Page 9 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Nine

A SKIRMISH AT ST GEORGE’S

T he pale light of morning filtered through the sheer curtains as I sat at my writing desk, half-heartedly skimming the morning post. A soft knock at the door interrupted my idle sorting.

“Come,” I called.

Our butler, Honeycutt, entered with his usual composed grace. “A note for you, milady. Delivered just now by a footman from Steele House.”

My pulse quickened ever so slightly. I took the envelope, my fingers running lightly over the heavy seal—Steele’s seal. I broke it and unfolded the note.

Lady Rosalynd,

I would like to speak with you this morning. I have news to share.

Steele

My heart gave a small, inexplicable skip, but I quickly forced myself to focus.

Where could we meet? I crossed to the window and peered toward Grosvenor Square.

Already the morning bustle had begun: maids sweeping steps, carriages rattling past, housekeepers bustling to and fro. I pressed my lips together in thought.

Steele could hardly come here—the whole of Grosvenor Square would be peering through their drapes, the whispers already sharpening: The Duke of Steele calling at Rosehaven again? My, my .

And I certainly couldn’t call openly at Steele House. That would be even more scandalous, more fuel for wagging tongues.

No, we needed someplace discreet, someplace neutral. My mind ticked through the possibilities: A walk in Hyde Park? Too open, too public. The reading room at Hatchard’s bookshop? Tempting, but not private. St. George’s Chapel? Ah.

The side chapel at St. George’s, Mayfair, was often quiet at this hour. It was a sanctuary of calm, and importantly, a place where a lady and a gentleman might exchange hushed words under the guise of private prayer or a charitable visit.

Yes, that would do.

I reached for my own writing paper, smoothing the creamy sheet beneath my hand, dipped my pen, and wrote my reply in swift strokes.

With deliberate care, I pressed my private wax seal onto the envelope—a delicate rose motif, faintly perfumed, something only my closest correspondents would recognize. And now, so would Steele.

“Honeycutt,” I called softly, rising from my writing desk.

He appeared as if conjured, his dignified presence filling the doorway with unshakable calm. “Milady?”

I offered him the sealed envelope. “Please have the footman deliver this to Steele House at once. He should use our back passage, go through the garden gate, and circle the square discreetly. I have no wish to attract the attention of our neighbors.”

Honeycutt inclined his head with all the solemnity of a man entrusted with state secrets. “Naturally, milady.”

For a heartbeat, I allowed myself a small smile—the sort reserved only for the unflappable Honeycutt, whose quiet competence had steadied Rosehaven House through every storm. “Thank you,” I murmured.

He gave another slight bow. “It shall be done, milady.”

St. George’s stood in quiet splendor at the south end of Hanover Square, its graceful stone facade softened by centuries of London weather. Within, the great wooden pews gleamed under the muted light, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of hands and prayer books.

The air was cool and faintly scented with beeswax and damp stone.

Echoes of muffled footsteps drifted from the far aisles, but here in the side chapel—tucked away from the main congregation—the hush was deep and nearly absolute.

Colored light spilled through stained glass windows, casting fractured rubies and sapphires across the flagstones.

Small devotional candles flickered near the altar, their flames shivering gently in the stillness.

It was a place of quiet reflection, of whispered prayers and hidden griefs. And on this particular morning, it was a place for a secret meeting.

I sat in one of the side pews, gloved hands folded neatly, my eyes lifting to the small alcove’s vaulted ceiling. Somewhere beyond these walls, London hummed and bustled. But here, time seemed to slow, the weight of the centuries pressing softly against the present moment.

The heavy oak door creaked softly, and I lifted my head.

Steele, his tall figure momentarily outlined in the pale light of the nave. Dressed in his dark, impeccably cut coat, he looked every inch the man accustomed to moving between the smoky chambers of the House of Lords and the darker corners of London.

Our eyes met—a flicker, an unspoken acknowledgment—before he crossed the stone floor with his usual measured stride, boots whispering faintly over the worn flagstones.

He came to stand beside the pew where I sat and dipped his head. “Lady Rosalynd.” His voice was pitched low, careful not to disturb the hush.

I inclined my head, sliding to the side to make room for him.

He hesitated only a heartbeat before accepting my silent invitation, his presence filling the narrow space beside me.

I couldn’t help but react—to the quiet heat radiating off him, to the faint, woodsy scent of his coat, to the sheer essence of him that pressed against my careful composure.

Thankfully, he gave no sign of noticing. Without a word, he reached inside his coat and retrieved a small notebook, which he flipped open and turned toward me. “I found this message hidden in a pocket in Elsie’s dress,” he murmured in the hush of the nave.

Meet me behind the bakery at the corner of St. John’s Lane and Albion Place at nine o’clock. Tell no one.

I frowned, eyes flicking over the hastily copied lines before glancing up sharply. “You didn’t keep the original?”

“No,” he said smoothly. “I wasn’t about to carry away evidence that would be needed for the inquest.”

“But you saw it closely?” I pressed, my pulse quickening.

“As closely as the light allowed. Fine cardstock, no common paper. There was . . . something in the corner.” He hesitated. “A faint mark, perhaps. Nearly invisible to the eye.”

A thrill ran through me, my breath quickening. “An embossed maker’s mark.”

His gaze sharpened. “Possibly. Or a family crest.”

“Were you wearing gloves?”

“Of course.”

I leaned forward, urgent now. “If I can examine the original, I might be able to identify it. I know the stationers the upper houses use—Wigmore & Sons, Bexley & Thorne, Sandringham’s on Bond Street. They each have distinctive marks.”

Steele straightened abruptly, tension flashing across his face. “Absolutely not.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You are not walking into a mortuary, Rosalynd,” he said tightly. “That is no place for you.”

My spine stiffened. “And why, exactly, is it no place for me?”

His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering. “Because it’s a place of death. Because you are a lady of standing. Because I refuse to drag you into dark alleys and mortuary cellars when?—”

“When I can help ,” I shot back, my voice rising despite myself. “I will not sit at home embroidering handkerchiefs while there is a murder to solve!”

His eyes darkened. “You do not understand what you will see there—what you will smell there.” He drew in a long, measured breath. “I will return to the mortuary. I’ll examine the crest more closely and describe it to you.”

“No.”

His head snapped toward me. “Rosalynd, I will brook no argument about this.”

I lifted my chin. “You have no dominion over me, sir. I shall do as I please.”

His mouth flattened into a hard line. “And how, exactly, do you propose to gain entrance to the mortuary?”

“The same way you did.”

“I,” he said coldly, arrogantly, “am the Duke of Steele.”

“And I,” I countered hotly, “am the daughter of an earl—one who knew Elsie and cares about finding justice for her.”

“I will forbid them from allowing you entry.”

“You wouldn’t dare?—”

“Ahem . . . ”

Both our heads snapped up at the tall rector who loomed beside the pew, his brow lifted in delicate inquiry, his clerical collar stark against his black coat.

“Your Grace, milady, is there,” he asked gently, “some sort of . . . problem?”

“No,” Steele and I said in unison, our voices too quick, too bright.

There was a brief, crackling pause.

I smoothed my skirts, feeling the hot flush rise in my cheeks. Steele arched an arrogant brow. Of course he did.

It was only then—as the hush of the chapel pressed in—that I became acutely aware of just how not alone we were.

My stomach dipped.

Several individuals had gathered in the side aisles and pews, their faces turned discreetly away, though I caught the unmistakable gleam of curiosity in their eyes.

Our voices, low at first, had clearly risen with our tempers, carrying far beyond the quiet corner where we’d believed ourselves hidden.

With a sudden jolt of mortification, I spotted her—Lady Broadbottom.

A stalwart patroness of the Society for the Advancement of Women, whose appetite for scandalous tidbits was matched only by her remarkable ability to spread them across half of Mayfair by teatime.

She stood near the pillar, her eyes wide, her lace-gloved hand pressed delicately to her bosom.

Steele went still beside me, his awareness settling between us like a sudden weight.

“We should go,” I murmured tightly, my voice all ice and civility.

“Yes,” Steele said, his tone clipped, controlled. “We should.”

He paused just long enough to incline his head to the rector. “Thank you for your time, Rector. Forgive the disruption.”

The older man gave a small, knowing nod, saying nothing.

With as much dignity as we could muster, we rose in unison, heads held high, smoothing away any signs of discomfiture. Without another glance—neither right nor left—we turned and walked, side by side, down the length of the chapel.

The long path to the door felt like a gauntlet, though we kept our eyes fixed ahead, our steps perfectly measured, every inch the noblewoman and the duke, as though we hadn’t just been caught in a most undignified quarrel.

Only when the great oak doors closed behind us and the cool air struck my cheeks did I let out a slow, shaky breath.

“Lady Broadbottom heard everything ,” I said flatly.

Steele let out a low chuckle. “I believe half of St. George’s did.”