Page 55 of A Murder in Mayfair
She didn’t pry. For that, I was grateful.
After our brief tour, we returned to the study just as the tea service arrived—Milford wheeling it in with a grace that suggested he’d anticipated our timing precisely. A silver tray bore a steaming pot of Earl Grey, delicate china, and a plate of what must have been fairy cakes, their pale lavender icing glistening like sugar-kissed frost.
Petunia beamed. “Perfectly splendid.”
And for the moment—however improbable it seemed—I almost agreed with her.
Now resigned to the logic of seven-year-olds, I poured tea into her cup and tried not to ponder the implications of being so thoroughly domesticated by someone under four feet tall.
“So tell me, Lady Petunia,” I said with mock solemnity, “will anyone notice you’ve vanished?”
“Oh, eventually. At teatime, certainly. But we have at least a half hour.” With the poise of a seasoned duchess, she nibbled delicately at a fairy cake. “Your cook is a treasure. You ought to increase her wages.”
I chuckled, surprised by the warmth the sound brought to my own ears. “I shall give it serious consideration.”
She looked at me over the rim of her teacup, eyes far too knowing for someone of seven. “You like me now. But you didn’t when we first met. Why was that?”
It caught me off guard—how easily she saw through things. Rosalynd had warned me she was sharp, but I hadn’t expected to be disarmed so thoroughly by someone whose feet didn’t yet reach the floor.
“Well?” she prompted gently, not unkindly.
I took a breath, steadying myself. “You reminded me of my daughter.”
Her eyes widened. “But you said you didn’t have children.”
“I don’t.” My voice was quieter now. “She passed away.”
Petunia’s face softened with something far older than her years. “Was she like me?”
“She lived but a few minutes,” I said, the words catching despite how long they’d been buried. “Complications at birth.”
A pause, then a whisper of sorrow in her voice. “I’m so sorry.”
“So am I,” I admitted. “I miss her every day. More than I can say.”
She reached across the tea table and placed a small hand over mine. It was a child’s gesture—simple, direct, and devastatingly kind.
“I think she would have liked fairy cakes,” she said.
I couldn’t speak for a moment. I could only nod.
The poignant moment shattered as the door burst open and an out-of-breath Rosalynd, her hat askew, fury radiating from her eyes, stormed into the room. “Petunia Marigold Rosehaven! Have youlostyour mind?”
Petunia, completely unfazed, dabbed her lips with a linen napkin. “The duke and I were just having tea.”
Milford quietly closed the door behind Lady Rosalynd—a wise move, as the skirmish ahead promised to escalate into something truly formidable.
I stood, bowing slightly. “Lady Rosalynd, I was honored by your sister’s unexpected visit.”
“Ido apologize, Your Grace,” Rosalynd said, mortified. “She escaped her maid. We searched Rosehaven House top to bottom, and then Grosvenor Square. That’s where we discovered she’d come here.” Glaring at her sister, she snapped out, “No fairy cakes for you.”
Petunia smiled beatifically as she reached for another fairy cake, unbothered. “The duke’s cook made some just for me. She’s perfectly splendid. You should keep her once you marry the duke.”
“When I do what?” Lady Rosalynd’s voice rose to a pitch that might have startled nearby sparrows.
Petunia gave her the same look she’d given me—mild disbelief that someone could be so slow.
“When you and the duke marry,” she said, entirely matter-of-factly.
