Page 73 of A Murder in Mayfair
I lifted my wineglass and smiled. “Only that I’ve had enough scandal this week to last me through Chrissie’s entire season. I intend to be as dull as toast from here on out.”
The children laughed, as children often do when they think something is a joke, and the conversation moved on. But my thoughts remained fixed on the sequence of events at Walsh House.
After supper, the children went upstairs, their laughter trailing behind them like the final notes of a fading melody. Chrissie with her debut dreams, Petunia with her dolls, and whispered goodnights, Lauren with her book, and Holly and Ivy with their mischief plans. Fox had been awfully quiet during supper. Once Julia’s name was cleared, I would need to have a discussion with him.
Only Cosmos and I retired to the drawing room, the fire casting long shadows across the carpet. He nursed a glass of port, his gaze keen behind his spectacles.
"How is Julia, truly? And please don’t fob me off with some nonsense.”
"She’s resting," I replied, keeping my tone even. "She’s been through quite a shock."
“And Steele? What’s his role in all this?”
“He’s helping with the investigation.”
He studied me a moment longer but chose not to press. With a quiet grunt, he rose from his chair. "I won’t pry tonight. If you need me, you know where to find me."
With that, he withdrew to his study, leaving me alone with the low crackle of the fire and the relentless ticking of the mantel clock.
I waited. And waited. And waited some more. Ten o’clock came, and still no word. At last, with a sigh of resignation, I made my way to my chambers.
Tilly helped me out of my gown, her hands quick and practiced. I had just slipped into my nightgown when a firm knock sounded at the door. Tilly cracked the door open to the footman waiting outside.
“The Duke of Steele is downstairs, milady."
My breath caught. "Tell His Grace I’ll be down directly."
With no time for corset and formality, I asked Tilly to help me into a simple gown. As soon as the buttons were fastened, I was hurrying down the stairs, my slippers silent on the carpet, the chill of anticipation rising in my throat.
Steele was waiting in the morning room.
He stood near the hearth, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the same unrelenting black that seemed to drink in the dim light around him. His coat was still buttoned against the chill, his gloved hands clasped loosely behind his back, theflicker of the fire casting shadows along the hard planes of his face. He looked like something carved from midnight—elegant, forbidding, and utterly arresting.
The scent of the night clung to him—woodsmoke, damp air, and something indefinably his. It caught me off guard, slipped past my carefully constructed walls, and settled low in my throat.
I had seen him before, countless times. Heard his voice, watched the precision of his movements, studied the mind behind the man. But now, standing here in my home, so near and so completely composed, I saw something else.
He was beautiful.
Not in the way of poets or portraits, but in the way storms are—dark, charged, undeniable.
My breath hitched before I could steady it. And for one unguarded second, I let myself feel the weight of his presence as more than an ally, more than an adversary.
As a man.
Chapter
Thirty-One
THE WEIGHT OF THE TRUTH
Istood just inside the doorway, painfully aware of my state—no corset, only a simple gown hastily buttoned, my copper hair pulled into a single braid that hung over one shoulder. I hadn’t even taken time to don a shawl. My breathing, no matter how I willed it to slow, remained shallow and uneven.
His gaze found mine—then dropped, just for a moment, to the rise and fall of my chest.
A flicker passed through his expression. Not surprise, exactly. Something sharper. His eyes darkened, and one brow lifted in subtle, unmistakable acknowledgment. My skin prickled beneath the fabric.
Then, as if summoned by some vestige of his better nature, he looked away.
