Page 66 of A Murder in Mayfair
I laughed, the kind that lingers in the chest even after it fades.
We stood like that a moment longer, two women at the edge of something uncertain but undeniable.
Change was coming—whether society welcomed it or not—and I for one intended to meet it head-on.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
BITTER INFUSION
The scent of lilies and bergamot still clung to me when the door to Rosehaven House opened—not by a footman, but by Mr. Honeycutt himself. That alone was enough to set my nerves on edge.
He stood in the threshold with grave composure, his gloved hands folded before him, his expression unusually solemn. Without a word, he stepped aside to admit me. The door closed behind with a solid click, the sound echoing through the silence like a verdict.
I had only just begun to unpin my hat when I caught the look in his eyes—gentle, steady, and burdened with something far heavier than words.
“Milady,” he said quietly. “There’s been ... news.”
I froze, my hand suspended mid-motion. “What sort of news?”
He met my gaze with calm sorrow. “It’s Lord Walsh, milady. Lord Charles Walsh. He’s—he’s dead.”
“Dead?” The word struck like a stone, hollowing the air between us. For a moment, all I could hear was the ticking of thelong-case clock in the corridor and the distant rumble of carriage wheels outside.
“Yes, milady. Word arrived just a short time ago. He collapsed in his study at Walsh House.”
I moved past him into the morning room, heart hammering in my chest like a warning bell. The space felt too still, too bright, as though the room itself was holding its breath.
“How?” I asked, my voice thinner than I intended. I didn’t know what I feared more—a tragic accident, or something far worse.
Mr. Honeycutt followed and closed the door behind us. “They found him slumped over his desk,” he said. “A cup of tea in his hand.”
I stared at him, stunned. Tea.
Julia had sent him a parcel of her special blend—the same served at the reading of the will. But I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Charles had a weak heart. It could have been natural.
Before I could respond, a sharp knock sounded at the door, followed immediately by a second, more insistent one. Mr. Honeycutt, already tense, moved to answer it.
Inspector Dodson stood in the hall, hat in hand, grim purpose written across his face. Two uniformed constables trailed behind him like shadows. As they made their entrance, Mr. Honeycutt quietly slipped away.
“Lady Rosalynd,” Dodson said by way of greeting, inclining his head with what passed for respect.
“Inspector,” I replied cautiously, my stomach tightening. “What brings you?—?”
“I’m here for Lady Julia Walsh,” he said without preamble, retrieving a document from inside his jacket. “She is to be taken into custody on suspicion of murder.”
For one breathless moment, I felt the ground tilt beneath me. But collapsing would not do. I straightened my spine and forced my voice to remain steady. “You cannot be serious.”
“Indeed, I am,” Dodson continued, his voice clipped and certain. “Lord Charles Walsh died shortly after consuming tea laced with foxglove. The amount present was enough to stop a man’s heart. The cook confirmed the tea was brewed from the custom blend Lady Julia Walsh sent him. We examined the remaining leaves. There were signs of foxglove.”
Julia had poisoned Charles. Or so he would have us believe.
“Signs are not proof, Inspector,” I said, my voice low but cutting. “What time did Charles die?”
“His body was discovered at noon when the butler entered the study to announce luncheon.”
I glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s five o’clock now. No formal analysis could have been conducted in so short a time. You’re relying on assumptions and haste to condemn an innocent woman—and one expecting a child at that.”
