Page 83 of A Murder in Mayfair
THE LAST WALTZ
The marble beneath our feet gleamed like still water, reflecting the brilliance of the ballroom chandeliers below. The grand staircase of Comingford House stretched out before us, less an entrance than a stage upon which, like it or not, we were about to perform.
“Her Grace, the Dowager Countess of Rosehaven,” the majordomo announced, his voice ringing down the gilded hall, “Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven, and Lady Chrysanthemum Rosehaven.”
At once, the ballroom fell silent.
Not the elegant hush of music fading or dancers pausing politely, but a stunned, breathless quiet, as if the entire assembly had collectively forgotten how to blink. Heads turned. Fans drooped. A few glasses were set down with audible clinks. The air thrummed with the weight of gossip barely restrained.
At my side, Grandmother inhaled, drawing herself to full height, chin tilted with majestic disdain. “Well,” she said in a voice dry as vintage sherry, “either they think we’ve come to confess, or to start another scandal.”
Chrissie let out a tiny squeak beside me. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
And then, with poise borrowed from generations of scandal-surviving women before us, we began our descent.
Waiting at the bottom, precisely centered beneath the great arch of the ballroom entrance, stood Her Grace, the Duchess of Comingford.
Resplendent in midnight blue silk and diamond drops that glinted like frost, she stood as still as a statue—though her eyes were anything but frozen. They scanned each of us as we approached, taking in Grandmother’s steel spine, Chrissie’s fragile composure, and whatever expression I’d managed to fix in place.
As we reached the final step, she moved forward.
“Countess,” the Duchess said with a nod. “Lady Rosalynd. Lady Chrysanthemum.”
“Your Grace,” Grandmother replied, offering her hand with the faintest dip of her chin. “A splendid turnout. Nothing draws a crowd like murder, I always say.”
The Duchess’s lips twitched. “Quite. Though I admit, I’m pleased to see you here.” She nodded toward me. “Lady Rosalynd.”
I met her gaze squarely as I curtsied. “You doubted we would come?”
“I hoped you would,” she said. “There’s nothing quite so effective at killing rumor as being seen, is there?”
“No,” I said, my voice even. “But sometimes being seen only makes the whispers louder.”
Her smile deepened, though whether it was amusement or admiration, I couldn’t say. “Then I trust you’ll give them something worth whispering about.” She paused, eyes glinting just a touch. “And do let me know when the Society forthe Advancement of Women next convenes. I find myself increasingly tempted to attend.”
Beside me, Grandmother made a faint sound—possibly a scoff, possibly a chuckle.
“I’ll see that your name is added to the list,” I said, unable to keep the corner of my mouth from lifting.
The Duchess inclined her head. “Please do.” Stepping aside with practiced grace, she motioned us into a shimmering sea of lace and silk and the weight of a hundred curious stares.
We’d barely taken a few steps when a tidal wave of suitors in crisply tailored jackets descended upon Chrissie—all of them clamoring to be the first on her card. Their smiles were eager as their voices overlapped in a flurry of polite desperation.
“Lady Chrysanthemum, might I claim the first waltz?”
“Surely you’ve saved the quadrille for me, milady?—”
“I’ve a cousin who will be green with envy if I secure a set tonight?—”
Chrissie laughed, a sound so light and bright it made me smile. With poise far beyond her years, she began jotting names onto her card, smiling graciously at each new request, her dance card filling faster than champagne glasses.
I watched from just beyond the swirling edge of satin and silk. Her cheeks were flushed with delight, her eyes shining. For the first time in weeks, she could truly enjoy herself without the weight of scandal.
Grandmother leaned in, her voice dry as ever. “If any of them propose before supper, I do hope you’ve remembered to pack the Rosehaven emeralds.”
I gave her a sidelong glance. “Chrissie is not so silly as to accept a marriage proposal without consulting me first.”
One arched brow signaled Grandmother’s skepticism.
