Page 3 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
A MOTHER’S CONCERN
The soft scratch of my pen filled the study, the only sound in a room otherwise hushed and still. My desk was strewn with papers—proposed amendments, committee notes, witness statements—all tied to the bill I had been driving through the House of Lords these past months.
It was, admittedly, not the sort of legislation one expected a duke to champion: regulations on industrial safety, enforced protections for workers, mandatory safeguards on the machines that powered factories from London to Manchester. But I had seen too many reports—too many torn hands, too many shattered bones—to ignore the human cost any longer.
While most of my peers had abandoned the matter to their secretaries, I diligently worked on the language, driving every clause, every word, determined to push the measure through.
After an hour of writing, rewriting, striking words and phrases, my stiff fingers screamed enough. Pausing, I flexed my hand and leaned back in my chair.
Even as my gaze drifted toward the window, the faint cries of children’s laughter floated up from Grosvenor Square. I crossed the room and drew back the heavy curtain.
A lively cluster of red-headed figures darted across the green—all of them unmistakable, their hair like glints of fire in the late afternoon light. The Rosehaven siblings. Petunia, the youngest, caught my eye the most. Her copper-colored curls bounced wildly as she spun away from her older brother, her peals of laughter carrying faintly up to my window.
The same little girl who had once marched, uninvited and fearless, into my study to ask for tea and biscuits as if she were mistress of the house.
A small, unfamiliar ache tightened in my chest.
No sign of Lady Rosalynd, of course. Today was the meeting of her Society for the Advancement of Women—something I kept far too close an eye on, if I were honest with myself. Keeping abreast of the Rosehaven family’s affairs was a dangerous indulgence, one I should abandon. It would only lead to heartache.
For a moment, I found myself toying with the idea of crossing the street and joining their game—of perhaps rolling a ball of skittles and hearing Petunia’s delighted laugh ring out.
A sharp rap at my study door broke the thought.
I turned just as Milford, my butler, stepped into the room, his composed features touched with the faintest hint of apology. “The Duchess of Steele has come to call, Your Grace.”
I exhaled softly, letting the curtain fall back into place. “Thank you. Milford, if you could please bring tea.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Moments later, the door opened again to admit the Duchess of Steele. Her posture was perfectly straight, her gray silk gown immaculate, her eyes sharp despite the soft crinkles at their corners.
“Mother.” I managed a faint smile while kissing her cheek. “What brings you here today?”
I expected a quip along the lines of “Can’t a mother visit her own son?” But that was sadly lacking today. Her expression was one of sadness.
Her gloved hands tightened slightly. “Phillip. He’s drinking and gambling again.”
I drew a slow, steady breath, the familiar weight of frustration settling across my shoulders. Of course, he hadn’t. He’d never stopped.
“Let’s talk it through. Come sit, Mother,” I guided her to her favorite settee, upholstered in a shade of blue, the same color as her eyes. “Milford is bringing tea,” I said quietly, lowering myself into the settee across from hers.
She watched me for a long moment. “He’s not answering my letters.” A hint of tears glistened in her eyes.
I waited while she composed herself.
“He’s twenty-five years old, Warwick. I had hoped that he might begin to show sense by now.”
So had I. But sense and Phillip had never been close acquaintances.
“He’s been borrowing,” she said softly. “From friends. From strangers. A man came to the house last week asking for repayment. Said Phillip staked a hundred pounds at a private club in Belgravia.”
My jaw tightened.
“I paid it, of course,” she added, too casually. “But I won’t keep doing so, Warwick. Not when he shows no signs of restraint.”
“No,” I agreed. “You shouldn’t. If it happens again, send that person to me. I don’t want you to be bothered with this.”
She blinked, surprised by the firmness in my tone.
