Page 25 of A Murder in Mayfair
“In Lord Walsh’s study, Your Grace,” the butler murmured.
“See that he does not disturb Lady Walsh.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Steele turned back to me, his cape now draped over his shoulders. “If you need anything—anything at all—send word.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
And then he was gone, swallowed by the night.
The housekeeper showed me to a hastily prepared bedchamber. Nothing grand, but it was clean, the sheets scented faintly of lavender, and someone had thoughtfully laid out a nightgown. I thanked her and made sure she knew no one was to disturb Julia unless absolutely necessary.
After a maid helped me out of my ball gown, I slipped beneath the covers, grateful I was alone. But sleep did not come easily. Somewhere in London, Lord Walsh’s murderer walked free. Somewhere, the next revelation waited to shatter what remained of our fragile peace.
I vowed, right there and then, that I would not allow Julia to face it alone.
Not while there was breath left in my body.
Chapter
Ten
A SCANDAL BREWING
Irose at dawn, though calling it sleep would have been generous. I’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows creep and shift, while the terrible events of the evening replayed themselves like a grim pantomime.
Tilly arrived promptly at eight with a set of fresh clothes. She found me already bathed and pacing. It took only a few minutes for her to wrestle me into a suitable gown—an achievement, considering I could hardly stand still.
She had just fastened the final buttons when raised voices shattered the early quiet.
“Oh, miss!” Tilly gasped, her reflection in the mirror wide-eyed with alarm.
“I must go!” I wrenched free.
“Wait, milady, just one more?—”
I was already halfway to the door, propriety trailing in my wake.
I followed the shouting to Julia’s morning room, stopping short at the sight that greeted me.
Charles Walsh, pale and wiry by nature, was now flushed red with fury, hands clenched at his sides as he spat venom at Julia.
“You take me for a fool?” he shouted, voice cracking. “A child, to be lied to at every turn? I see it clearly—you and your precious Nicky Thornburn conspired to rid yourselves of my father.”
The accusation struck like a slap. For one awful moment, I stood frozen, stunned that anyone—least of all Charles—could accuse Julia of murder. His face, twisted with rage and grief, held no hint of doubt.
"Lower your voice, Charles," came a calmer tone behind him. Edwin Heller, Charles’s cousin and seemingly peacemaker, stepped forward, his hand resting gently on Charles’s shoulder. "You must calm yourself," he said, voice placating.
"Don’t patronize me!" Charles snarled, though he didn’t shake him off. "I will not be silent while my father's killer stands there feigning grief!" He thrust a trembling finger toward Julia.
Julia rose slowly to her feet, her hands shaking, her voice low but fierce. "You speak as if you never knew me at all. Your father's death wounds me deeply. I would never harm him or you."
Her words barely touched Charles. His laugh was a bitter, broken sound. "You call it foolishness? I think not. I’ve seen the way you and Thornburn look at each other. You never loved my father. You never loved me. You used us both for convenience. And now that he’s dead, you expect sympathy?"
Julia’s face, always so composed, crumpled slightly. But then, she drew herself up with the last shreds of dignity.
"I was faithful," she said, voice trembling but unyielding. "I gave everything I had to this family. I may not have given him a child while he was alive,” she paused, her hand fluttering over her abdomen, “but now, by the grace of God, I carry one."
