Page 59 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“What a rare surprise,” she announced, voice floating across the room like perfume. “Do join us, Your Grace. We were just debating whether Mr. Barrett’s new sideburns are more offensive than his opinions on parliamentary reform.”
I made my way toward her, ignoring the sudden hush and the telltale clink of a teacup settling far too hard into its saucer.
“Lady Edmunds,” I murmured, just low enough, as I bowed to her. “A word. In private.”
She didn’t smirk or tease. She understood immediately and played her part to perfection.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said brightly, her voice carrying just enough to reach the ears that strained to hear it. “Anything I can do to help. Perhaps the window seat would be best for this discussion.”
She took my arm without hesitation and led us across the room, past the pastel barricade of curious glances and half-sipped tea. We stopped near the tall window, the late morning light turning her fan to a blur of white and ivory.
Behind us, the silence quivered like a drawn string.
She angled her fan just so, shielding our conversation from even the most determined observer. “Now,” she said softly, “how may I be of help?”
“Where is Rosalynd? I need to speak with her.”
“She left late this morning. Said there was something she needed to take care of.”
“Did she say where?”
She laughed lightly—bright and effortless, as if I’d just made some witty remark. Behind the veil of her fan, she murmured, “She didn’t share that information with Chrissie.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is she in danger?”
I brushed a hand across my brow. “I don’t know.”
Before she could respond, Lady Chrysanthemum appeared at my elbow, eyes wide with concern. “Your Grace. Is something the matter?”
“Do you know where your sister went?”
She shook her head. “She didn’t say, but she was wearing one of her plainer dresses. Wherever it was, she clearly didn’t want to be noticed.”
“St. Agnes,” I said, almost to myself. “It has to be.”
She frowned. “Why would she go back there?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t share that with me.” I straightened. “I beg your pardon, but I must go.”
Lady Edmunds’s laughter rang out again, light and practiced. “You are so droll, Your Grace.”
Catching on to her ruse, Lady Chrysanthemum giggled. “Yes, terribly amusing.”
I nodded once, bowed to both, and turned to leave. Behind me, the flutter of fans resumed at full strength.
Honeycutt was already waiting in the front hall, gloves and hat in hand.
As he passed them to me, he asked in his usual calm tone, “Pardon me for asking, Your Grace, but are you, by chance, looking for Lady Rosalynd?”
I stilled. “I am.”
“She left for St. Agnes this morning. I heard her give the direction to the cabbie.”
I stared at him. “Why the devil didn’t you say so?”
Honeycutt offered a faint, utterly unrepentant smile. “Why, you never asked, Your Grace.”
The temptation to throttle the man was acute. But somehow, I restrained myself. It would not do to kill the Rosehaven butler in full view of the tea service.
I didn’t waste time summoning my own horses. I took a hackney straight to Clerkenwell, the fog thickening around us as we rattled eastward.
