Page 23 of A Murder in Mayfair
Her lips parted, and she swallowed hard, a tremor flashing through her. “If he was in fact delayed, he should have sent a note, a messenger—anything to explain. But there’s been no word.” She glanced toward the entrance of the ballroom, where her cousin, Lady Walsh, had stood earlier, bright and proud in her finery. Now, that familiar figure was gone. The empty space where she should have been felt like a dark void, absorbing the laughter and chatter into uneasy silence.
The violins continued their lilting melody, but Lady Rosalynd did not appear to hear them. Her gaze drifted restlessly among the guests, searching for answers that did not reveal themselves. “It’s well past ten,” she murmured, her voice threaded with growing worry. “He knew this night was special, how important it was to her.”
In that moment, I understood. Her earlier barbs had been shields, masking an anxiety she did not want to claim as her own. She did not fear for just the evening’s success, but for the well-being of someone she cared about. Someone who’d been left alone in a spotlight that should have been shared. And so, as we continued to dance, our steps now slower, more deliberate, I held her troubled gaze and sought to find the right words to ease her doubt.
But before I could do so, a piercing scream sliced through the music. Instantly, the dancers halted. Heads turned toward the double doors leading out into the corridor. Instinct and duty propelled me forward, even as I released Lady Rosalynd’s hand. She refused to be abandoned, however, and followed me as I left the dance floor.
“I advise you to remain behind,” I said over my shoulder to her as we moved. “This may not be suitable for?—”
She shot me a sharp look. “If something terrible has happened, I will not cower behind potted palms.”
We emerged into the corridor just as Lady Walsh herself stumbled into the ballroom. The hostess’s beautiful gown hung awkwardly, and her face was white as a sheet. A hush fell over the guests like a heavy curtain.
“He’s dead,” Lady Walsh gasped, her voice cracking. “He’s dead!”
A shocked murmur spread through the guests. My brother Nicky, standing not far from the center of the crowd, caught Lady Walsh’s eye. When her gaze latched onto him for a fleeting instant, my stomach clenched with sick certainty.
Lady Walsh was the married woman entangled with my brother.
I had hoped to speak to him tonight and dissuade him from this madness, I had not imagined it would come to light in such a dreadful manner.
Rushing forward, I pushed past a cluster of horrified onlookers, reaching Lady Walsh just before her knees gave out. She fell against me, her trembling fingers clutching at my lapels. The scent of jasmine clung faintly to her hair. She tried to speak, but her words broke off into sobs.
“Steady,” I said, supporting her weight. Over her shoulder, I caught Nicky’s eye. His face was pale with shock. He started to move forward, but I shook my head. Thankfully, he acknowledged my command and made no further move toward her. His clothing was just as disheveled as hers. Had they been engaged in something untoward?
In the next instant, others pressed in—Lady Rosalynd among them, her expression grave and eyes full of concern. As I felt the weight of the entire ballroom’s attention, whispers started at the edges, hissing possibilities and suspicions into the charged air.
“Who’s dead, Julia?” Lady Rosalynd asked softly as she knelt next to her cousin.
Lady Walsh’s voice emerged again, thin and fractured. As her lips trembled, I leaned closer, straining to catch her words. “Walsh,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper, “someone murdered him.”
Chapter
Nine
THE TRUTH COMES OUT
Stepping out of Julia’s bedchamber, I paused in the deserted upper corridor of Walsh House, my heart still thudding from the night’s horrors. Barely an hour ago, the ballroom had swirled with silk and chatter. Now, the air smelled of sputtering candle wax and bitter endings. My cousin’s glittering ball had ended in tragedy.
I leaned against the paneled wall, forcing my breath to steady. No use collapsing now. The terrible words replayed in my mind—He’s dead!—and with them, the image of Julia crumpling into the Duke of Steele’s arms, pale as a ghost and twice as broken.
Walsh had been found in Spitalfields, of all places. An area he'd have avoided like the plague on any ordinary evening, much less the night of his own grand ball. Now he lay dead, murdered, while Julia, his wife, hovered between consciousness and despair.
I swallowed the knot rising in my throat. Julia rested behind that closed door, attended by her maid and physician. But no physician could stitch her life back together. Not after this.
A shadow shifted nearby, and I looked up to find Steele lingering in the corridor, silent and immovable as a sentry. Given his earlier duties—summoning the doctor, carrying Julia upstairs—I had assumed he'd gone. Yet there he stood, as if some invisible tether kept him rooted here.
And he wasn’t alone.
Chief Inspector Dodson, Scotland Yard’s representative of grim efficiency, loitered at the end of the hallway. His eyes gleamed with calculation, taking stock of every word, every flicker of emotion. Some history existed between him and Steele. They watched each other like duelists waiting for the signal to draw.
I took a measure of comfort in the fact that Lord Nicholas, Steele’s brother, had left the house. Sensible, really. After Julia’s collapse, the rumor mill had ignited. His lingering presence would only have fanned the flames.
Still, I couldn’t shake what I’d seen—the furtive glances, the concerned hovering. I’d been too wrapped up in Chrissie’s debut to notice before. Was there truly something between Nicky and Julia? The thought gnawed at me, but now was hardly the time to chase shadows. Julia needed me to be strong.
I stepped closer to Steele, lowering my voice. “Your Grace, the physician has asked that Julia not be disturbed. She needs rest, not interrogation.”
His steady, gray eyes met mine. “She will not be questioned tonight. You have my word.”
