Page 51 of A Murder in Mayfair
The room seemed oddly hollow without her fierce presence. The fire hissed in the grate, and the air felt heavier, burdened by the warnings she had left behind. For a moment, I stood there, letting the silence settle like dust around me. But retreat was a luxury I could ill afford.
With a sigh, I made my way to my desk. There were tasks to attend to, however distasteful. Chief among them: a note to Claire. I took up my pen with no small measure of reluctance—not because I feared Claire would refuse. On the contrary, she’d be thrilled by my sudden interest in society teas. Rather, it was the prospect of immersing myself in the clucking company of gossip-hungry matrons that made my skin crawl. Women who pried, dissected, and whispered until lives lay bare like butterflies pinned beneath glass.
But desperate times, as they say.
Claire replied within the hour. Her note, penned in an exuberant hand, read:
"Dearest Rosalynd,
How positively thrilling! Lady Farnsworth is hosting tea tomorrow, and you shall be my honored guest. Prepare to be scandalized. And do bring your sharpest smile. The ladies are positively foaming over Walsh’s demise. Wear something disarming."
Disarming? I thought not. I would wear my dove-gray gown with lace cuffs—elegant, modest, and entirely unmemorable. The better to fade into the background while collecting intelligence. Or so I hoped.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
TEA, TATTLE, AND TACTICS
Ispent the following morning helping Julia settle into Rosehaven House. Hoping to lighten her mood, I’d chosen the brightest guest room for her. Once Julia’s things were properly tucked away, her maid suggested bed rest for her. Not unexpected. It was what the doctor had recommended, after all.
There would be no bed rest for me, however—nor, indeed, any rest at all. Not that I required it. With several siblings needing attention in one form or another, I had matters to see to before dressing for Lady Farnsworth’s tea.
Lady Claire had arranged to collect me at two, and though punctuality was rarely her strong suit, she arrived precisely on time—a small mercy I genuinely appreciated. Her sunny disposition, as always, lifted my spirits. The drive to Lady Farnsworth’s Mayfair townhouse was brief, owing to its convenient location.
We stepped from the carriage into the bright chill of Mayfair, my gloves smooth and snug as I adjusted them with the nervous precision of someone preparing for battle rather than tea. The townhouse loomed ahead—white-bricked and respectable, withnothing at all to hint at the social carnage that often unfolded within.
I glanced at Claire, whose eyes sparkled like someone arriving at a costume ball where half the guests might be unmasked before the scones were served.
“Ready to sip scandal from china cups?” I asked under my breath.
She gave a silvery laugh. “Darling, if scandal were served on toast points, this crowd would be positively stuffed.”
The front door opened before we reached it, and a footman ushered us inside with stiff decorum. Lady Farnsworth always did love a dramatic entrance, even if it wasn’t her own. The drawing room was a riot of pale pastels, gilded frames, and lace doilies. The scent of jasmine tea and lemon curd wafted through the air.
“Lady Rosalynd," Lady Farnsworth cooed, squeezing my hands. "How lovely to have you among us. So rare, a lady of principle joining us vultures."
"I'm merely here for the tea," I replied.
She turned to Claire to greet her. “And Lady Edmunds, how delightful. Do come in.”
The room stilled. Not silent, exactly, but the sort of pause one hears in a theatre just before the curtain lifts. I could feel the weight of their eyes—their curiosity cloaked in politeness. Then, like clockwork, conversation resumed with a touch more animation than before. As if nothing had happened. As if they hadn’t all just catalogued my every move and wondered how close I truly was to the dead man’s widow. And more importantly, what gossip they could pry from me.
Claire leaned in, whispering with amusement, “I do believe you’ve just stolen the room.”
“I’d rather steal the truth,” I murmured. Together we swept toward a table already occupied by Lady Ponsonby and LadyAshcombe, who were not so much known for conversation as for strategic dissemination of information.
The tea was hot, the cakes dainty, and the conversation meandered through the usual topics—seasonal events, minor scandals, and the latest flutter of fashion. But beneath it all was something sharper. Tension. Unspoken curiosity. I might as well have walked in trailing a cloud of sulfur.
“Have you tried the violet macarons?” Lady Ponsonby asked, offering a tray with the exaggerated grace of a peace treaty.
“Thank you,” Claire said smoothly while placing two on a plate. Seated beside me with her teacup poised just so, she waited until a convenient lull before speaking. “I recently came into a modest bequest,” she said lightly, as if the matter were hardly worth mentioning. “Not a fortune, of course, but enough to require thoughtful consideration.”
Several heads turned with interest, though no one interrupted.
“I’ve been wondering,” she continued, glancing around the room with a pleasant smile, “if any of you have heard whispers about promising ventures. Something quiet. Respectable. Discreet.” Her delivery was effortless, perfectly timed, and I offered the faintest tilt of my head in silent approval. We had rehearsed this in the carriage. Claire would cast the line, and, if anyone knew of such ventures, the bait would surely draw them out.
She leaned in slightly, her tone casual but carefully pitched. “I heard someone mention a silver mine the other day. An American one, I believe. Out West. Supposed to yield quite a return.”
