Page 37 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Lady Rosalynd,” he said with a slight bow. “May I?” He gestured to the small grouping of chairs near the hearth. I nodded, and we settled—me with a fresh cup of tea, he with his port, angled just enough to suggest intimacy without presumption.
The firelight played against the polished wood of the mantel and caught in the facets of his signet ring as he adjusted his cuff.
“Your family’s home is charming,” he said after a moment, glancing about. “Warm. Lived in.”
“It is lived in,” I replied. “And loudly, at times.”
“I imagine it keeps you anchored.”
I studied him. “Do I appear otherwise?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “You seem . . . aware. Of the world’s unpleasant truths.”
“That’s a diplomatic way of calling someone sharp-tongued.”
“Not at all. I admire clarity. Especially in a woman who understands more than she lets on.”
I lifted my cup. “Careful, Dr. Vale. That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”
He inclined his head. “Danger is only a matter of dosage, Lady Rosalynd.”
I let that hang between us a moment, then turned the conversation toward safer subjects—his time abroad, his earliest interest in botany, the politics of the Royal Society. He answered easily, but never idly. Always choosing words with care. Always observing.
By the time he stood to take his leave, I’d formed no conclusions about Dr. Vale—only that he was intelligent, well-mannered, and exceedingly comfortable in his expertise. A man who knew how to command a conversation without ever raising his voice. And someone who, more than likely, understood people just as well as he understood plants.
An expert in drugs that control pain—physical or otherwise. That sort of knowledge, applied well, could make one very powerful indeed.
As Chrissie and I climbed the stairs side by side, her voice dropped into a teasing lilt. “I do believe Dr. Vale took a shine to you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Then he’s bound to be disappointed.”
She laughed, a bright sound that lingered even as she turned down the hall to her room. “Goodnight, Rosalynd.”
“Goodnight, dear.”
After ringing for Tilly so she could help me undress, I loosened the combs from my hair, setting them gently on the vanity. The fire in the grate had burned low, casting long shadows across the floor. In the hush that followed, my thoughts were far from Dr. Vale.
What about Steele? Are you not interested in him?
The question came not from without but within—low, persistent, unwelcome.
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth would be too difficult to face.
Chapter
Fifteen
THE BRUTAL END OF THE NIGHT
By the time I returned to Steele House, dusk had given way to full night. The lamps on the street flickered low in their glass casings, the fog curling like old smoke along the pavement. My coat was damp at the shoulders, and my boots were dull with the grime of the city.
Milford met me at the door with his usual solemn efficiency. “You have correspondence, Your Grace.”
I took the two envelopes without a word. One of them bore Rosalynd’s unmistakable hand—clear, fluid, decisive.
“I don’t suppose you’ve eaten, Your Grace?”
