Page 65 of A Murder in Mayfair
“But what about Walsh’s silver mine?” she asked with faux innocence, her eyes gleaming. “We heard you visited him at ratherlatehours, Mrs. Greystone.”
A few fans fluttered, and a whisper of breathless anticipation rustled through the room.
Mrs. Greystone turned her head slowly toward Lady Tinsley, her smile sharpening by degrees. “Indeed, I did. And had your informant been closer to the door, they might’ve heard what I actually said.”
The room quieted.
“I went to Walsh not for investment,” she continued, her voice cool and crisp as a dry wind, “but to warn him. What he was doing was fraud, plain and simple. And he was ruining lives—widows, spinsters, married women with no control over their dowries. He’d convinced their fathers, brothers, husbands, they would gain a fortune. I told him that if he did not cease and withdraw the scheme, I would go to the authorities myself.”
She leaned back with the easy poise of a woman unbothered by judgment. “And I meant it. I had evidence enough to prove the mine didn’t exist. Had he not died, I would have seen him pay.”
There was a pause. No one reached for their tea.
Then Claire let out a quiet, impressed, “Well.”
Mrs. Greystone glanced around the room, her gaze unflinching. “Let that be a lesson, ladies. If you must trade in whispers, at least make sure the truth speaks louder than gossip.”
That earned her a smattering of applause, mostly from our Society members, whose eyes glittered with something far keener than amusement.
Claire, ever attuned to the currents of a room, rose gracefully, her smile bright as cut crystal. “Well,” she said, her voice lifting the mood with practiced ease, “I believe Lady Rosalynd and Mrs. Greystone have given us much to consider. I suggest we refresh our glasses and allow the conversation to unfold naturally.”
A ripple of agreement followed. The tension, though not entirely gone, eased as cups were refilled, fans resumed their gentle fluttering, and talk shifted toward the more familiar terrain of who was dancing with whom, whose cook had run off, and whether Lady Pelham’s third daughter was truly engaged or merely hopeful.
As I stood near the sideboard, reaching for a fresh pot of tea, I felt a presence beside me.
Mrs. Greystone.
Her voice was low, meant only for me. “You handled that with admirable composure, Lady Rosalynd. And conviction. You speak of change, not as a dream, but as something attainable.”
I turned to face her, warmed and steadied by her words. “Thank you. But it’s not something I can achieve alone.”
She gave a wry smile. “Fortunately, you don’t have to. I’d like to offer my support—particularly with the Society for the Advancement of Women. I believe I can be of use.”
I returned her smile with genuine pleasure. “I would be honoured. I’ll send you notice of our next meeting. You would be most welcomed.”
Her gloved hand brushed my arm—a small gesture, but one filled with significance. Then she slipped away, already half-absorbed into another circle of conversation, leaving behind the scent of bergamot and the quiet promise of alliance.
As the afternoon waned, voices softened, chairs shifted, and the clinking of cups grew sparse. The sharp edges of earlier conversation had dulled into the hum of gossip and gentle laughter. One by one, the ladies made their farewells, trailing lavender perfume and murmured thanks.
I stood near the window, watching the last carriage pull away, when Claire joined me, a crystal glass of watered wine in her hand.
“Well,” she said lightly, “that was livelier than our usual discussions about lace imports and unwed cousins.”
I gave a soft laugh. “I hadn’t planned on igniting a revolution over tea.”
Claire sipped and gave me a sidelong glance. “And yet, here we are. Mrs. Greystone, no less. I must say, I didn’t expect her to be quite so formidable.”
“She’s exactly what we need,” I said. “She sees the battlefield clearly. And she’s willing to fight smart.”
Claire leaned against the windowsill, thoughtful. “Do you think the others were truly listening? Or simply enjoying the spectacle?”
“Both,” I said. “But sometimes spectacle is the wedge. It makes space for the seed to be planted.”
She smiled at that, then fell silent for a beat. “You’re doing something real, Rosalynd. I hope you know that.”
I looked at her—truly looked—and saw not just my friend, but my ally. “So are you.”
She grinned. “Of course I am. I brought the sherry.”
