Page 33 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Thirty-Two

LANTERNLIGHT AND LONGING

W e stopped at Rosehaven House only long enough for the footman to disembark. Then we continued on to the rear entrance of Steele House.

When I cast him a questioning look, Steele murmured, “I gave the cabbie our final destination while your footman was retrieving you from Vale House.”

He let us in through the rear service door and led me down a narrow corridor, steeped in darkness—the kind that pressed in like velvet. He struck a match and lit the waiting oil lantern, its flickering glow casting long, shifting shadows across the walls.

We moved in silence, past the butler’s pantry and up the narrow service stairs, our footsteps muffled against the worn treads.

He didn’t speak, didn’t make a fuss—just reached back and took my hand, as if to say, Come along, don’t fall . But the warmth of his touch, the steadiness of his grip, and the quiet intimacy of moving through darkness together—I felt it in the depths of my soul.

At the top of the stairs, he led me down a dim corridor and stopped at a heavy oak door.

Steele pushed open the door, and the lantern’s glow spilled into the room ahead of us.

The scent of leather and old paper met me first—rich and warm, like something aged to perfection.

Rows of towering bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, their spines gleaming in the soft light.

A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a gentle amber hue across the carved paneling and dark wood furnishings.

Above, a coffered ceiling loomed high, and against the far wall, a brass-railed gallery wrapped around a second tier of books.

It was the kind of room one could vanish into for days—no, years—and never quite reach the end.

I took a step inside, unable to hide my awe.

When I glanced sideways, I found Steele watching me. There was no smugness in his expression—just quiet observation, as if he were trying to read more than my reaction to the bookshelves.

I cleared my throat. “Laurel would adore this room,” I said lightly. “We’d never get her out again.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She’d be welcome to stay.”

Steele crossed to the fireplace and set the lantern on the mantel before ringing for his butler. Milford appeared moments later, as if he’d been waiting just out of sight—which, knowing him, he probably was.

“Your Grace,” he said with a bow.

Steele shrugged out of his greatcoat and handed it over, along with his hat. “See these taken care of, will you? They’re still dripping.”

Then he turned to me. “Lady Rosalynd?”

Taking the cue, I slipped free of my damp cloak and gloves, the library’s warmth already chasing away the lingering chill.

“Where did you put Finch?” Steele asked his butler.

“The blue room, Your Grace. Your man saw to him. From what I understand, he was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.”

“Thank you, Milford. That will be all.”

Once the butler departed, Steele turned to me, “Please take a seat.”

As I curled into a wingback chair near the hearth, Steele poured two glasses of brandy and offered one to me.

“Drink. It will warm you up.”

“Thank you.” I took it gladly, welcoming the heat of the brandy after the damp ride.

For a moment, he remained standing, his gaze on the fire, before finally settling into the chair opposite mine. We sat in comfortable silence while the fire rustled softly between us, its shadows flickering across the room.

It was a lovely moment—unexpected and still. No interruptions, no siblings calling my name or demanding my attention. Just the two of us, the hush of the library, and the warmth of the brandy between my hands.

I let my gaze rest on Steele, on the quiet strength in the set of his shoulders, the way the firelight traced the hard lines of his jaw.

There was something calming in his presence, something steady beneath the surface.

For all his guardedness—and mine—this silence felt companionable. Safe, somehow.

A log in the hearth crackled sharply, sending up a sudden spray of sparks. And my thoughts turned to the name that had been mentioned.

“Finch?” I asked, curiosity edging into my voice.

“He’s an inquiry agent,” Steele said, cradling his glass of brandy. “Sharp, discreet, and not easily rattled. I asked him to investigate the Vale family.”

Of course he had.

We’d discovered the arc-shaped crest belonged to them—on the carriage seen near the scene of Elsie’s death, and again on the stationery that had lured her to her fate. It made perfect sense to pursue that lead. If I’d been in his position, I would have done the same.

And yet . . . a small flicker of resentment stirred.

He hadn’t told me.

I stared into the fire, the brandy warm in my hands, the weight of his revelations still settling over me.

“You didn’t share that with me,” I said quietly. There was no accusation in my voice—just the truth of it.

He didn’t answer right away. The fire hissed in the silence between us.

“No,” he said at last. “I didn’t.” He didn’t offer excuses. He didn’t look away.

“But then,” I added, “I didn’t tell you I knew Nathaniel Vale either.”

“And now?”

It was a test of our new understanding. “I know better. That’s why I sent the letter to you.”

He gave a slight nod, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, brandy glass hanging loosely in one hand. “Finch had been working on something else for me. A separate matter. Personal. It involved my brother Phillip.”

“Oh?”

“It was during that meeting,” he continued, “when I asked Finch to look into the Vales. I hadn’t intended to keep it from you, Rosalynd. There simply wasn’t time. It was only two days ago.”

I nodded slowly, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass.

“I understand,” I said. And I did. But understanding didn’t mean the hurt vanished entirely.

Still, we were both trying. And in that quiet moment, with only the fire to witness it, that counted for something.

“What did he find?”

Steele took a slow sip before answering. “Nathaniel Vale maintains a very convincing laboratory at Vale House—specimens, hybrid records, exotic plants. But it’s for show. The real work happens in Whitechapel.”

I shuddered. “Whitechapel?” The area where the Ripper mutilated his victims.

He nodded grimly. “He’s leased a derelict building there under an alias. A warehouse—black-bricked, windowless, tucked behind a butcher’s yard. Locals call it Ash Yard. Smoke’s always pouring from the chimney, but no one ever sees anyone go in or out.”

A cold thread of unease slid down my spine.

“Finch managed to get inside. It’s a working lab—distillation vats, rows of tubes, crates labeled as ‘tonics.’ He’s set up a large-scale production.”

I stared at him. “Of what, exactly?”

“Opium distillates. Morphia. Laudanum base. Aconite. And something else Finch couldn’t identify. What he’s creating is not intended as medicine.”

My mouth went dry. The first night Vale had come to dinner at Rosehaven, he’d revealed he was studying laudanum as an experiment. But what Steele had just described went beyond mere experimentation.

“He’s manufacturing narcotics, Rosalynd.”

“And he’s selling them?”

“Not directly,” Steele said. “He’s keeping his hands clean. But someone is moving the product. The shelves were half-empty.”

I gripped my brandy glass more tightly, the fire’s warmth doing little to ease the chill that had taken root inside me. Vale was manufacturing drugs that had the power to cloud the mind, control a body, ruin people’s lives. And all done for profit. Despicable didn’t begin to describe him.

Steele leaned back slightly. “He’s still within the law, technically. The Pharmacy Act controls sales, not production. But mass-producing unregulated narcotics in a hidden lab? That tells us everything we need to know.”

“Could Henry be involved?” I asked.

“Doubtful. He hasn’t the brains for anything that elaborate. His plan is to marry Lillian Travers and get his hands on her dowry. Her father craves respectability after making a fortune in railways. He welcomed Henry as a suitor . . . after Phillip vouched for him.”

I could only imagine how Steele must feel, knowing his brother had done such a thing. But perhaps he hadn’t known the full extent of Henry’s depravity.

“Your brother?—”

“He didn’t know about Elsie’s murder,” Steele said quietly. “If he had, he never would’ve spoken on Henry’s behalf.” He paused, then added, “I’ve sent him away—to Thornburn Abbey.”

That decision couldn’t have been made lightly. There was clearly more to Phillip’s story—something dark enough to warrant exile to the family estate. But Steele offered no further explanation. And I would not press him. Some things deserved to remain private.

“What about Lady Harriet?” I asked, eager to turn the subject away from his brother.

“She controls the household. The staff don’t like her, but they obey. When Finch asked about Elsie, most wouldn’t speak. But one brave soul said the young master ‘hadn’t done right by her.’”

I swallowed hard. Confirmation. Not that I needed it. Too much evidence pointed to Henry as Elsie’s seducer.

“Something more caught Finch’s attention,” Steele said. “He spoke to a contact—someone with access to financial records. The Arcendale estate is managed by a trust. Most funds are accounted for. But one—a quiet account, rarely used—was recently assigned to a man named Mr. A. Drayton.”

“Drayton?” I asked, the name unfamiliar and yet somehow unsettling.

“There’s no listed connection between him and the Vale family,” Steele said. “Not on paper, anyhow. Finch thought it odd. So do I, especially since a great deal of money is flowing in and out of that account.”

“You think it’s being used to finance the narcotics operation.”

“I do.”

I met his gaze. “Who is he?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

We. Not him alone. But the two of us.

“So what’s our next step?”

The moment stretched taut between us—charged with possibilities, with all the things we couldn’t quite say.