Page 32 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Thirty-One

A VISIT TO VALE HOUSE

E arlier that Evening

I’d carefully chosen the gown I’d wear to supper.

No silks. No sparkle. Nothing Nathaniel Vale might deem ostentatious.

He was a man who valued modesty in women, or at least gave every indication of doing so.

The violet wool, with its high neck, long, snug sleeves, and plum velvet ribbon at the waist, certainly met his criteria.

And the gown's color complemented my copper hair without making a spectacle of it.

I had no desire to charm. Respectable and forgettable was the impression I wished to make.

I fastened a cameo at my collar—one that had belonged to my mother—then reached for my gloves.

But before descending the stairs, I crossed to my writing desk and drew out a sheet of personal stationery.

My note was brief, just enough to inform Steele of my destination.

But no more than that. He would likely come charging to the ‘rescue.’ But hopefully, not until I’d discovered something useful.

I signed it with a simple R , sealed it with wax, and descended to the front hall where Honeycutt waited.

Before climbing into the waiting carriage, I handed him Steele’s note. “Please have this delivered to His Grace’s residence, but don’t do so until an hour past my departure."

He took the letter with a composed nod. "Very good, milady.”

Vale House was situated on Park Crescent, the pale stucco facade curving with the architecture of the crescent itself. The house was elegant without being ostentatious—respectable, refined, and rather too clean. Gas lamps flickered along the pavement, casting trembling shadows up the steps.

An elderly butler answered my knock and led me through a hall lined with framed botanical prints. The scent of beeswax and old lavender lingered in the air, accompanied by a faint medicinal tang I couldn't place.

The drawing room was modest in size and tastefully appointed—pale grey walls, Queen Anne chairs, a pianoforte draped in lace. Everything had its place, and nothing felt lived in. It was a room meant to receive guests, not comfort its inhabitants.

Nathaniel Vale rose as I entered, darkly dressed and perfectly polished.

“Lady Rosalynd,” he said with a small bow. “You honor us.”

“Thank you for having me,” I replied, offering my hand.

He held it lightly, then turned toward the woman seated beside the hearth.

“May I introduce my aunt, Lady Harriet.”

I curtsied. “You are kind to receive me.”

“Lady Rosalynd.” Her voice was cool, clipped. “A pleasure.”

Lady Harriet’s gown was an unadorned steel grey, her silver-threaded hair coiled into a neat knot at the nape of her neck.

Her expression hovered somewhere between stern and impassive—not quite a frown, yet nowhere near a smile.

Had Vale not mentioned they were Anglicans, I might have taken her for a Quaker.

After inviting me to sit, Nathaniel claimed a chair near the fire. I perched across from Lady Harriet, careful to smooth my skirts and keep my posture composed. A footman appeared almost instantly, bearing a silver tray of sherry, as though the entire exchange had been choreographed.

“How fares your grandmother, the dowager countess?” Lady Harriet inquired, her tone polite but not precisely warm.

“Quite well, thank you for asking. She thrives on routine and ceremony.”

Lady Harriet inclined her head. “Yes. I imagine she does.”

The sherry was poured and offered, and Lady Harriet accepted hers with the faintest nod before continuing. “Nathaniel tells me you have a number of siblings. A large family, is it not?”

“Larger than most, I daresay. It keeps life interesting.”

“Indeed.” The word carried just enough weight to suggest that Lady Harriet found ‘interesting’ a rather suspect condition.

I took a sip of sherry to hide a smile. She hadn’t said anything overtly rude. But I was most definitely being assessed.

Nathaniel, perhaps sensing his aunt’s desire for a private word, rose with a glance at the clock. “If you’ll forgive me, Aunt—Lady Rosalynd—I’ve a pollination trial underway in the conservatory. If I don’t attend to it now, the timing will be off.”

Lady Harriet nodded. “By all means, see to it. We shall endeavor to entertain ourselves.”

With a slight bow, he departed, leaving only the low tick of the mantel clock between us.

Lady Harriet took a measured sip of sherry. “You were at Elsie Leonard’s inquest several days ago.”

I tilted my head, feigning mild surprise. “Oh? Were you there?”

Her mouth gave the faintest twitch. “I learned of it from a reliable source.”

Herself, more than likely. “Ah,” I murmured.

“You were not alone,” she said. “His Grace, the Duke of Steele, was seated beside you.”

I met her gaze. “Yes.”

“One might mistake such proximity for intimacy.”

“Then one would be mistaken.”

A pause followed—heavy and deliberate—before Nathaniel returned.

“Lady Rosalynd has devoted admirable time and energy to the plight of vulnerable women,” he said smoothly, as if to dispel the lingering chill in the air. “Her work in Clerkenwell is especially commendable.”

How curious, coming from a man who recoiled from anything less than immaculate.

Lady Harriet’s gaze did not shift from mine. “Yes,” she said, her voice soft but laced with steel. “Quite the cause.”

I held her eyes for a heartbeat longer than courtesy required.

Whatever polite mask she wore, something sharper lay beneath.

She knew I’d been at the inquest with Steele.

And for all her protestations of learning it through a “reliable source,” I would have wagered my gloves she’d been the one seated just a few rows behind.

There could be only one reason to mention it—to warn me off.

Did she fear discovery? Or was she protecting something—someone—closer to home? Either way, Lady Harriet was no passive aunt arranging flowers and managing dinner menus. She was watching. Measuring. Guarding something with quiet ferocity.

She was someone to be wary of.

A footman appeared in the doorway. “Lady Harriet, Doctor Vale, dinner is served.”

We rose, the moment carefully folded away beneath the rustle of skirts and the scrape of chairs. The dining room, though narrow, was handsomely appointed, its long table aglow with candlelight. I was seated beside Nathaniel, with Lady Harriet at the head, her posture erect, her expression serene.

“There ought to be four, to balance the numbers,” Lady Harriet said. “But Henry had a prior engagement.”

“No need to apologize, Lady Harriet. At Rosehaven House, I never know how many will turn up for dinner. We might be three or ten. Cosmos will attend a lecture and invite someone he finds fascinating on a whim.”

“That’s not what happened with me,” Nathaniel said, sounding affronted. “His invitation was extended days ago.”

“Oh, he told Cook,” I said with a laugh. “But failed to inform me. Not the first time, and I daresay not the last.”

“How does your cook manage?” Lady Harriet sounded faintly appalled.

“She always prepares for six. If extra guests don’t materialize, nothing goes to waste. The staff enjoy it, or we send the surplus to a soup kitchen we support.”

The meal continued in a haze of civil conversation.

Nathaniel spoke at length about orchids and alpine herbs, and I responded with interest—or at least the appearance of it.

Beneath the talk of botany and foreign travel, something darker stirred beneath the surface.

Lady Harriet watched me like a hawk, her words polished to a fine gleam, but too fine to be kind.

And all the while, I thought of the rooms I hadn’t seen.

When the second course was cleared, I set down my fork and turned politely to my hostess. “Lady Harriet, forgive me, but I find myself in need of the necessary.” I even managed a demure blush.

“No need to apologize,” Nathaniel said at once. “I’ll have a footman show you the way.”

“You’re most kind.”

I followed the servant as he guided me up the stairs and gestured toward a door. “Just here, milady.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, voice touched with false distress. As soon as his footsteps retreated down the hall, I turned in the opposite direction, heart ticking fast beneath my stays.

Several doors lined the corridor. The first revealed a linen closet, the second a dim parlor.

The third, slightly ajar, opened onto a small, private study.

A faintly musty scent lingered in the air—lavender and dust. Lace doilies covered the arms of two rigid chairs.

A single writing desk stood beneath the window, flanked by a narrow bookcase.

It was a tidy space, but not a warm one.

Feminine, meticulous, impersonal.

I stepped inside.

Crossing to the desk, I found its surface carefully arranged—papers stacked with fussy precision, the inkwell capped, the pen wiped clean. Atop the pile lay a sheet of cream stationery. My breath caught.

It was identical to the note that had lured Elsie to her death.

And the handwriting—angular, deliberate, tightly controlled—was unmistakably the same.

Harriet Vale’s hand.

My pulse quickened. Who was she writing to this time?

I bent closer and read the first few lines:

My dear one,

You asked about Nathaniel in your most recent letter.

I do not know the extent of what he has done, but I suspect he was rather reckless.

The girl's death was a misstep. I dealt with her as best I could.

Unfortunately, matters did not go as I wished.

I pray you understand. You always have in the past.

To my horror, Nathaniel has developed a troubling fascination with Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven—yes, the very same who attended the inquest in the company of the Duke of Steele.

He regards her as a suitable vessel for producing robust issue in the furtherance of the Vale line.

Something will need to be done about her. I await your guidance.

Your loving . . .

The writing stopped there, the final stroke trailing off into a ghost of ink. As if she’d been interrupted. Or changed her mind.

I turned the note, searching for more—an address, a signature—but found nothing further.

An urgent pounding echoed from the front door, and my heart skipped. Voices followed—sharp, overlapping.

It had to be Steele. After reading my note, he could no more resist coming to the rescue than I could resist risking danger.

I slipped out of the study, closed the door behind me, and made my way down the stairs. At the bottom, Nathaniel intercepted me.

“Lady Rosalynd,” he said, brow furrowed, “a footman has arrived from Rosehaven House. Your sister, Petunia, has taken ill.”

“Oh no.” My breath caught as I clutched my hands to my chest.

“A physician is on his way, but she’s asking for you.”

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Vale,” I said breathlessly. “I must take my leave.”

“Of course. Do send word about her condition.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Within minutes, my cloak had been fetched, and I was escorted to the waiting carriage by one of our footmen, his umbrella shielding me against the worst of the rain.

Steele was inside the hackney, waiting in the shadows.

“You got my note,” I said, settling across from him as the footman climbed up beside the cabbie.

“What if I hadn’t been home?” His voice was taut, his jaw clenched.

“But you were.”

His gaze sharpened. “You take too many chances, Rosalynd.”

I met his eyes steadily. “Would you rather waste time scolding me, or shall I tell you what I found?”

He exhaled through his nose, fury held just beneath the surface. “The latter.”

I told him everything—the identical stationery, the handwriting that matched the note Elsie had received, the unfinished letter addressed to my dear one. Lady Harriet’s confession. Her veiled warning.

He said nothing for a long moment. Then at last, in a low voice, he murmured, “She suspects you’re close to uncovering the truth.”

“She knows I attended the inquest. That I’ve been asking questions. I won’t stop.”

“No,” he said grimly. “You won’t.” He leaned forward, voice cutting through the carriage’s quiet. “If your life wasn’t in danger before, it is now. Her sights are clearly set on you.”

“She can’t harm me, Steele.”

“Need I remind you that she lured Elsie to her death?”

“I’m not so gullible as to fall for a note, Steele,” I said, gazing out the window. Fog pressed against the glass, softening the glow of the gas lamps into halos. I turned back to him as a thought occurred to me. “The person she was writing to? The one she called my dear one. Could he be involved?”

“Maybe,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “That’s something we need to discuss along with other things I learned earlier. It needs to be tonight. There’s no time to waste.”

“I agree. We could do so at Rosehaven House. The children will be asleep by now. And Cosmos . . . well, he’s likely still out.”

“Not Rosehaven,” he said immediately. “Given the size of your household, we’re likely to be interrupted. It has to be Steele House.”

I hesitated. If we were seen—if anyone discovered I’d gone there at night—the consequences would be considerable.

But he was right. What we’d uncovered demanded a swift, private discussion.

We needed to speak freely. To plan without restraint.

To decide what came next without the weight of propriety pressing in.

Even if it meant being alone in his house.

With him.