Page 28 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

A brOTHER’S WORTH

I overslept.

Should’ve known. After the night I’d had—the alley, the fog, the filth of the Grinning Rat clinging to my coat like smoke—sleep had dragged me under and kept me there. I smelled like a dog’s breath and felt worse.

After a rushed bath and a hasty breakfast, I headed straight to Brook Street, arriving just before noon. At least, I could still claim it was morning.

Harrington let me in with a bow. He didn’t say a word. But then, he didn’t need to.

I found Phillip exactly where he’d been the night before—sprawled in a chair by the hearth, cravat askew, boots gone, one hand limp around a glass of brandy.

He looked up, blinking against the light. “Warwick?—?”

I shut the door behind me.

“Get up.”

He struggled upright, slowly. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No,” I said. “If you had, you might’ve bothered to act like a man instead of a wreck.”

He flinched, jaw tight, but didn’t argue.

“I went to The Grinning Rat last night.”

That snapped him to attention.

“You’re heavily in debt, Phillip. How much?”

He looked away.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s start simpler. How long?”

His voice was low. “A few months.”

“Who do you owe?”

Silence.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

He swallowed. “The debt was bought. I don’t know who holds it now.”

“I’ll tell you who it is.”

Phillip scowled. “If you know, then why bloody ask?”

“His identity remains a mystery. But I know he owns you, body and soul. And through you, he hopes to own me.” A beat. “I won’t let him.”

Phillip scrubbed his face. “That’s good. That you won’t let him, I mean. I didn’t want that . . . I was just?—”

“Trying to win what you’d lost so you could pay him back.”

“Yes.”

“He’s not interested in money, Phillip. He seeks power, control. Through you, he hopes to control me.”

Phillip’s gaze snapped back to mine. “I didn’t know that when I first played. It was just cards. I thought if I played enough, I could win it back.”

“But you didn’t,” I said, stepping forward. “So they asked for something else.”

His silence confirmed it.

“What did they ask for?”

He hesitated before he confessed. “They needed a name. A gentleman with connections. Someone respectable.”

“And they chose you.”

He nodded, shame etched across his face. At least he could still feel that emotion.

“For what reason?”

“A gentleman I knew needed an introduction to a wealthy family. He was courting a girl—an heiress. Said her father was old-fashioned. Wanted a name he trusted.”

“And you gave him ours. What’s the gentleman’s name?” I asked, although I already suspected.

“Henry Vale. I didn’t say yes right away. I knew what he was.” Phillip’s voice cracked. “He told me he was trying to change. That he’d fallen for her. He said he was finished with wild behavior, that he’d—” He stopped himself. “I believed him.”

I waited a beat before asking the next question. “Did you know about the household maid he seduced?”

Phillip paled but answered honestly. “Yes.”

“You didn’t think that mattered?” I asked quietly. “You thought that story ended there?”

“I thought . . .” He folded his arms tightly, as if bracing against the memory. “He told me she’d been taken care of. That it was behind him.”

I stepped forward, forcing him to look up at me. “She’s dead.”

His face paled. “What?”

“Her name was Elsie. She gave birth at St. Agnes. She was lured out by a note and murdered in the street.”

He sank into the chair like his bones had given out, hands dangling between his knees. “I didn’t know. I swear to you, Warwick, I didn’t know.”

I studied him for a long moment. “How much?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Your debt.”

He swallowed. “Five thousand. Give or take.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose. “I’ll pay it, once I find the bastard who holds your debt. Is there more?”

“A thousand or so. From friends.”

I swore under my breath.

His fiery gaze found me. “What was I to do? You cut off my allowance! I had expenses. So I was reduced to borrowing from friends.”

“Women. Liquor. What other expenses?”

“That’s it. Well, except for French letters.”

“At least you had enough intelligence for that.”

“You taught me well, Warwick,” he said with a crooked grin.

Unbelievable. He was trying to charm his way out of this. I’d coddled him long enough. Time to bring down the hammer. I drew a breath, steadying myself. “Here’s what you’ll do. You’ll give me a list of your debtors and the amounts owed. I will see all of them settled.”

Relief flickered in his expression. “Thank you, Warwick. I won’t—I won’t do it again.”

“You’re damn right you won’t,” I said, my voice resolute. “You’re leaving London. I’m sending you to Thornburn Abbey.”

Phillip recoiled, as if I’d struck him. “Thornburn Abbey? You can’t be serious. There’s nothing there. No clubs, no company, not even a decent bottle of brandy.”

There’s plenty there to occupy you. Fishing. Riding. And a library that runs floor to ceiling with books.” I let the words hang. “You might even read one. God knows, it wouldn’t hurt.”

Phillip’s face flushed. “Books were never easy for me.”

I scoffed. “They’re not meant to be easy. You just never tried.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “Right. Never tried.”

For a moment, the air between us held something heavier than anger—something neither of us was ready to name.

“You’ll stay there for the remainder of the season,” I said at last. “Mother and I will join you at the end of it. Nicholas, as well, if he’s returned from the continent.”

His mouth twisted in a stubborn pout, reminiscent of childhood tantrums long past. “I won’t stay. I’ll come back to London.”

“If you do, I’ll personally put you on a ship to India,” I said in a glacial tone. “Where you will remain without income. Without indulgences. And very much without my protection.”

Phillip blanched. “You’d exile me!”

“I’d save you from yourself.”

Silence settled between us, heavy and sharp. Only the tick of the mantel clock marked the moment.

Phillip’s voice, when it came, was small. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I thought I was helping a friend.”

I stared at him for a long moment. “If Henry Vale is your idea of a friend, you need to start choosing better company.”

I turned for the door. “Our carriage is waiting. Harrington has already packed your things. You have fifteen minutes to get on board.” My hand touched the doorknob. “And Phillip?”

He looked up.

“I’ll be watching.”

I left without another word and crossed the street to a narrow public house with a crooked sign that creaked in the breeze.

Inside, it was dim and smoky, the scent of ale clinging to the walls.

I ordered coffee—strong, black, and undiluted by cheer—and found a seat by the window with a clear view of Phillip’s front door.

The minutes dragged as I watched the Steele carriage idling in front of Phillip’s lodgings, the driver still and waiting, the horses shifting restlessly in their traces.

Harrington emerged first to supervise the loading of a valise and two trunk boxes with the help of our footman. The man moved with brisk efficiency, a quiet satisfaction in every gesture. At least someone in that household knew how to follow orders.

Once everything had been stowed safely, Phillip appeared in the doorway.

He wore a scowl, of course. The stiff set of his shoulders spoke volumes, his disdain for the situation worn as clearly as his cravat. But he was dressed and climbing into the carriage.

I watched him go, a flicker of unease threading through my chest. He wouldn’t thank me for this. In fact, he’d resent every mile between London and Thornburn Abbey.

But at least he’d be alive.

The carriage would take him to King’s Cross Station, where the train to Yorkshire awaited. My secretary would meet him there—discreetly—and accompany him north, whether Phillip liked it or not.

He wouldn’t know it, but he would be watched. Just as I’d promised.

After taking one last pull of coffee, I rose. With Phillip out of immediate danger and the noose tightening elsewhere, I now had other matters to attend to.

Rosalynd, first and foremost.