Page 64 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
Vale’s expression shifted slightly, pride flickering beneath the surface. “Some are hybrids of my own design. The others are coastal specimens forced to thrive in rocky soil and salt-laden winds. They’ve been refined through careful selection. Only the hardiest survive.”
“Resilience,” I said softly, “is an admirable trait.”
He inclined his head, eyes gleaming. “But it’s not enough to endure. True strength lies in refinement—eliminating what weakens the line. Only then can something reach its full potential.”
Cosmos chuckled. “Don’t let her modesty fool you. Rosalynd knows more about botany than she lets on.”
I laughed, lightly. “I wouldn’t call it expertise. I just like to know what’s growing around me.”
Vale studied me more closely now. I met his gaze without flinching, allowing just a hint of intrigue to rise behind my expression.
“I imagine your work brings you into contact with all sorts of rare varieties,” I said. “Some requiring delicate care. Others that might prove . . . unexpectedly dangerous.” I tilted my head slightly, smile still in place. “I should very much like to hear more.”
Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, perhaps. Or was it something else?
Dinner passed along a similar vein.
I sat beside Vale, feigning interest in every word that dropped from his mouth. Pollination cycles. Soil acidity. Crossbred cultivars. I nodded, smiled, asked thoughtful questions, and even made a wry observation about root rot that earned a small, surprised laugh from him.
I had him.
Or at least, I had his attention.
Chrissie watched me with growing suspicion. Not alarmed, but intrigued. Her eyes narrowed slightly every time I leaned in just a little too attentively. Once, when Vale described the natural defenses of a certain flowering shrub, I murmured something about how useful such defenses could be in a hostile environment. Chrissie nearly choked on her soup.
I kept my smile polite and my posture perfect.
After the meal, Chrissie took her place at the pianoforte, choosing a slow waltz and playing it softly—just enough to give the illusion of background charm while allowing her eyes to flick discreetly in my direction.
Cosmos, predictably, returned to the floral drawings at the escritoire, already lost to the world of stamens and root systems.
I turned to his guest with a pleasant smile. “Would you walk with me a moment, Doctor Vale?”
He glanced toward Chrissie, then nodded. “Of course, Lady Rosalynd.”
We crossed to the far side of the drawing room near the tall windows, where the firelight didn’t quite reach and the shadows granted us a semblance of privacy.
“I hope you won’t think me too forward,” I began, “but I’ve always found family structures fascinating since I come from quite a large one myself.”
He nodded, folding his hands behind his back. “You’re fortunate in your siblings. There are only three brothers in mine.”
“And where do you fall in that group?”
“In the middle,” he said. “My younger brother Henry lives with me. The eldest, Algernon . . . well, he’s not been in the best health for some time. The doctors don’t expect him to make old bones. He lives in our Sussex estate.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Nathaniel shrugged faintly. “We’ve all made our peace with it. When the time comes, I expect I’ll inherit the title—and the Arcendale estate along with it.”
“I see.” I let just the right note of warmth color my voice. “That’s quite a responsibility.”
He looked at me then—properly. “It is. But I was raised to manage it.”
There it was. A flicker of interest. Not only in the subject but in me.
I tilted my head gently. “Are there any ladies in the family? Sisters? Or cousins perhaps?”
“No sisters or cousins,” he said. “But our aunt, Harriet, lives with us. She’s been with the family since we were children.”
