Page 54 of A Murder in Mayfair
Lady Petunia swung her legs over the edge of the nearest chair. “I’m here on behalf of myself. I wanted to inspect the bedchambers.”
I blinked. “The bedchambers?”
She nodded solemnly. “I need to choose one for when I move in.”
“When youwhat?”
“Move in,” she repeated patiently. “Grandmother says you and Rosie are courting a scandal of prodigious proportions. Something about being seen in a place called Chelsea. Which sounds frightfully dull, if I’m being honest.”
“Were we, by Jove?” I muttered. How did that happen? No one of quality ever visited Chelsea.
“When people court scandal, they must marry or else everyone becomes very cross. And once you're married, I shall be moving in with you. I prefer a bed with a canopy, if you please.”
I stared at her. “You’re very ... efficient.”
“Laurel says I’m a menace. If I’m a menace, what does that make Holly and Ivy?”
The twins who had a light of mischief in their eyes, if I recalled correctly. Lady Petunia seemed to have a point.
Milford returned some minutes later, hands neatly folded behind his back, his expression polished but contrite. “My apologies, Your Grace. The fairy cakes were not immediately available. However, Mrs. Weatherby has taken the matter in hand and assures me they are baking as we speak.”
Lady Petunia gave a solemn nod. “She is to be commended.”
Milford bowed slightly—whether to me or to her, I wasn’t certain—and departed with the quiet efficiency of a man who'd realized that fairy cakes might one day take precedence over dukes.
Petunia turned to me with that fearless sparkle all Rosehavens seemed born with. “Since we’ve time to spare, perhaps you might show me the house?” she said, folding her hands primly. “I’d like to see the upstairs and choose my room.”
I blinked. “Choose your?—?”
“For when I move in,” she said patiently, as though reminding a slow-witted footman. Her tone was all gentle correction, but the implication was clear: heaven help me.
Refusing to be bested by an seven-year-old, I found myself pushing to my feet. “As you wish, Lady Petunia.” And with that, I led her from the study and toward the main staircase.
The second floor was quiet—unsurprisingly, as I was the only one who ever used it. I showed her into a series of guest chambers, all well-appointed in the fashion of quiet Mayfair elegance—high ceilings, carved moldings, pale wallpaper, a touch of faded grandeur.
She inspected them with a critical eye far too advanced for someone of her tender years.
“This one,” she declared in front of an eastern-facing room. “I like the light. It will suit my dolls.”
I had no idea what made a room suitable for a battalion of porcelain figures, but I nodded gravely. “Very well.”
“And where would Rosie sleep?” she asked, glancing up at me with a spark of something perilously close to cunning.
“In the duchess’s chambers,” I answered before thinking better of it.
“May I see them?”
There was little point in refusing. Petunia was a force to be reckoned with. Without a word, I led her down the corridor to the suite I hadn’t entered in years and opened the door.
It lay just as it had been—walls draped in pink damask, ivory moulding soft with dust, and fragile furnishings untouched since ... well, since. Sunlight filtered in through lace curtains, and the faintest trace of lavender lingered in the air, like a memory unwilling to leave.
Petunia’s nose wrinkled. “Oh no. This will have to be redecorated. Rosie abhors pink. She prefers soothing colors—blues and greens. But soft ones. Nothing garish.”
“Noted.”
“Was this your wife’s room?” she asked, turning toward me with a gentleness that startled.
“Yes,” I said, simply.
