Page 35 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Thirty-Three

THE THREAT IN THE INK

A s it turned out, Steele and I were not able to meet the next day.

He’d forgotten about a morning meeting of the Legislation Committee to debate a measure on labor conditions.

As it was the very bill he’d championed, it was vital that he be there to defend it.

Nor could we meet in the afternoon—unluckily, it was one of our at-home days.

I endured the excruciating hours with a fixed smile and aching cheeks, all the while aware that the drawing room buzzed with far more than polite conversation. I don’t know when I first heard it—only that the words struck like a misplayed piano chord, sharp and discordant.

The Rosehaven carriage. Seen last night. At Steele’s door.

A woman stepping into it. Very late.

No names were whispered, of course. They rarely are when scandal is still warm on the tongue. But everyone knew.

Lady Rosalynd had paid a call on the Duke of Steele. Past midnight.

The gossip spread with all the precision of a well-cast net.

And no matter that I’d done nothing truly improper, in society’s eyes, perception mattered far more than truth.

I smiled through it all, nodding and pouring tea, pretending I hadn’t noticed the glances—or the way Lady Effington’s brows rose ever so slightly when she asked if I’d had a restful evening .

By the time the last caller departed, my nerves were frayed and my patience in tatters. I wanted nothing more than to loosen my stays and?—

A sharp knock at my bedchamber door interrupted that fantasy.

“Come,” I said, resigned to whatever fresh absurdity awaited.

Chrissie burst in, waving a folded note like a battle flag before flouncing onto the settee with a dramatic sigh. “This arrived just now—from Lord Sefton, if you please.”

“Did it?” I asked, glancing up from the chaise longue. “A poem extolling your grace and wit?”

“Hardly. He’s asked me to save the first waltz for him at Lady Findley’s ball tonight.”

I raised a brow. “And you’re displeased?”

“Of course I am! He didn’t attend the at-home today, nor did he send a card explaining his absence. And last time he attended he barely spoke to me. I was surrounded by suitors, of course, but that’s hardly my fault.”

“Indeed. A terrible burden,” I murmured, rubbing at my temples as a headache made itself known.

Chrissie shot me a look. “Don’t tease. I thought he would be different. That we would dance.”

“Isn’t that what he’s asking?”

“After ignoring me! And now he wants to claim the first waltz as if he has every right to it.”

I sat up. Rest would have to wait. “Do you want to dance with him?”

She hesitated. “Yes. I mean—if he weren’t so infuriating.”

“Then tell him so. Refuse the first waltz. Offer him the second. Make him earn the privilege.”

Chrissie’s eyes lit up. “You’re positively wicked, Rosalynd.”

“Not wicked. Strategic. If he truly cares for your regard, he won’t vanish the moment another man claims your attention. Let him prove he can endure a little competition.”

A smile curved her lips. “I do hope you’re right. He’s so handsome. And clever. And he has the most divine scent—sandalwood.”

“Ah, the real reason emerges. He smells like furniture. And you’ve developed a taste for fine armoires.”

“Oh, do be quiet.” She tossed a cushion at me. “If you weren’t mooning over a certain duke, you’d be far more fun.”

“I am not mooning ,” I said, tossing it back. “I’m merely . . . considering recent events.”

Chrissie grinned wickedly. “Considering him shirtless , more like.”

“Chrysanthemum!” I chided, although she wasn’t entirely wrong.

Before she could deliver another scandalous quip, a sharp knock sounded at the door.

“Yes?” I called.

A footman entered and bowed. “Forgive the interruption, Lady Rosalynd. A note just arrived. Marked urgent.”

My heart stuttered. Could it be from Steele?

He stepped forward, offering the tray. The paper was thick. Expensive. Even before I touched the envelope, I recognized the crest—Vale.

My stomach tightened. “Thank you. That will be all.”

Once the footman withdrew, I tore open the seal and scanned the contents. And then, slower, I read them again.

Lady Rosalynd,

I have the girl. Marie. Heavy with her bastard and in no condition to run.

If you want to see her alive, you’ll do exactly as I say.

Leave Rosehaven House at once. Walk to the southwest corner where South Audley Street meets Grosvenor Square. A hackney will be waiting.

If anyone follows you—or if you’re not there within twenty minutes—I’ll slit her throat before your feet touch the curb.

Oh, and bring this note with you.

Yours respectfully,

—NV

The paper trembled in my hand.

“Rosie, your face has gone white. What happened?” Chrissie asked, eyes filled with concern.

“I need to go out for a little while,” I said, already rising.

“Now?” She glanced at the clock. “But we’re to begin dressing for the ball in an hour.”

“I won’t be long.”

“Where are you going?”

I hesitated only a moment. “St. Agnes. The note is from Sister Margaret. Something urgent has come up.”

She stood, alarmed now. “Shall I fetch the carriage?”

“That would take too long,” I said, too quickly. “I’ll take a hackney.”

I crossed to the wardrobe and retrieved my cloak and gloves. The note I tucked into the lining of my reticule, fingers clenching the clasp shut.

Chrissie watched me closely. “Rosie . . . what’s really going on?”

“I’ll explain later,” I said gently. “Truly.”

I descended the stairs with care, forcing my steps to remain steady. To rush would only raise alarm.

At the foot, Honeycutt emerged from the corridor, brows drawn tight. “Going out, milady?”

“Just a short visit to St. Agnes. No need for concern.”

“Shall I send a footman to accompany you?”

“No.” I smiled, though the lie burned. “Best not. I need privacy.”

His lips pressed into a grim line as he handed me an umbrella. “Best take this, milady. It’s drizzling.”

He opened the door, but did not step aside. “It’s not my place to question you, Lady Rosalynd, but the neighborhood you intend to visit is?—”

“I’ll be perfectly safe,” I said quietly, panic needling just beneath the surface. I was running out of time. “Please, let me pass.”

He bowed—but not before murmuring, “Take care, milady.”

“I shall. And Honeycutt, don’t follow me. Remain here.”

His alarm was clear, but he nodded all the same.

I stepped out into the damp. The clouds above were a bruised purple, the air thick with the scent of wet cobblestones—and danger.

At the corner of Grosvenor Square, the hackney waited, still and shadowed. The horse stamped once as I approached, breath curling in the cold. The driver, an older man in a threadbare coat, sat hunched with the reins loose in his hands. He tipped his cap. “Afternoon, miss.”

I nodded once, not trusting my voice. He wasn’t part of it. Just another piece moved into place.

The carriage door clicked open.

“Step inside, Lady Rosalynd,” came the unmistakable voice of Nathaniel Vale, smooth, cultured, and ice-cold.

I hesitated.

“Now,” he said.

Heart hammering, I climbed in. The door shut behind me, sealing out the square.

Vale lounged across from me, impeccably dressed, his hat resting beside him like this were a casual outing. But his eyes gleamed with something sharp and unnatural beneath their civility.

He rapped the ceiling with his cane, and the hackney rolled forward.

I sat rigid. “Where is she?”

He offered a faint smile, tilting his head like a cat toying with a bird.

“You’ll see her soon enough,” he said. “Though whether she remains alive . . . well, that depends on you.” He extended a gloved hand. “The note, if you please.”

I opened my reticule and handed it over. “I came alone. As you asked.”

“I saw.”

I stared at him. “You’ve kidnapped a pregnant woman, threatened to murder her. And you dare to sit there like a gentleman?”

He gave a soft chuckle. “Lady Rosalynd, if you’re going to make accusations, at least be precise. I threatened you with her murder. Quite a different thing.”

Bile rose in my throat. “Why? Because she knows too much?”

“She knows nothing,” he snapped, his face darkening.

Clearly, she knew enough to enrage him.

He drew a breath, visibly schooling himself. “But she is a risk.”

The carriage turned sharply off Grosvenor Street, the smooth roll of the wheels giving way to the rougher jostle of narrower lanes. I reached for the curtain, but it was drawn tight. Tied shut from the outside. He didn’t intend for me to see where we were headed.

But that didn’t stop me from asking, “Where are we going?”

“To a place where no one will interrupt us.”

No help there.

“It will be just you and me. And Marie, of course.”

The smile he gave me was filled with malice.

I said nothing, hands clenched in my lap, heart slamming against my ribs. He was taking me somewhere far less visible and far more dangerous.

A place that no one would know where I’d gone.