Page 83 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
She spun back, fire in her eyes. “No. This conversation is over.”
Without another word, she threw open the door and marched out.
Milford, who had no doubt been standing just out of sight, reappeared instantly. He bowed low as she passed, and closed the door behind her with a final, decisive click.
I stood alone in the room, fists clenched. Fighting for control. Fighting the urge to go after her.
After an eternity, I let out a labored breath. Nothing was resolved. And yet, somehow, everything had changed.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
FROM FURY TO RESOLVE
Icrossed Grosvenor Square at a furious clip, barely nodding to the constable tipping his hat at the corner. The hem of my gown was damp with gutter mist, my gloves balled in one hand. By the time I reached Rosehaven House, I’d replayed the argument with Steele a dozen times. And grown more incensed with each retelling.
Before I could even knock, Honeycutt opened the door. Whether by chance or intuition, I did not care.
“Did Petunia return home safely?” I asked, breath tight.
“She did, milady. A footman from Steele House escorted her back.”
Well, that was one thing that had gone right. Although there was no excuse for Petunia to keep running off tohishouse every time the wind blew. I would need to sit her down and impress upon her the dire consequences if she did so again.
“Begging your pardon, milady. The dowager countess has come to call. She’s in the drawing room with Lady Chrysanthemum. Tea has been served.”
I stilled. “Grandmother is here?” Just what I needed.
“Indeed.” He offered the faintest trace of sympathy. “Her ladyship arrived not fifteen minutes ago.”
“Of course she did,” I muttered. Without so much as a word of warning, as usual.
Much as I wished otherwise, I had no choice but to face her. I smoothed my skirts, gathered the fraying strands of my composure, and made my way to the drawing room.
The familiar clink of china and the scent of chamomile greeted me as I stepped inside.
“Good afternoon, Grandmother,” I said, forcing civility.
“Good heavens, Rosalynd,” she exclaimed, looking me over with narrowed eyes. “Where have you been? You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”
She sat ramrod straight in one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth, her black gloves folded neatly on her lap, every strand of silver hair in perfect order.
“Petunia ran off to Steele House. I went to fetch her.”
“Did a raging storm suddenly materialize?” she asked, glancing toward the window and the perfectly bright, sunny day.
“No, ma’am. I was so worried, I rushed there and back. I apologize for my disheveled appearance.”
“Humph,” she muttered. An expression that spoke volumes about my behavior. A lady simply did not rush about. Giving up on me, she turned to Chrissie. “Tell your sister about the note.”
Chrissie was perched on the edge of a settee, an envelope in her hands, a troubled expression on her face. “It’s from Lord Breckhurst. Addressed to Cosmos.”
“Breckhurst?” I blinked, trying to recall. “Is he the quiet one with the sandy hair?”
She nodded. “I think he’s seeking permission to court me.”
I took the seat across from her. “And that is not something you desire?”
