brow furrowed for a moment, then smoothed in recognition.

“Yes, sir. That’s the Arcendale crest. Belongs to the Vale family.”

I angled my head. “Members?”

“Only one we see with any regularity—Doctor Nathaniel Vale. Botanist, if I’m not mistaken. He’s the middle son. Comes in once or twice a month. Keeps to himself. Polite, quiet. Never lingers overlong. Resides at Park Crescent.”

“You say the middle son? Who are the others?”

Gibbons handed back the drawing and folded his hands neatly behind his back.

“There are three brothers in all. The eldest, Algernon Vale, is the current title holder. Lives down in Sussex. Never comes to Town. Bit of a recluse and rumored to be in delicate health. Hasn’t been seen at the club in a decade, not since his Cambridge days. ”

“And the youngest?”

Gibbons sniffed faintly. “Henry Vale. No official connection to the club, sir. From all accounts, quite the opposite of his brothers. Loud. Impetuous. Fond of gambling, drink, and . . . certain company best left unmentioned.”

He paused, then added with a hint of caution, “Rumor has it he’s shown a bit too much interest in his household staff, if you take my meaning.

Not the sort of behavior one expects from a gentleman—particularly not one said to be on the cusp of an engagement to a very proper young lady.

Her family, I imagine, would be horrified. ”

I lifted a brow. “Do you happen to know the lady’s name?”

Gibbons shook his head. “No, Your Grace. That detail hasn’t reached the card tables. Only that her father is a member of the Society for Civic Morality, devoted to stamping out vice and elevating public virtue, or so they claim.” He gave a faint twitch of a smile. Just short of amusement.

I returned it, grimly. “I imagine he’d be less than thrilled to learn his future son-in-law has a fondness for the help.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

I reached into my coat and drew out a sovereign, letting it catch the light for a moment before passing it discreetly to Gibbons across the counter. “For your troubles.”

He accepted it without looking, folding it into his palm with practiced ease. “Always a pleasure to be of service, Your Grace.”

“You’ve been most helpful.” With that, I turned on my heel and made for the club’s exit. We had a name in hand. Now all we needed to do was connect it to the murder. Nathaniel Vale, being a botanist, might be known to Rosalynd’s brother. So that would be the most logical place to start.

On the street, I hailed a hansom cab to take me to her. We needed to have a proper conversation, not only about the botanist, but everything we’d left unsaid.

Rosehaven House stood as stately and composed as ever, but the moment the butler opened the front door, I sensed something was off.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he said with a dignified nod.

“Is Lady Rosalynd receiving?”

“The ladies are in the drawing room,” he replied.

Which, of course, didn’t answer the question at all.

I passed him my hat and gloves and braced myself. “No need to show me in. I know the way.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The small twitch at the corner of Honeycutt’s mouth should have warned me.

As I walked into the drawing room, a dozen women turned as one—fans fluttering, curls bobbing, eyes sharp with curiosity. The air shimmered with pastel silks, perfume, and the scent of scandal in the making.

In the midst of it all, Lady Chrysanthemum held court, a cluster of young gentlemen buzzing around her like moths to a particularly captivating flame.

Off to the side, apart from the fray, stood Sefton.

One arm draped casually along the mantelpiece, the other lifting a glass of sherry to his lips, he watched the girl with an expression of idle amusement and quiet certainty.

He knew better than to join the crowd. He was waiting for her to come to him.

But where the devil was Rosalynd?

I scanned the room again, more carefully this time. She wasn’t here.

The knowledge landed with a quiet thud somewhere in my chest. Too late to retreat. Far too late. I was in it now—up to my cravat.

Help came from an unsuspected source. Lady Edmunds. All lazy grace and mischievous amusement, she rose from her seat near the hearth. An excellent vantage point to keep an eye not only on Rosalynd’s sister but Sefton as well.

“What a rare surprise,” she announced, voice floating across the room like perfume. “Do join us, Your Grace. We were just debating whether Mr. Barrett’s new sideburns are more offensive than his opinions on parliamentary reform.”

I made my way toward her, ignoring the sudden hush and the telltale clink of a teacup settling far too hard into its saucer.

“Lady Edmunds,” I murmured, just low enough, as I bowed to her. “A word. In private.”

She didn’t smirk or tease. She understood immediately and played her part to perfection.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she said brightly, her voice carrying just enough to reach the ears that strained to hear it. “Anything I can do to help. Perhaps the window seat would be best for this discussion.”

She took my arm without hesitation and led us across the room, past the pastel barricade of curious glances and half-sipped tea. We stopped near the tall window, the late morning light turning her fan to a blur of white and ivory.

Behind us, the silence quivered like a drawn string.

She angled her fan just so, shielding our conversation from even the most determined observer. “Now,” she said softly, “how may I be of help?”

“Where is Rosalynd? I need to speak with her.”

“She left late this morning. Said there was something she needed to take care of.”

“Did she say where?”

She laughed lightly—bright and effortless, as if I’d just made some witty remark. Behind the veil of her fan, she murmured, “She didn’t share that information with Chrissie.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is she in danger?”

I brushed a hand across my brow. “I don’t know.”

Before she could respond, Lady Chrysanthemum appeared at my elbow, eyes wide with concern. “Your Grace. Is something the matter?”

“Do you know where your sister went?”

She shook her head. “She didn’t say, but she was wearing one of her plainer dresses. Wherever it was, she clearly didn’t want to be noticed.”

“St. Agnes,” I said, almost to myself. “It has to be.”

She frowned. “Why would she go back there?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t share that with me.” I straightened. “I beg your pardon, but I must go.”

Lady Edmunds’s laughter rang out again, light and practiced. “You are so droll, Your Grace.”

Catching on to her ruse, Lady Chrysanthemum giggled. “Yes, terribly amusing.”

I nodded once, bowed to both, and turned to leave. Behind me, the flutter of fans resumed at full strength.

Honeycutt was already waiting in the front hall, gloves and hat in hand.

As he passed them to me, he asked in his usual calm tone, “Pardon me for asking, Your Grace, but are you, by chance, looking for Lady Rosalynd?”

I stilled. “I am.”

“She left for St. Agnes this morning. I heard her give the direction to the cabbie.”

I stared at him. “Why the devil didn’t you say so?”

Honeycutt offered a faint, utterly unrepentant smile. “Why, you never asked, Your Grace.”

The temptation to throttle the man was acute. But somehow, I restrained myself. It would not do to kill the Rosehaven butler in full view of the tea service.

I didn’t waste time summoning my own horses. I took a hackney straight to Clerkenwell, the fog thickening around us as we rattled eastward.

St. Agnes loomed out of the gloom like a ghost. After asking the cabbie to wait, I bounded up the steps two at a time and rapped sharply on the door.

Sister Margaret herself answered, her eyes widening at the sight of me. “Your Grace?—”

“Was Lady Rosalynd here?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, stepping back to let me in. “Around noon. She asked about Elsie’s belongings. I showed her a small wooden box she’d left behind. But she didn’t take it with her. She asked me to keep it safe before she left.”

“Where did she go?”

Sister Margaret hesitated. “A man came—said he was Elsie’s brother, come to collect her things. I refused to give them to him. Something about him unsettled me. Lady Rosalynd heard the conversation. After he left, she followed him. By foot, but then she hailed a cab.”

A chill slid down my spine. “Do you know where the cabbie took her?”

“He returned with a message from her. The man she was following entered a building off Saffron Hill, behind the old tannery—just across from a public house called The Boar and Fiddle.”

I was already reaching for the door.