Page 74 of A Murder in Mayfair
“My apologies,” he said, his voice low and rough-edged, “for calling at such a late hour—and for rushing you into a state of ... informal attire.”
It was the faintest smile that touched his lips, not quite smug, not quite sincere. But it made my pulse quicken all the same.
I drew myself up—or tried to, as best one can without a corset—and offered a faint, steady smile. “You came at my invitation, Your Grace. I have no cause to object.”
As the chill of the night clung to my skin—I really should have brought a shawl—I stepped inside and let the door click softly shut behind me. Moving past him, I settled into the chair nearest the fire, where the flames crackled in the hearth.
“Tell me about your visit to Walsh House.” Of course, he remained standing, one hand resting on the back of the opposite chair. Heaven forbid he should sit down.
Still, I was supremely grateful for the turn to a safer topic—anything to pull us away from the tension simmering between us.
“I wondered if I would be admitted,” I said. “But I needn’t have worried. Mr. Anstruther, the butler, let me in. Lucretia—Charles’s wife—was in her rooms, prostrate with grief.”
Steele gave a slow nod. “I’ve met Anstruther. Old guard. Loyal.”
“It was from him I learned the most. The tea that poisoned Charles arrived the day before, around noon. A packet Julia had sent. A housemaid found it later that evening in the morning room. There was a note attached, stating it was to be used for Charles’s tea and his alone.”
“An odd thing, that,” Steele murmured.
“I thought so as well.”
“Did the note arrive with the packet?”
“I didn’t ask Anstruther.” I hesitated. “But Julia wouldn’t write something so specific.”
“Unless,” he said mildly, “she wanted to ensure no one else died from the hemlock.”
“She didn’t lace it with hemlock!” I shot back, heart quickening.
He lifted a brow. “I’m arguing the other side, Lady Rosalynd.”
I exhaled, tense. “The packet was delivered by one of our footmen. He was dressed in Rosehaven House livery.”
Steele frowned. “Then there’s no chance it was intercepted before arriving at Walsh House.”
“None.”
A pause.
“So,” he said at last, “the poison must have been added after the tea arrived.”
“I believe so,” I replied. “But the real question is—who would have done it?”
“Who in the house held a grudge against Charles?” Steele asked, his tone low and probing.
“No one. He’d only just arrived. There wasn’t time for anyone to turn against him.”
“Would someone be so loyal to Julia they would have acted on her behalf?” he pressed.
I shook my head. “I don’t see how his death would benefit Julia.”
“I can.” He remained standing by the fire, his shadow cast long across the hearth rug. The room was dim but for the flickering glow of coals and the sharp glint in his eyes—watchful, calculating, as if fitting puzzle pieces together in real time. “How familiar are you with primogeniture law?”
“Enough to know the basics. The oldest son inherits everything.”
He turned to face me fully then, his expression carved from granite. “The title passed to Charles the moment his father breathed his last. As the legitimate firstborn son, he inherited everything.”
A chill wrapped around my spine, colder than the night air seeping beneath the windowpanes. “Leaving Julia with nothing,” I murmured.
