Page 56 of A Murder in Mayfair
“I am not. Marrying. The duke.” Each word clipped and carefully enunciated, as though restraining herself from throttling the child on the spot. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”
“Grandmother. She said you’re courting scandal in a house used for illicit affairs.” Her brow wrinkled as she gazed at Rosalynd. “What does illicit mean?”
Rosalynd’s face flushed bright red. “Never mind, you horrid child.” She grabbed Petunia’s hand and yanked open the door. Seemingly half of my staff was standing right outside, including Milford, who was having a hard time keeping a straight face. They dispersed immediately.
As Rosalynd escorted her sister out of the room and down the corridor, Petunia offered one last parting shot.
“Next time, I shall expect raspberry jam.”
Chapter
Twenty-Four
THE DUCHESS COMES TO CALL
The following morning, I found myself enjoying a rare moment of peace in the morning room. The children were absorbed in their lessons, Julia had taken to the garden for a morning stroll, and Chrissie was at the pianoforte—her playing as skillful as it was spirited. She didn’t simply excel at the instrument; she adored it. Though I suppose the two often went hand in hand. The soft strains of one of her favorite pieces drifted through the house, lending a gentle rhythm to the morning. I allowed myself a breath—a real one, full and unguarded—grateful that, at least for now, all seemed right in my little corner of the world.
I was just finishing a note to Steele, offering yet another apology for Petunia’s unscheduled visit and requesting a meeting to discuss my latest findings, when Mr. Honeycutt appeared in the doorway—his usual composure conspicuously absent.
“The Duchess of Steele, milady,” he announced, somewhat flustered.
For one ridiculous moment, I thought he meant the duke.
But no—the figure who swept into the room was no man. Slim and impeccably turned out, the Duchess of Steele carried herself with quiet authority and an almost palpable energy. I had seen her from a distance before—at the opera, a garden party or two—but never this close. Her silver hair gleamed beneath her hat, and her ice-blue eyes—clear and lively—missed nothing. Though age had touched her, it hadn’t dulled her in the slightest. This was the woman who had raised the Duke of Steele.
Curiosity stirring, I rose and curtsied. “Your Grace.”
Entirely self-possessed, she studied me with a gaze that revealed nothing and suggested everything. “Lady Rosalynd,” she said, her voice warm. “I hope you’ll forgive the unannounced call. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Please, won’t you sit?” I replied, gesturing toward one of the settees. “May I offer you some tea?”
A faint smile touched her lips as she settled on the seat. “That would be most welcomed, thank you.”
I turned to Mr. Honeycutt. “Tea, if you please. And something light to go with it.”
He bowed and withdrew with quiet efficiency, leaving the duchess and me alone but for the distant hum of the pianoforte still drifting in from down the hall.
After I sat across from her in the matching settee, we exchanged the expected pleasantries—weather, garden roses, and the season’s relentless calendar of social obligations. Her manner was poised, every word measured and appropriate, yet I sensed there was more beneath the surface—something deliberate in her restraint.
The tea arrived on a silver tray carried by a footman, followed by a maid with a plate of lemon biscuits and neatly trimmed sandwiches. Once the door clicked shut behind them, I poured for us both and handed Her Grace a fresh cup of Earl Grey.
After taking a slow sip, the duchess met my gaze directly. “Lady Rosalynd,” she said, her voice still courteous but now carrying a quiet gravity, “I’ve come to ask something of you. A favor, if you will.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “A favor, Your Grace?”
She inclined her head ever so slightly. “I am given to understand that you and my son have been ... meeting rather often, more so than propriety strictly permits.”
There was no accusation in her tone, only a calm, clear-eyed concern that felt far more disarming than scorn would have been.
Still, I drew myself up with what dignity I could muster. “Your Grace,” I said carefully, “with respect—if you have questions regarding the duke’s activities, you should direct them to him.”
Her brows lifted slightly, a hint of amusement touching her expression. “Yes, that would be the far better path, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately, Warwick rarely takes it. He fears upsetting me. He’s a loving son, you see. Perhaps too much so at times.”
Where was she going with this?
“May I be frank with you, Lady Rosalynd?”
“Yes, of course.” Curiosity had ever been my besetting sin. And in that moment, I was positively desperate to know what she truly wanted.
