Page 6 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Cosmos, do sit,” Grandmother said crisply, arching a brow. “You look as if you’ve outrun your own carriage.”
“I very nearly did.” Cosmos dropped into a chair with a grin. “Oh, by the way, Rosie, Lady Edmunds was in attendance. She’s recently taken to coming to the lectures, you know. I sat besideher and explained the various floral references as the speaker went on. She seemed most interested.”
I hid a smile. Claire’s interest had little to do with flowers and everything to do with Cosmos himself. For reasons I couldn’t quite fathom, she found him attractive. I doubted the fascination would last. Soon enough, she’d flit off to a gentleman who preferred balls to botanical lectures. She was a social butterfly, after all. In any case, I’d decided to stop worrying about it.
“How are your lessons coming along, Foxglove?” Grandmother asked, her tone prim. She always insisted on using our full names, no matter how many times we protested. “I trust they are not suffering.”
“Oh, no, Grandmother,” Fox said earnestly. “Mr. Butterworth is an excellent tutor. We’re working on differential equations and exploring the principles of chemical reactions.”
Grandmother blinked, clearly out of her depth. “Good to hear.”
Fox was sprawled in an armchair, a book open in his lap, with Laurel, our resident bookworm, perched beside him reading her latest literary discovery.
And then there was Chrissie—fresh-faced, sparkling Chrissie, all of eighteen and wearing a delicate pink silk. She hurried to sit next to me, her eyes alight.
“Oh, Rosie, can you imagine?” she breathed. “The Spring Ball is almost upon us.”
“Is it really?” I asked, all innocent inquiry.
“Stop teasing,” her clear laughter rang out. “You know very well it is. I can hardly sleep for all the excitement. The dance cards, the music, the gowns . . . the gentlemen.” She gave a delighted little laugh, practically bouncing in place. “I hardly know how I shall choose!”
“Indeed, they’ll be lining up for you.”
Chrissie flushed pinker still, ducking her head for a moment before lifting her eyes with a spark of youthful mischief. “Do you really think so?”
I smiled faintly over the rim of my teacup, watching her. “You’ve been the belle of the Season so far, Chrissie. I doubt that will change tomorrow night.”
Across the room, Grandmother let out a soft, dry sniff, folding her hands lightly atop her cane.
“My dear Chrysanthemum,” she said, her voice touched with wry amusement, “I would caution you not to be too eager. Gentlemen prefer a challenge, not a prize handed to them on a silver platter.”
She might be the darling of the ballrooms, but under Grandmama’s watchful gaze, even the belle of the Season was reminded to play her part carefully.
Chrissie blinked, momentarily chastened, then gave a sheepish little smile. “Yes, Grandmother.”
I bit back a faint laugh, exchanging a knowing glance with Chrissie.
Chrissie let out a soft sigh. “I just wish you would dance more, Rosalynd. You’re so beautiful when you dance.”
I gave her a dry, affectionate look. “I’m not the one on display this Season.”
She huffed softly but let it go, already half-lost in imagining the swirl of gowns, the gleam of candlelight, the eager faces of London’s eligible bachelors.
As I settled a cup of tea in my hands, Petunia came bouncing over, her copper curls shining and her blue eyes wide with the kind of innocent mischief that only a seven-year-old could carry off convincingly.
“Rosie,” she chirped sweetly, climbing up onto the ottoman beside me, “when are you going to invite the Duke of Steele to tea again?”
I nearly choked on my sip.
“Well?” she asked, utterly unbothered, tilting her head to one side. “He’s been here before. I like him.”
I set down my cup, narrowing my eyes just slightly. “Petunia, we are not inviting the Duke of Steele.”
“You invite your friends, like Lady Edmunds. He’s your friend, too. Isn’t he?” Petunia pressed, her small brow puckering.
Barely a month ago, the Duke of Steele and I had investigated the murder of Julia’s husband. During that time, I thought of him in different ways—enigmatic, fascinating, mesmerizing, but not once did I think of him as a friend. “No, Petunia,” I said firmly, though I could feel the prickling flush creeping up my neck. “We are . . . acquaintances. There is no reason for him to come to Rosehaven again.”
Petunia tilted her head, a slight frown marring her brow. “Why not?”
