Page 18 of A Murder in Mayfair
A red-faced Holly came upright. “Petunia commandeered the entire tray of fairy cakes. And she wouldn’t share.” With a triumphant grin, she said, “So Ivy and I took it from her.”
“They ate most of them, Rosie,” Petunia said, pouting. “There’s almost none left for me.”
There was only one solution to this problem. “Chrissie, please bring me the tray.”
After a brief tussle, Holly and Ivy gave it up. As soon as Chrissie’s back was turned, they stuck out their tongues at Petunia.
Once I had the tray in my possession, I handed it to the maid who was standing by the pastries table. “Please return it to the kitchen with my compliments to Cook. Tell her it’s to be shared among the staff.” Not that there were many left.
The maid curtsied. “Yes, milady.”
As the maid made her way out the door, Petunia jumped to her feet, her eyes filled with tears. “No!”
“Sit down, Petunia.”
It was a sad little imp who retook her seat.
“Since you cannot behave yourselves, no fairy cakes will be served for the next seven days. They will return only when you demonstrate proper decorum. Is that clear?”
Dead silence met my pronouncement.
“I can’t hear you!”
A chorus of “Yes, ma’am,” and “Yes, Rosie” circled the room.
“Now, one at a time, starting with Chrissie and proceeding in descending order of birth, you will each serve yourselves one sweet from the pastries table. You will then sit and eat it like the ladies and gentleman I know you are. There will be no talking, no pelting each other with food, no sly glances. If I detect the slightest infraction of these rules, you will all be vanished to your rooms. Nod if you understand.”
They all nodded.
“Chrissie, if you will, why don’t you start us off?”
As she passed me, her lips quivered with mirth. But sticking to the rule I’d just laid out, she didn’t say a word. One by one, her siblings followed equally silent. Once they’d helped themselves, they returned to their seats and proceeded to eat quietly.
Into this ocean of calm walked our butler, Honeycutt. “You have a visitor, ma’am. Lady Walsh.”
I turned to find my cousin walking toward me. “Julia, how pleasant to see you.” Embracing her, I kissed her cheek.
“Rosalynd,” her smile was more sad than happy, which unfortunately was often the case these days. She’d made her debut the same year I had. Unlike me, though, she’d been eager to marry a titled lord. But lacking a large dowry, she believed her chances were slim of capturing the attention of a gentleman of noble birth.
That season, however, Lord Walsh, a widower of one year, had been on the hunt for a wife. His son, who suffered from aweak disposition, was not expected to make old bones. So Lord Walsh was eager to marry a young lady who would provide him with the spare he desperately needed. In Julia, he’d found the perfect candidate. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping in.”
“Of course not. You’re welcomed any time.” I led her to a settee where we could enjoy a comfortable coze. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, sugar only, please.”
I nodded to the maid in charge of the tea service, who prepared a cup to Julia’s preference and served it to her.
“How are the ball preparations coming along?” In years past, her celebrations had been perfectly splendid, but this season I’d sensed a lack of excitement in her. Maybe she’d grown tired of all the work that went into them.
Still, she answered pleasantly enough. “Very well. I just hope it goes off without a hitch.” She put a palm to her stomach as if her anxiety was making itself felt in that region.
I pressed her hand. “I’m sure it will be perfectly splendid.”
“It’s just nerves, I know.” She removed her gloves so she could drink her tea. That’s when I noticed the bruises on her arms.
“What happened?” I whispered, pointing to her forearm.
“It’s nothing. Walsh was a bit too ... amorous, that’s all.” Her voice descended into a whisper.
