Page 21 of A Murder in Mayfair
“Of course.” I clenched my jaw. “Did you doubt I would?” I leveled her with a steady look, trying to reassure. But would I be able to sway my brother’s dangerous course? At the very least, I had to try.
“Thank you,” she whispered, relief softening her features. Then she broached her favorite topic once more. “As for the other matter...”
I let out a harsh breath, my patience stretched thin. She would not rest until I gave her the answer she craved, no matter how firmly I refused. Gritting my teeth, I crossed to the sideboard, seized the decanter, and poured a generous measure of whiskey. The amber liquid caught the light as I swallowed it down in one long, desperate gulp.
“There is a candidate, Warwick,” she said, her tone gentling as if that would soften my resolve. “You’ve already made her acquaintance.”
I forced a thin, humorless smile. “I’ve met countless women, Mother.”
She pressed on, undeterred. “Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven. You know her brother, the Earl of Rosehaven.”
I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them, determined to steer this conversation away from marriage. “Yes, I’m aware.” Desperate for a distraction, I asked, “What happened to her parents?”
She paused, voice quietening as if to honor the dead. “They perished six years ago in a terrible carriage accident. They were returning from a social event when the bridge they were crossing collapsed beneath them. The next day, they were found, clinging to each other.”
I grimaced, the tragedy weighing heavier than I cared to admit. “At least they died together,” I said, the bitterness in my tone betraying what I truly felt. No one deserved such a fate.
“That calamity left their children orphaned,” Mother continued softly. “Lady Rosalynd, barely eighteen, gave up any thought of marriage. Instead, she remained at their Yorkshire estate to raise her younger siblings. Her first season was her last.”
“She’s content with her life,” I said, trying to sound detached.
“How can you be so certain?” Mother asked.
I kept my gaze fixed on a point beyond her shoulder. “She told me she doesn’t wish to marry.”
“You broached the subject with her?”
“No. She volunteered it on her own.”
“Her grandmother, the dowager, said as much,” Mother replied, a trace of disappointment lacing her words. “A shame, really. She’d make a splendid mother.”
I stiffened at that gleam in Mother’s eyes. I knew that look too well. It was the same one she’d directed at me before my betrothal. “She won’t abandon her siblings, and I have no intention of marrying.” My words were flint and stone, striking sparks between us.
“There’s her sister,” Mother pressed, voice smooth as velvet. “She’s making her debut this season. Malleable. Fertile stock.There are nine children in that family. Can you imagine? She’d give you heirs.”
Pressing my lips together, I shut my eyes again. “No,” I said, final and firm.
Mother sighed, rising to her feet in a graceful flutter of silks. “Just think about it. That’s all I ask.” Her voice had lost none of its persistence, yet it softened with maternal affection. “I’m off to the modiste.”
For a moment, I hesitated before kissing her cheek. Despite the vexing nature of our talk, I could not deny her the small comfort of that familiar gesture. “Thank you for coming,” I managed, though annoyance still simmered beneath my cordial tone.
She studied me, her forehead creasing with a small line of worry. “You are looking after your brothers, aren’t you, Warwick?”
I drew back and straightened my shoulders. “Do not fret, Mother,” I said quietly. “I am keeping an eye on them.” Even if neither wished me to do so.
Chapter
Eight
LADY WALSH’S BALL
The ballroom at Walsh House glittered with a thousand points of light. Candlelit chandeliers hung from the lofty ceiling and refracted off gilded mirrors, bathing the elegantly dressed guests in a warm, shifting glow. Every person of note in London society seemed to have converged here. Jewels winked at throats and wrists, silks whispered along parquet floors, and a hum of polite laughter and music wove through the crowd.
I scarcely wanted to be here. I preferred my study—its quiet order, its refuge of papers and inkwells—to the chaotic brightness of a crowded ball. But duty demanded I attend. There were several important gentlemen who had yet to commit their votes to my pending measure in the House of Lords. With Parliament in session, I needed every edge. If it took a few waltzes and some flattery delivered through a forced smile, so be it.
At some point, I would have to ask Lady Throckmorton’s granddaughter to dance. But not now. Not just yet.
As a string quartet in the gallery began a lively tune, couples drifted to the center of the floor. I kept to the perimeter, nursing a glass of champagne I had no real interest in drinking. My eyes scanned the crowd, searching for those particular gentlemen, noting their absence yet again. If they did not appear soon, I would have attended this charade in vain.
