Page 14

Chapter

Thirteen

A STRATEGY SESSION

A s soon as the door to the morning room clicked shut, I turned to face Steele. “I must apologize for Petunia. She’s precocious beyond her years. Growing up surrounded by older siblings with no sense of discretion has left its mark.”

A wry smile played at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes studied me more intently than I liked. “No need to apologize. But I confess, I’m intrigued. Petunia seemed rather determined to recommend Lady Chrysanthemum as a potential bride, yet ... ” His gaze lingered, uncomfortably penetrating. “You seem the far more logical choice.”

My breath caught. Still, he was owed an explanation. “Petunia is well acquainted with my views on marriage.”

“That you never intend to enter into that state,” he finished, his voice softer now.

“Precisely.” The word was a shield. “Chrissie, on the other hand, is quite candid about her desire to wed. And Your Grace is a widower?—”

“—so Petunia was playing matchmaker and praising her sister’s charms to an eligible duke?” His eyes danced with holy amusement.

“Yes,” I said, taking a seat on the settee. “I hope you weren’t offended. She’s rather taken with you.”

“She barely knows me.”

“Children don’t always need time,” I replied, my voice suddenly quieter. “Petunia sees people as they are. Last year, a gentleman took an interest in Chrissie at the village fair. Since he came from a perfectly respectable family, I invited him to a picnic. But Petunia disliked him immediately.”

A shadow flickered across Steele’s features. “Why?”

“She wouldn’t say at first. Only that he was ‘wrong.’ I dismissed it as childish nonsense until word spread that he’d assaulted a village girl, ruining her. His family banished him to the West Indies before charges could be brought.”

His expression hardened. “That doesn’t solve anything. It just shifts the rot.”

“True.” Bitterness slipped into my tone. “But he didn’t escape punishment. Last I heard, he was laboring on a sugar plantation. A far cry from society balls and cricket matches.”

There was a beat of silence before I gestured to the chair he’d sat in earlier. “Please, Your Grace. Take a seat.”

He didn’t. Instead, he moved to the fireplace to stand with his back to me, tension coiling in every line of his form.

I watched him carefully. Something was definitely troubling him. “Perhaps we might speak of the reason you came.”

He exhaled harshly. “I sent word to George Hanover. He’s acted as my solicitor before. I’ve asked him to meet with me tomorrow to discuss Julia’s defense.”

“Has he agreed?”

“He will.”

I arched a brow. “You sound quite sure.”

“No one says no to me, Lady Rosalynd.”

He said it without arrogance—only weary certainty, as if he bore the weight of always being obeyed.

“Even so, he might have prior commitments. A meeting with a client, perhaps.”

“If he does, he’ll arrange it for another time.” Steele raked a hand through his hair, the movement jagged with frustration. “After sending the letter to Hanover, I went to see Nicky.”

I flinched inwardly. “And how did it go?”

His jaw clenched. “About as well as you might expect.”

I didn’t speak at once. The silence stretched, as he paced like a storm bottled inside four walls. When I finally spoke, my voice was gentle. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I don’t need more bloody tea,” he snapped, then instantly looked away, penitent. “Begging your pardon.”

“Something stronger, then.” I crossed to the bell and gave it a firm tug.

Honeycutt appeared a moment later, calm and imperturbable as always. “Milady?”

“His Grace would like a ... whiskey?” I directed the question at Steele, who gave a terse nod.

Honeycutt inclined his head and vanished.

When I turned back, Steele was still standing. I narrowed my eyes. “Please, Your Grace. If you don’t sit, I’ll develop an awful crick in my neck.”

A reluctant smile ghosted across his lips. “Forgive me,” he murmured, and at last lowered himself onto the settee across from mine.

Honeycutt returned with a decanter and a glass. After pouring a generous measure, I handed the glass to Steele, who downed the liquor in a single swallow.

“Better?” I asked softly.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “Much.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands gripping the glass. His hair was mussed now, the edges of his composure fraying.

“You’ve had a difficult day.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No. I would not.”

I leaned back, my voice steady. “Very well. Then let’s discuss how to proceed with the investigation.”

He looked up, grateful for the return to process. “I’ll start with Walsh’s club. There’s always gossip in those walls—someone may have seen or heard something. You should handle the distaff side.”

“Women's gossip, you mean?” I asked with a sly smile.

He returned it. “Precisely. An afternoon tea or maybe a visit to the modiste. Gabrielle’s is a fashionable haunt for the ladies, I’m told.”

“You’re familiar with Gabrielle’s?”

“My mother visits there often,” he said. “She never tires of new gowns.”

I nodded, filing the detail away. “What else?”

“You’ll need to return to your cousin’s house. Ask if she heard or noticed anything. Anything at all.”

“You don’t believe it was a simple robbery?”

“No.” He leaned back, eyes fixed on mine. “His wallet was untouched. His watch, his sapphire pin—still on his person.”

“Perhaps there wasn’t time?”

“There was. The body wasn’t discovered for the space of an hour.”

“How do you know?”

“Dodson. He shared that much with me. The officer who patrols that patch swore that Walsh was not there during his earlier round. Tellingly, no alarm was raised. Whoever struck the deadly blow did it boldly, efficiently.”

A chill slithered down my spine. “You think someone hired a killer.”

“The facts speak for themselves.”

I would need to fashion an excuse for returning to Walsh House. After all, Julia had asked me to leave. But it was something that needed to be done. If the murderer had been known to Walsh or Julia, a member of her staff might provide clues as to who it could have been.

A heavy silence settled between us, thick with things left unsaid. Then I asked, more softly than intended, “Have you considered a place we might meet again?”

He nodded, his gaze shadowed. “I own a house in Chelsea. Quiet. Discreet. No one of consequence will be watching.”

I rose and fetched paper and pencil, the scratch of graphite loud in the stillness. He scribbled the address with quick, deliberate strokes and handed it to me. His fingers brushed mine—a fleeting touch, no more than a breath—but it sparked through me like fire catching on dry paper. We both felt it, and neither spoke of it.

“I’ll go to Walsh’s club tomorrow evening,” he said, voice returning to its usual clipped control. “You should visit your cousin in the morning. Early afternoon at the latest.”

“When should we reconvene?”

“Our next meeting can’t happen for several days. There’s the inquest to get through. It won’t take place before Monday.”

“And the reading of Walsh’s will follows afterward. Not the same day, of course. So Tuesday? Wednesday?”

“I’ll send word. What time suits you best?”

“Not the morning. Early afternoon. Say two?”

He inclined his head. “Two it is, at the address I provided.”

“And Mr. Hanover?”

“I’ll see that he visits Julia tomorrow.”

I nodded, then paused—something twisting low in my chest. “Do you think your brother will stay away from her?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “If he doesn’t,” he said, each word like a stone dropped into still water, “I’ll make certain he regrets it.”

I didn’t doubt him for a moment.

Heaven help anyone—friend, brother, or foe—who stood in his way.