Page 5 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“The Rosehaven siblings,” I answered, following her gaze. “They’re out on the square.”
“Ah,” she murmured, returning to her seat on the settee. “The little one must be there. What’s her name again?”
“Petunia.”
She took a delicate sip of tea. “Such a beautiful child.”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “She is.”
My mother turned her head slightly, studying me. “She reminds you of your own little girl.”
A lump rose in my throat before I could stop it. “Yes,” I managed. “Lily.”
There was no more to say.
She looked away first, her voice gentler now. “You have always carried too much. Your title. Your brothers. Even your father’s sins.”
I couldn’t speak for the lump in my throat.
“I will always love all my sons,” she whispered. “But only one of them has ever stood between us and ruin. And I only trust one of them to do what must be done.”
Then she left, the soft rustle of silk fading down the corridor, leaving behind the lingering scent of lavender and old grief.
I crossed to the window, the teacup cooling in my hand, to stare out the window as the last streak of sunlight vanished across Grosvenor Square. It was quiet now. The children’s laughter was no more. They’d returned to Rosehaven House for their tea.
And I wondered—not for the first time—if what I had done to save my family had damned us all the same.
Chapter
Three
TEA AT ROSEHAVEN HOUSE
The day after the Society meeting, the drawing room at Rosehaven House felt like another world entirely.
Yesterday’s tension—the sharp debates, the simmering disagreements, the weight of the vote—seemed far away as sunlight poured warmly through the windows, glinting off polished silver and fine china. The laughter of my sisters and younger brother echoed through the air, mingling with the scent of scones and strawberry jam and the sweet perfume of fresh flowers arranged along the mantel.
For a moment, I paused in the doorway and took it all in.
There was Petunia, the youngest at seven, a blur of butter-yellow skirts and vivid red curls as she twirled gleefully around the tea table, ribbons flying. Holly and Ivy, the nine-year-old twins, darting after her, shrieking with laughter, sending a stack of neatly folded shawls tumbling to the floor. For once, they were not fighting over fairy cakes.
“Girls!” came Grandmother’s voice—sharp, imperious, and unmistakable. She sat in her high-backed chair, silver hairgleaming, her teacup poised just so in her gloved hand. “This is tea, not the village green!”
“Yes, Grandmother,” the three girls chorused, though Petunia’s grin flickered impishly as she plopped onto a settee, cheeks flushed with triumph.
I made my way to the tea table, next to which my cousin Julia sat comfortably—or as comfortably as one could at five months pregnant. She positively glowed with impending motherhood, a striking contrast to the pale, wan figure she’d been when she first came to us after her husband’s murder.
“There you are, Rosalynd,” she said with a smile as I approached. “I was beginning to worry the Society work had kept you from us.”
I laughed softly and bent to kiss her cheek. “Almost, but not quite.” I’d spent most of the morning writing reminders to our members about their monthly contributions. “How are you feeling today?”
“Restless,” Julia admitted, smoothing her hand over her belly. “And terribly curious to know if it will be a boy or a girl.”
“Whichever it is,” I murmured fondly, “she, or he, will be adored.”
As I settled myself on the sofa next to her, the door burst open, and Cosmos swept in—tall, auburn-haired, and quite out of breath, his coat unbuttoned and his spectacles slightly askew.
“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, raking a hand through his hair as he crossed the room. “I’ve come straight from the Royal Society for Botanical Inquiry. Fascinating lecture on the pollination habits of rare orchids.”
