Page 57 of A Murder in Mayfair
“Your cousin, Lady Walsh, is now residing with you.”
“Yes.”
“Such a tragedy,” she murmured, with a subtle shake of her head. “How is she faring these days?”
I stiffened. Surely she hadn’t come all this way to indulge in gossip. If so, my opinion of her would plummet at once. “As well as can be expected.”
“I understand she’s expecting a child.”
I said nothing. Whatever curiosity she had, I had no intention of discussing Julia’s private affairs.
“My son Nicholas is rumored to be the father.”
“Your Grace!” I gasped, more out of shock than offense.
She waved a hand lightly, her tone matter-of-fact. “Oh, child, I don’t believe that for a moment. I know Nicholas. He may be impulsive, but he would never commit such a transgression. Still, his name has been linked to hers. And we both know how stubborn rumors can be—how quickly they grow, how vicious they become, unless stopped.”
“A difficult thing to accomplish,” I said, carefully.
“Indeed.” She set her cup down with precision. “Which brings me to the heart of the matter. I suspect that you and Warwick have involved yourselves in the investigation of Lord Walsh’s death—you, to clear your cousin’s name, andhe, to protect my son’s. Am I correct?”
She was as perceptive as she was elegant. But before I could respond, a sharp knock came at the door. Without waiting for an invitation, the duke himself strode into the room.
He paused just inside, his gaze sweeping over the scene: his mother seated with regal composure on one of the settees, me opposite her with a teacup in hand and no doubt an expression that betrayed my surprise.
“Mother,” he said, bowing slightly. “Lady Rosalynd.”
“Warwick,” the Duchess returned in a crisp tone.
“Your Grace,” I greeted him in the same manner.
He crossed the room with measured steps, stopping beside her chair. In a measured whisper, he asked, “May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“Why, enjoying a perfectly pleasant cup of tea with Lady Rosalynd.”
“Is that so?” Straightening, he turned his attention to me.
“Absolutely,” I said, managing a smile. “Would you like a cup yourself? Earl Grey—or something stronger?”
“No. Thank you.”
It took only a moment to piece together how he’d found her. Her carriage, of course—was unmistakable and likely parked directly in front of Rosehaven House for all of Grosvenor Square to see. And now he had followed it across the square—in broad daylight, no less—into the home of the very lady his name had recently been linked to. With nursemaids and children milling about, the gossips would already be composing headlines.
“Whatever you came here to learn, Mother,” he said, his tone tight, “you should have come to me.”
“And would you have answered me, Warwick?” she countered calmly. “You treat me like fragile porcelain. As though the truth might shatter me. I assure you, I’m far stronger than that. As well, you should know.”
“I don’t want to cause you pain.”
“It’s far more painful to be kept in the dark about what you and Lady Rosalynd are involved in. Rumor has it you’re having an affair. And in Chelsea, of all places.” Her lip curled as she spoke the name, her voice dipping into something that almost resembled disdain. There was history in that reaction. Of what sort, I couldn’t begin to guess. But clearly, Chelsea struck some hidden nerve.
“Mother!” The duke snapped. “Lady Rosalynd and I are not?—”
She arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Of course you aren’t. I suspect you’re conducting one of your private investigations—this time into Lord Walsh’s death. So, sit down, and tell me what you’ve uncovered.”
Steele turned to me with a look of pure exasperation. “I’ll take that brandy now.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” I crossed to the bell pull and gave it a firm tug. When Honeycutt appeared, I relayed the duke’s request with a calm I didn’t own.
