Page 9 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
THE SPRING BALL
The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel, lantern light spilling in golden pools across the grand Langley drive. Chrissie, seated across from me, nearly vibrated with excitement, her gloved hands clenching her fan a little too tightly.
“Oh, Rosie,” she breathed, eyes shining, “can you believe the Spring Ball is finally here? It’s the event of the season. Everyone will be there!”
Beside me, Grandmother gave an indulgent smile, adjusting the lace shawl draped elegantly over her shoulders. “Yes, child. But remember—composure is the mark of a true lady. No matter what unfolds tonight, you are to remain poised and pleasant. A calm smile will carry you further than a thousand sparkling words.”
“Yes, Grandmother,” Chrissie said dutifully, though the sparkle in her eyes suggested the words might escape her anyway.
After relinquishing our outer garments to the footman at the door, we descended the staircase into the grand ballroom, aglowbeneath a cascade of chandelier lights. Chrissie all but floated down the steps in her pale blue gown, radiant with youthful promise. As I’d expected, it took no more than a heartbeat for eager young gentlemen to flock to her, each vying for a place on her dance card. From a short distance, I watched her laugh lightly, as one suitor after another scribbled in his name.
Grandmother watched just as fondly. But within seconds, she was swept away by a crony, the irresistible lure of gossip drawing her aside.
With a shake of my head, I moved forward into the room, my eyes sweeping across the sea of silk gowns, glittering jewels, and crisp black coats. Near the long refreshment table, I spotted Claire, Lady Edmunds, waving a gloved hand in greeting.
“Rosalynd!” Claire called brightly, drawing me near with a delighted grin. “Finally, you’re here. I was beginning to think you’d never arrive.”
“Grandmother’s doing,” I murmured as we exchanged cheek kisses. “One shouldn’t arrive too early. It builds anticipation.” I flicked open my fan to cool myself. As it often happened at these events, the ballroom was stifling. “Anything of note to report?”
“Lady Farnsworth’s diamond tiara,” she murmured in a conspiratorial tone. “The very one she’s been flaunting for three Seasons running? It’s paste. Paste, Rosalynd. Apparently, the real one was sold last winter to cover her eldest son’s gambling debts, and she’s been wearing the copy ever since.”
I half smiled as I took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Claire, I sometimes wonder how you manage to know these things.”
Claire’s grin widened. “Darling, it’s a gift. Now, tell me. Who has your eye tonight? And don’t you dare say you’re only here for Chrissie’s sake. A ball is no place for martyrdom, Rosalynd.”
I lifted my glass lightly. “I’m afraid the only thing that’s caught my interest is the quality of this champagne. It’s very good.”
Before Claire could reply, a young officer with a polished smile approached, requesting the next dance. With a delighted laugh, she set her glass on a nearby table and allowed herself to be led onto the floor.
When she returned a short while later, flushed and glowing, I was still stationed near the refreshment table, quietly sipping my champagne and only half-listening as she launched into a tale of her latest social adventures.
A bespectacled gentleman approached and bowed, asking if I would favor him with the next. I offered a polite excuse and declined. He moved on with only a faint flicker of disappointment.
Claire gave me an arched look. “You’re getting a reputation, Rosalynd. As a spinster.”
I gave her a dry smile. “That’s what I am, isn’t it? Come, shall we promenade around the room? A moving target is rarely approached for a dance.”
Claire let out a soft, indulgent sigh. “If we must.”
It was well into the evening, and Chrissie had been dancing nearly nonstop since our arrival—her cheeks flushed with excitement, her eyes alight with youthful delight. But as the latest set ended, she slipped away from her partner. Crossing the floor with unmistakable purpose, she headed straight for me.
“Rosie,” Chrissie said in a hushed, urgent tone, tugging lightly at my gloved arm. Her breathless energy had shifted—no longer the giddy flutter of excitement, but something sharper, more focused.
I turned slightly, arching a brow. “Yes, dear.”
“Who is that gentleman?” she whispered, her voice low, eyes flicking meaningfully toward the far side of the ballroom. “He’s standing near the potted palms beside Lady Yarmouth.”
I followed her gaze, expecting some familiar young lord or well-dressed dandy from one of the better families. But the man who had captured her attention was a stranger to me.
Tall, fair-haired, and broad-shouldered, he stood in animated conversation with Lady Yarmouth. His blond hair gleamed beneath the chandeliers, his build lean but unmistakably strong. What struck me most, though, were his eyes—an arresting shade of blue, sharp and vivid beneath pale brows, and unmistakably alight with mischief as he glanced back at Chrissie.
She flushed deeper and quickly snapped open her fan, fluttering it with all the subtlety of a nervous bird.
Claire let out a low, knowing laugh. “That, my dear Chrissie, is the new Lord Sefton.”
Chrissie blinked. “New how?”
Claire’s tone was light, but edged with warning. “His father died last spring. Sefton spent the past year in mourning—at least officially. Though I suspect he’s been otherwise occupied.” Her look made the innuendo clear. “He kept well out of sight last Season, at any rate.”
