Page 58 of A Murder in Mayfair
While we waited for Honeycutt to return, the duke spoke, his tone measured. “Lady Rosalynd and I are investigating Lord Walsh’s death. It appears he was involved in several unsavory dealings—cheating at cards among them. We’ve uncovered the names of several individuals, any one of whom might have had motive enough to arrange his murder.”
“Isn’t Scotland Yard pursuing these leads?” the duchess asked, brows lifting.
“Chief Detective Inspector Dodson hasn’t exactly been forthcoming,” the duke replied. “Unfortunately, he’s become fixated on Nicholas. He recently learned Nicky harbors a tendre for Lady Walsh. And Charles Walsh has publicly accused Julia of murdering his father to clear the way for her marriage to Nicholas, whom he insists is the child’s father.”
“Heavens,” the duchess murmured, a hand drifting to her pearls.
Honeycutt returned with a decanter and a snifter. After placing the tray on a nearby table, he withdrew.
“Should I serve myself?” the duke asked, pointing to the decanter.
I nodded. “Please do.”
“As far as I can tell,” the duke continued after taking a sip of the spirit, “Dodson isn’t investigating other suspects. He’s searching for evidence to implicate both Nicky and Lady Walsh.”
“And what will he find?” the duchess asked quietly.
I picked up the thread. “Julia insists that she and Lord Nicholas are nothing more than friends. She maintains that the child she’s expecting is her husband’s. But society is inclined to doubt it—after so many years without children, this sudden pregnancy has tongues wagging. The rumor is that LordNicholas paid someone to do away with Walsh so he could marry Julia and claim the child as his own.”
“Which he couldn’t do,” the duke added, “legally or otherwise. Since Julia was married to Walsh, the child is presumed by law to be his.”
At that, the duchess exhaled a slow, measured breath, her mind clearly working behind those ice-blue eyes.
But whatever she was about to say would remain a mystery. Because at that very moment, Petunia burst into the room.
“Rosie, it’s time for—oh.” She halted mid-step, eyes widening as she took in our company. “You have visitors.” Then, brightening at the sight of Steele, she added cheerfully, “Hello, Duke!”
“Good morning, Lady Petunia,” he replied with a warm smile—far more genial than when they’d first met. Turning to the duchess, he said, “Mother, may I introduce Lady Petunia?”
“What a precious child,” the duchess exclaimed, eyes filled with merriment.
Petunia dipped into a curtsy. “Duchess.”
“Your Grace, poppet. Remember?” I gently corrected.
With a mischievous grin, Petunia turned to Steele’s mother and repeated with exaggerated sweetness, “Your Grace. Is the duke really your son?”
“He certainly is,” the duchess replied, a note of amusement in her voice.
“You don’t look anything alike.”
“He takes after his father. All three of my sons do.”
“You have three sons?”
“I do.”
“Petunia, you’re being impertinent,” I said—though I couldn't quite suppress a smile.
“She’s being delightful,” the duchess countered, still smiling. “How old are you, my dear?”
“Seven. Do you like fairy cakes?”
“I most certainly do. Let me guess—they’re your favorite?”
“They are. The duke’s cook baked some for me when I visited him.”
The duchess turned a look of quiet wonder toward her son. “Did she really?”
