Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
Questions and Answers
The carriage ride back to London was interminable.
For a long while, neither of us spoke. The countryside slipped past the windows—rolling green fields, hedgerows surrounded by spring blooms, the occasional village clustered around a church spire—but I scarcely registered any of it.
My thoughts remained fixed on Windsor. On the high-backed chair.
On the small, implacable woman who had summoned us as one might summon pieces on a chessboard.
I had always known the Crown possessed power. What I had not fully understood—until that moment—was how effortlessly it could be applied. No raised voice. No overt threat. Simply expectation. Compliance assumed.
At length, the silence became unbearable.
“The Prince of Wales,” I said. The words felt unreal in my mouth. “Lady Hale and the Prince of Wales.”
Steele did not turn from the window. One gloved hand rested loosely against the door, his fingers still, his posture composed. “Bertie has never been known for his discretion,” he replied evenly. “Or his fidelity.”
There was no heat in his voice. No judgment. Merely fact. That, somehow, unsettled me more.
“You knew,” I said. “Last night—when you would not tell me about Lady Hale. You knew.”
“I had heard rumors,” he said after a pause. He shifted slightly, the movement controlled, but the line of his shoulders tightened. “I did not know they were true. It appears they were.”
I closed my eyes, thinking of Lady Hale in the opera box—her agitation, her hurried whispers to her husband, the way she had clutched her program as though it were a shield.
Had Sir Edmund known of the affair? Had he confronted her?
Had he threatened her? Or had they been arguing about something else entirely—something dangerous enough to end in blood?
It struck me then that Lady Hale’s fear might not have begun with the murder.
“We have been conscripted,” I said. The word tasted sour. “By the Crown. To protect the reputation of a prince who cannot keep his trousers fastened.”
Steele’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “Crudely put,” he said. “But accurate.”
“And if we refuse?” I asked. “If we simply…do nothing?”
He turned then, and in his gray eyes I saw something I rarely did—resignation. Not defeat, but the weary acceptance of a man who understood precisely how power operated and how little room there was to evade it.
“Then the Queen will find other means to express her displeasure,” he said quietly. “A word spoken to the right person. A whisper passed along the proper channels. Invitations quietly withdrawn. Doors that once stood open no longer answering your knock.”
“My family would suffer if such things happened,” I said. “Most especially, Chrissie.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“My position is less fragile,” he said. “But not immune.” A pause. “And more importantly, justice would not be served. Somewhere in London, a killer would walk free while Inspector Graves investigates, not fully aware of all the forces at play.”
So justice, I thought, was still the justification—even if it arrived wrapped in compromise.
“So we have no choice.”
“We have no choice.”
The carriage rolled on, carrying us back toward a city that no longer felt quite the same.
Only yesterday, I had been a woman attending the opera with a man she had fallen in love with.
Today, I was something else entirely—an unwilling instrument of the Crown, tasked with solving a murder not solely for truth, but for containment.
“Where do we begin?” I asked at last.
Steele considered. He had rested a hand against his knee. It struck me how often he adopted stillness when the stakes were highest—as though motion itself were a luxury.
“We do as Her Majesty directed. I will examine Sir Edmund Hale’s business affairs. His investments. His partners. His debts. A man like him is bound to make enemies—often powerful ones.”
“And I investigate the women,” I said, somewhat peevishly. “Drawing rooms. Morning calls. Tea tables heavy with politeness and poison.”
“Her Majesty was not wrong,” Steele said gently, placing his hand on mine. “There are things you can learn that I never could. Doors that will open to you that would remain permanently barred to me.”
I knew it was true. I also knew that those doors, once opened, were not easily closed again.
“Lady Hale,” I said. “I will start with her. A concerned acquaintance offering condolences.”
“You’ll need to be cautious,” he said. “She may be grieving. But she also may be protecting herself.”
“I will be cautious,” I replied. “I always am.”
One dark brow lifted even as his mouth quirked with amusement. “Always?”
I blew out a breath. “Very well. Sometimes.”
“That will need to improve.” His tone shifted—not sharp, but unmistakably serious. “We are no longer operating in the margins.”
“What do you mean?”
"This is the Crown," he said. "Not Her Majesty alone. Not even the Prince of Wales. The Crown as an institution."
"And?"
"There are men—and women—who would dearly like to see the monarchy weakened. Exposed. Brought into disrepute." He turned fully toward me. “If you place yourself in a vulnerable position, they will use it. Not merely against you—but against something far larger.”
“Well,” I said dryly, “no pressure, then.”
His expression did not soften. “I am not jesting.”
“I know.”
The carriage fell quiet again. The road unwound ahead of us, the rhythm of the wheels oddly hypnotic. Unease coiled low in my stomach—not fear, precisely, but a dawning understanding of the depth of the waters into which we had stepped.
After a moment, I said, “Inspector Graves mentioned something last night. At the opera.”
Steele’s attention sharpened at once. His gaze flicked to me. “What did he say?”
“He said you’d involved yourself in certain affairs. I gathered Inspector Graves was involved.”
A muscle jumped along Steele’s jaw.
I hesitated. “What was it?”
For several seconds, Steele did not answer. His eyes returned to the window, though I suspected he was no longer seeing the countryside.
Then he said, “A case Scotland Yard does not discuss.”
I frowned. “You worked on it with him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes,” he said carefully, “Scotland Yard encounters…complications.”
The pause before the word was deliberate.
“Such as?”
“A suspect of considerable rank,” he replied. “Or a victim whose wealth affords him protection. Or circumstances in which the ordinary mechanisms of justice are ill-equipped to function.”
“In other words,” I said, “when someone powerful is involved.”
“Yes.”
“What did that case involve?” I pressed once more.
He exhaled. Not a sigh—more a controlled release of breath. “Lord Whitmore was a viscount. Obscenely wealthy. Politically connected. When he was suspected of murder, the obvious conclusions were…inconvenient.”
“So you were brought in.”
“Yes.”
“To do what, precisely?”
“To investigate without spectacle,” Steele said. “Without subpoenas. Without journalists. To determine whether the truth could be uncovered quietly—or whether it needed to be buried.”
The word struck like a blow.
“Buried.” My stomach tightened. “And what happened?”
He met my gaze. Held it. “He suffered an unfortunate accident.”
The meaning settled heavily between us.
Not tried.
Not convicted.
Erased.
Not by Steele. Of that I was sure. Still.
“So this matter we have been drawn into,” I said slowly, “is not the first time you have been used this way.”
“No.”
“And Inspector Graves?”
“Is one of the few men at Scotland Yard who understands when the law alone is insufficient.”
I thought of the Queen’s voice. Her certainty. Her complete lack of hesitation.
“This is what we are now?” I asked quietly. “Fixers?”
“No,” Steele replied. “We are investigators operating in spaces where the law dares not tread.”
“That is not reassurance.”
“I did not intend it as such.”
Silence followed, deeper now, heavier. I felt it press against my ribs, against my breath.
He lifted my hand and kissed it. “Now,” he added, deliberately lighter, “about that supper we missed.”
I smiled despite myself. “You still intend to feed me?”
“I insist upon it. Even agents of the Crown must eat.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night. Eleven. My unmarked carriage will be waiting at the back of Rosehaven House.”
“Lovely.”
He threaded his fingers through mine, the hold unbroken as the carriage rolled on.
As London’s towers rose ahead, gray and familiar, the full weight of what lay before us settled firmly onto my shoulders.
A murder to solve.
A scandal to contain.
A Queen to satisfy.
Even if the solution was not what I’d wish.
But one thing was true. Somewhere in the city, there was a killer, one who’d already struck once. And for all we knew, might very well strike again.