Page 102 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
He gave a soft chuckle. “Lady Rosalynd, if you’re going to make accusations, at least be precise. I threatenedyouwith 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.
Chapter
Thirty-Four
THE DEVIL’S DOORSTEP
The fire in my study had burned down to a low glow, casting the room in long shadows. Papers littered the desk—scribbled lines, half-formed theories, and sketches of connections Finch and I had spent the better part of the afternoon unraveling. We were close, so close I could taste success. But not close enough.
Finch stood near the hearth, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.
“We know Lady Harriet suspected her nephew. But she never used the word murder. Only that he’d been reckless.”
“Oh, she knew,” I said. “She was simply careful in her phrasing.”
“In other words, nothing that would hold up in a court of law,” he muttered.
“Precisely. The question now becomes—how do we prove Nathaniel Vale murdered Elsie?”
The thought of a man like Vale—aristocratic, calculating—strangling a pregnant girl and getting away with it made my blood run cold. We had to find a way.
A sharp knock snapped us out of our thoughts. Before I could speak, Milford appeared in the doorway, face pale with alarm.
“Mister Honeycutt, Your Grace.”
Before I could respond, Honeycutt entered, damp from the rain and visibly shaken. The sight of him inside Steele House was enough to set every nerve on edge.
I rose at once. “What happened?”
“She’s gone,” he said without preamble.
“Gone where?”
“She received a note. Said she was going to St. Agnes. Refused the Rosehaven carriage. Refused a footman. Ordered me to stay inside the house.”
