Page 7 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Seven

A MIDNIGHT RESCUE

I climbed into the Steele carriage and slammed the door harder than necessary, the sharp crack of it echoing into the cold night.

“Drive on,” I muttered to the coachman, my retainer of long standing. But before he could urge the horses forward, I rapped sharply on the roof. “No. Wait.” I needed a moment to gather my temper, to think about what had just happened.

The horses seemed to object as they stamped restlessly in the fog, their harnesses creaking. Well, they could bloody well wait.

I slumped back against the seat, tugging off my gloves, fists clenching and unclenching as the bitter taste of the evening rose in my throat.

I’d spent most of the night searching for Phillip—my youngest brother.

I’d found him, drunk and reaching for more inside a smoky gambling den, having lost a fair amount of money in a game of cards.

He was Father all over again. The only saving grace was that he wasn’t married.

At least he wasn’t inflicting his demons on an innocent woman the way Father had done to Mother, to all of us.

I’d dragged him back to his bachelor quarters, ordered his valet to put him to bed, and keep him there until morning when I’d return.

Phillip had objected—loudly, bitterly.

You’re just like Father. Ordering me around.

The words stabbed through my mind, sharp and unshakable.

“ I never once laid a hand on you, ” I’d shot back, my voice raw, anger burning just under the skin.

Phillip had staggered, bleary-eyed, his mouth twisting into a bitter grin. “ No—but you always find fault. No matter what I do. ”

And then, before I could stop myself, the blade slipped free: “ I would—if you ever did something right. ”

That had landed.

I saw it—the flicker in his eyes, the way he stumbled back as if struck, the crushed, boyish hurt he tried so hard to bury beneath that careless, drunken grin.

I squeezed my eyes shut at the remembrance. I regretted the words the moment they left my mouth. But they were out, and they hung between us like a weight I couldn’t lift.

Damn it all .

I let out a hard breath, dragging a hand through my hair. Phillip was determined to ruin himself. No matter how many times I pulled him out, he dove right back in. But there was no sense brooding here all night. The coachman and horses were more than ready to seek their beds.

I rapped on the roof. “Drive on.”

The carriage jolted as he obeyed, the wheels creaking into motion, carrying me through the dark.

I turned slightly, gaze drifting toward the fog-laced window, the street beyond little more than shadow and mist. And then shortly before we arrived back at Grosvenor Square, movement caught my eye—a faint shift in the gloom.

A lone figure. Slim. Hooded. Female. Walking steadily down the far side of the street.

My brow drew down, irritation flickering to life. What woman in her right mind was walking alone at this hour? And then, under the faint glow of a lamppost, the figure passed, and I caught it—the gleam of copper curls slipping loose from the hood.

Rosalynd.

Something jolted hard in my chest, cutting through the exhaustion, the anger, the suffocating weight pressing down on me. Once more, I rapped sharply on the roof. “Stop.”

Before the driver could fully pull up the horses, I was out, boots striking wet cobblestones, coat swirling faintly in the cold.

“Lady Rosalynd.”

She froze.

Good. She damn well ought to.

She turned slowly, drawing herself up, her chin lifting with all that stiff pride I knew too well. “Your Grace. What are you doing here?”

I stepped closer, voice low, still edged. “I might ask you the same. Out walking the streets alone at night. Have you lost all sense?”

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing. “My carriage broke down a couple of streets back. So I thought I’d walk home.”

My gaze swept over her, noticing the damp cloak clinging to her, curls falling loose, the pale line of her throat where the fabric gapped open. My jaw tightened.

Behind me, the carriage waited, the driver silent on his perch. I flicked a glance over my shoulder.

“Get in.”

“Rosehaven is barely a street over.”

“Get in. I won’t repeat myself.”

For a heartbeat, she stood frozen, stubbornness bristling in every line of her body. But the cold crept closer, the fog curled tighter. And she knew as well as I did that she had little choice.

With a sharp exhale, she gathered her skirts. I stepped forward, caught her elbow, and handed her up, a fleeting brush of her arm through the wool that jolted harder than I liked.

She settled into the seat with a rustle of damp fabric. I climbed in after her, folding myself into the seat opposite, the warmth of the carriage pressing close.

For a moment, I said nothing. Just stared.

Then—

"You might have been robbed," I said sharply. "Or worse. You know what sort of men roam these streets after dark."

"I'm not helpless," she shot back, her chin lifting in defiance.

"No?" I arched a brow. "And how, pray, would you defend yourself?"

With great ceremony, she reached into her reticule and withdrew a delicate object. A penknife—hardly longer than a knitting needle, its mother-of-pearl handle glinting under the carriage lamp.

"With this," she said with a proud little tilt of her head.

I stared at it. Then at her.

"That, my lady, is a toy. Pretty, no doubt, but a footpad would take it from you in a heartbeat and use it against you.” In one swift motion, I leaned closer, plucked it from her fingers, and pressed the blunt edge to her throat.

Her breath caught, her eyes widening—though not entirely from fear. We were suddenly very close. Too close. I could see the quick rise and fall of her chest, the flicker of challenge in her gaze giving way to something else—something far more dangerous than a knife.

For one suspended beat, neither of us moved. Then I forced myself back, fingers curling around the useless thing.

"Do you see now?" I asked, my voice rougher than I intended. "This isn’t a game, Rosalynd. You walk alone at night with only a useless toy to defend yourself.” I let the penknife drop on the seat next to her. “And I am left to imagine your broken body in the gutter."

Her gaze didn’t waver, but the silence between us stretched, heavy with unspoken things.

"I’ll teach you to shoot," I said at last, my tone brooking no argument.

She recoiled slightly. "Absolutely not. I abhor firearms."

"You’ll abhor being dead—or worse—far more."

"What could possibly be worse than death?"

I leaned in, my voice low and grim. "You don’t want to know, Lady Rosalynd."

A flicker of unease passed across her features, quickly masked. Still, she didn’t argue.

"There’s a revolver I trust—a Webley Bulldog. Short-barreled. Easily concealed. Lightweight enough for a lady’s reticule. It’s the preferred model for those with more sense than sentiment."

Her lips parted in protest, but I raised a hand to stop her.

"I’ll obtain one. And I’ll teach you to use it. Properly."

"You mean to make a marksman of me?"

"I mean to keep you alive."

She looked away then, but not before I saw the war between indignation and reluctant understanding flicker in her eyes. Her hands folded tightly in her lap.

“Where exactly have you been, Rosalynd?”

She tugged her cloak tighter, her mouth tight, her eyes shadowed. “At St. Agnes.”

That gave me pause. “The women’s shelter?”

“The Home for Unwed Mothers,” she corrected, chin lifting. “The matron, Sister Margaret, sent for me. One of the girls was found dead.”

Something cold settled under my ribs. “What happened?”

“She was strangled. They found her body in an alley off Trinity Lane.”

“Was she . . .” I hesitated. “Assaulted?” Some men did unspeakable things to defenseless women.

Her breath caught. “I pray not. It will be up to the examiner to determine that.”

“When did it happen?”

Rosalynd drew in a shaky breath. “Tonight. She went out after dark. Sister Margaret doesn’t know why.”

The old, familiar weight pressed heavier on my chest. “Who’s investigating? Do you know?”

“Dodson,” she spat, frustration flashing hot in her eyes. “You know what that means.”

I exhaled slowly, jaw clenching. Dodson—the sort of man who’d dismiss a dead working girl without a second thought.

“Elsie is just another nameless girl to him. As far as he’s concerned, she went out to meet her lover and met her death instead. I doubt that he even bothered to find a witness.” Her mouth twisted. “Her murderer will never be found.”

I leaned forward, watching her, the anger and regret of the night still simmering under my skin. “You’re determined to see it solved.”

Her eyes met mine, fierce and unflinching. “Someone should care.”

For a long moment, I just watched her—this woman, maddening, reckless, too brave for her own good, throwing herself into the world’s tragedies as if she could shoulder them all. And I realized, with a sinking weight in my chest, that I couldn’t leave her to face this one alone.

“The girl—what was her name?”

“Elsie. She’d given birth just a few weeks ago and gave up the baby for adoption so he could have a better life. The shelter found her a position with a seamstress. She was to start there in a fortnight.”

“Brave girl. It couldn’t have been easy for her.”

“She was. And sweet. Barely sixteen.” Rosalynd’s voice wavered slightly. “I don’t believe she went out to meet a lover, no matter what Dodson says. She wasn’t interested in men. I think she was lured out—or forced.”

I glanced off into the distance. “There will be evidence of how she was killed. Strangulation can take many forms. A man could have used his hands or a rope. She could have been garroted. The method would provide valuable information. Did she fight back? Was there some detritus under her nails? A qualified examiner can determine all that.”

“How do you know this?”

“Let’s just say I’ve done some investigative work before.” I blew out a breath. “Her body would’ve been transferred to the local mortuary. Did Dodson say where?”

“St. James’s mortuary. She’d already been taken there by the time I arrived at St. Agnes.”

“Then there’s no time to lose.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to view the body. Tonight.”

“I’ll go with you. I want to?—”

“No. That’s no place for a lady.”

“I don’t need your permission, Steele. I can go there on my own.”

I let out a slow, dangerous smile. “I’ll inform your brother of what you intend and suggest he tie you to your bed if necessary.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?”

We locked eyes—a silent, heated standoff.

“There’s a more practical reason you can’t go,” I said finally.

Her brows arched. “Which is?”

“You wouldn’t be allowed to view the body.”

“But you would?”

“I’m the Duke of Steele. They won’t say no to me.”

She let out a long, frustrated breath. “Very well. But you will tell me what you find?”

“I’ll send word tomorrow.”

The carriage rocked gently, the lantern light flickering across her face, casting delicate shadows along the polished wood.

I let the faintest smile touch my mouth—tired, worn, real. “You don’t always have to carry it alone, you know.”

For a heartbeat, she only stared, something flickering deep in her eyes—something raw, unspoken.

Before I could say another word, the driver called softly from the perch. “Rosehaven House, Your Grace.”

The moment snapped like a pulled thread.

She gathered her cloak, the cool mask slipping smoothly back into place. “Thank you for the escort.”

Before I could so much as shift, she opened the carriage door and vanished into the misty steps of her home, leaving me alone, fists tight, chest aching, and a heart pounding with things I had no business feeling.