Page 109 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Milady!” The word burst from him, a mixture of relief and horror. His eyes swept over me—from the bloodied cloak to the tear in my hem and the dirt smudged across my cheek. “Merciful heavens. We feared—” He caught himself. Straightened. “We were concerned.”
“I’m well, Honeycutt,” I said softly. “Just . . . a trying day.”
I stepped past him into the quiet warmth of the house, then paused. “I suppose Lady Chrysanthemum has already left for the ball?”
Honeycutt gave the faintest incline of his head. “With the dowager countess, precisely on schedule.”
“Then I’d better make haste.”
“Shall I have a tray brought up, milady?”
Only then did I realize how hollow my stomach felt. “Yes, please. And a glass of wine.”
“It shall be as you wish, milady.” He allowed himself a rare, small smile. “If I may, Lady Rosalynd . . . I’m so very glad you’re home.”
I returned his smile. He was a dear, truly. “So am I, Honeycutt.”
I turned toward the stairs, my boots echoing softly on marble as I went to make myself presentable—or at least, less alarming.
Two hours later,I found myself at the entrance to Lady Findley’s ballroom, dutifully apologizing for my late arrival.
“The dowager mentioned you’d been called away for an emergency. I hope everything is all right?” Lady Findley asked, her tone polite but her curiosity unmistakable.
“Yes, thank you. The crisis has been averted.”
“Wonderful.” She clearly wanted details, but of course, I had none I could share.
As I descended the grand staircase into the ballroom, I scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Grandmother was safely ensconced with her Battalion of Dowagers, no doubt engaged in their usual sport—character assassination. No one was ever safe from their tongues.
She caught my eye and raised a single, critical brow, but smiled nonetheless.
To my surprise, I spotted Claire mid-waltz.
With Cosmos.
The very brother who’d steadfastly refused to escort us to a single ball all Season. Yet there he was, dancing with Claire as if he’d been born to the task. They were so attuned to one another, they didn’t notice me watching. Perhaps they were discussing her ‘patch.’ Surely, he must have attended to it by now.
I scanned the crowd for Chrissie, momentarily alarmed when I didn’t see her. But then I spotted her near the refreshment table, laughing among a circle of young ladies and gentlemen, Lord Sefton among them.
The ballroom, as always, was too warm, so I made my way toward the open doors that led to the terrace, my gaze drawn to the garden beyond. The storm had scrubbed the city clean. The hedges gleamed, and the boxwoods were cool and sweet with the scent of damp roses.
I had just reached them when I heard footsteps behind me . . . and caught the unmistakable scent of bergamot.
I didn’t turn.
I knew exactly who it was.
Steele stepped to my side, dressed in black evening clothes with crisp white linen and a ruby pin glinting at his throat. The cut of his coat was immaculate. No one would have guessed he’d spent the afternoon in a warehouse of blood and broken glass.
“Your Grace,” I said.
“You missed all the fun,” he replied.
I lifted my fan, hiding a smile. “Do tell.”
He glanced around, eyes flicking toward the terrace doors. Though no one stood within earshot, we were far from alone. And the gazes turned our way made that clear.
“Not here,” he said quietly. “Lady Findley has a quiet library. We can speak there without interruption.” He offered his arm, a subtle invitation laced with intent.
