Page 69 of A Murder in Mayfair
He gave a single nod, but his eyes followed me to the door—watching, calculating, already several steps ahead.
I paused on the threshold. “And what will you do?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Find Nicky.”
For a moment, I stood there, caught in the silence between us. His expression gave nothing away, but something in his gaze held fast to mine—steady, unwavering. I nodded once, then turned and left, the echo of his words lingering in my mind long after I’d gone.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
A HOUSE REMEMBERS
Julia sat on the edge of a chaise, wrapped in a delicate shawl, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She didn’t look up when I entered, didn’t stir when I crossed to her side. Only the fine tremble in her fingertips betrayed that she was aware of me at all.
I sat beside her and took her hand gently. “Julia, darling, what is it?” I asked, though I already knew. Dodson’s arrival, she had to have heard of it. Word must have traveled like wildfire up the stairs to her room. The threat of arrest had taken its toll. But she needed to say it, to give shape to the fear hollowing her out.
At the sound of my voice, her chin quivered. “They’ll take me away,” she whispered, barely audible. “They’ll take me, and I’ll lose everything.” Her hand curled protectively around her stomach. “I’ll lose my child.”
A tear traced down her cheek. I caught it with my thumb. “You will not be moved, Julia. You are staying here in Rosehaven House. Steele and I saw to that.”
“They’ve posted police officers downstairs,” she said in a strangled whisper.
I couldn’t very well deny it. She already knew. “Two constables. They’re here to keep you safe, not drag you off. You needn’t speak to them, or even see them at all.”
She gave a shuddering breath. “But how will I manage? I need to eat. For the baby’s sake, if not for my own.”
I reached for her hand again, wrapping it firmly in mine. “And you shall. Every tray of food, every need, will come straight to you. All you have to do is rest, Julia. You must regain your strength. Let me carry the weight of this. You’ve carried enough.”
Her hand closed over mine with more strength than I expected. “I didn’t kill him, Rosalynd.”
I met her gaze, unflinching. “I know you didn’t.”
The tension in her body eased as she drew a steadying breath, the kind one takes when hope, however faint, begins to return.
The journeyacross Mayfair to Walsh House passed in silence. I sat in the corner of the carriage, my thoughts racing with the one question that refused to be stilled.
Who had killed Charles?
It had to be someone with access to Walsh House. Steele was right about that. Only such a person could have tampered with the tea packet Julia had sent. Of her innocence, I had no doubt. She simply didn’t have it in her to commit murder.
And yet, there was one fact that could condemn her.
She had access to foxglove.
Cosmos had told me he encountered her during her garden walk on Saturday morning. Upon their return, he’d shown her the specimen in his study. If Dodson ever learned that detail, it would be more than enough to justify a second warrant—thistime with damning evidence in hand. And if that happened, I feared we wouldn’t be able to stop him.
Which meant I needed answers—and quickly. Somewhere inside Walsh House lay the truth. I intended to follow the trail wherever it led.
Walsh House wore its mourning like a shroud. The windows, though curtained, seemed darker than usual, the once-pristine façade dulled by soot and shadow. The brass knocker had been removed from the front door, in keeping with custom—a silent emblem of death within. But without it, there was no dignified way to announce myself.
I hesitated only a moment before raising my gloved hand and rapping firmly on the door. The sound was inelegant, far too loud in the still evening air—but effective. Within moments, the door swung open, and a harried footman blinked out at me.
“Milady,” he said, startled, and stepped back at once to admit me.
I crossed the threshold into a house heavy with silence. The air inside was thick with the scent of extinguished fires and fading lilies. Every footstep felt too loud, too alive. Grief clung to the walls—but so did secrets.
I intended to draw them into the light.
