Page 21

Chapter

Twenty

A MEETING OF SECRETS

T he Chelsea House butler, formal, dignified, and composed to the point of stillness, opened the door with a nod so crisp it could have sliced paper. "His Grace is expecting you, milady," he intoned.

Without a sound, he ushered me down a narrow-paneled corridor and into the front sitting room where Steele waited by the fire. Dressed, as always, in unrelenting black, he looked as if he had just stepped out of a portrait titled The Art of Intimidation. Not a thread out of place, not a button askew. Even the faint gleam of firelight across his dark hair seemed deliberate.

And here I was—windblown, flustered, and achingly aware of both.

It wasn’t entirely my fault. After the reading of the will, I’d rushed home to change for the meeting with Steele, only to discover a minor disaster had erupted at Rosehaven House. The calamity involved Chrissie’s new ball gown—the wrong one had been delivered. Instead of the soft green silk we'd commissioned, she’d received a ghastly confection of mauve and mustard yellow that would have made a peacock blush. Tracking down the modiste, retrieving the correct gown, and soothing Chrissie’s inevitable tears had eaten up the better part of my afternoon—and my patience.

"Forgive my tardiness," I said briskly. "There was a situation at home. A wayward ball gown and a missing modiste."

His lips twitched. "Managing younger siblings sounds remarkably like herding lunatics through a haberdashery."

I stiffened. "They are not lunatics."

A glint of amusement softened into something closer to regret. "No disrespect meant, Lady Rosalynd. Only admiration for your resilience."

Some of the indignation bled from my spine, but I offered him a cool nod. I would forgive the slight—eventually.

"Would you care to sit?" he asked, gesturing toward one of the chairs.

After a brief hesitation, I obliged. The chair was as comfortable as it was elegant.

"Tea and biscuits will be served shortly," he added, settling into the armchair opposite.

"I’d prefer brandy."

His lips quirked, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes, no doubt recalling our last encounter when he’d forsaken Earl Grey for something stronger.

"Of course."

He tugged the bell pull, and the butler reappeared almost at once. After giving his order, Steele remained silent, allowing me a quiet moment to take in the room.

The Queen Anne furnishings were polished to a soft glow. A walnut settee with delicately curved legs, an antique escritoire beneath a gilt-framed mirror, a pair of Chippendale chairs upholstered in rich damask.

This was no bachelor’s bolt-hole.

Everything whispered wealth—not the gaudy, ostentatious sort, but a cultivated, inherited ease. Even the air smelled faintly of lavender polish and old wood.

In Chelsea, of all places.

A fire crackled in the hearth, sending flickering light across dark-paneled walls and exquisite furniture. No clutter. No signs of life. A house seemingly without a resident.

And yet, it had a butler. A cook and a maid as well. The house was spotless, and biscuits did not bake themselves.

Feeling an unexpected prick of irritation, I tucked my gloves more firmly beneath my hands.

It was obvious who resided here. His lover. When he had one, that is. Claire had said he was between mistresses. A man like Steele would need somewhere discreet, somewhere the curious eyes of Mayfair society could not follow.

I was surprised by how much that thought rankled.

"I had not thought Chelsea your preferred neighborhood," I said lightly.

A flicker of amusement passed over his face. "It suits its purpose."

"And what purpose is that?" I asked, sharper than I intended.

"Privacy," he answered simply. "Nothing more."

No mention of mistresses. No denial either.

Infuriating man.

The butler entered with a decanter and two snifters. After he left, Steele splashed generous portions into both. As he handed one to me, his gaze found mine—steady, assessing, always a touch too perceptive for comfort.

“You did take a hackney?”

My hackles bristled. “Of course, I’m not completely devoid of sense.” When he said nothing, I felt ashamed. “I apologize. It’s been a trying day.”

“You carry a lot of responsibilities. More than likely, you’d prefer to be sitting at home, knitting.”

I belted out a laugh. “Not my forte, Steele. When I have the rare few minutes to indulge myself, I read or write.”

“Passionate petitions to the House of Lords?”

“Sometimes, but mostly I keep a journal.”

“And what do you write in it?”

I gazed at him in surprise.

“My turn to apologize. Your thoughts are private.”

“Some are. I won’t share them with you. But others involve the management of the household. Supplies that must be ordered, tasks that must be performed. Once a week, I meet with our housekeeper and discuss them with her.”

“Once Rosehaven marries, his wife will take over that task.”

“My brother hasn’t shown any movement in that direction. But he has time. He’s only eight and twenty.”

“I married when I was five and twenty.”

“That young?”

“I was in love, Lady Rosalynd.”

The words landed between us like a stone dropped in still water.

He came to his feet, restlessness written in every line of his frame. I felt it, too—something unspoken rising between us. Dangerous. Unwise.

It was safer to move to the matter at hand. “Shall we proceed with our reports?"

He inclined his head, a consent of sorts.

“As you know, I made some discoveries at Walsh House." I’d had the documents delivered to Steele by one of our footmen.

“The ledgers.”

“Yes. But there was more.” I told him of the debts that had piled up. I shared Julia’s fears, now compounded by Charles’s wife’s hostility.

A flicker of sympathy cut across his face. “Your cousin is suffering unduly.”

“Through no fault of her own,” I added.

He neither agreed nor disagreed.

“What did you discover?” I asked.

“I made inquiries at White’s. Lord Walsh was not only cheating at cards, he was luring men into a fraudulent investment. A silver mine in America. Apparently, he promised returns that never materialized. After obtaining the address of the enterprise, I visited the offices of the Great Western Silver Trust. As I expected, it was a false front. There was only one clerk there, charged with receiving messages and forwarding them to Walsh. He did read them, though, so I have a few names to investigate.

“It does beg a troubling question,” he continued. “If his debts were piling up, what did he do with the money?”

“It’s not in his study or his quarters. I checked thoroughly. Nor does it appear in his bank account. Julia spoke with the banker Walsh patronized. At first, he was hesitant to disclose anything, as the will hadn’t been read. But when she explained there were household bills in urgent need of payment, he relented.”

I met Steele’s gaze. “Walsh was nearly penniless.”

His brow furrowed.

“However, I did find something in his study—wedged beneath the lip of a drawer.” I withdrew the torn scrap of ledger paper and handed it to him.

He read aloud, voice low and steady: “'Transfer — E.L. Bank — to account #9431.'”

“Do you have any idea what that refers to?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, folding the scrap with care. “But I can find out.”

“I hoped you could.”

Steele stared at the paper a moment longer. “He must have created a secret account no one would know about.” He glanced at me, the lines around his mouth tightening. “The question now becomes—why? Why hoard wealth he couldn’t publicly enjoy?”

I pressed my hands together to keep them still. "Perhaps he intended to disappear," I suggested. "To flee before the noose tightened."

"Or perhaps," Steele said grimly, "he was planning something worse."

The fire crackled between us, casting dancing shadows across the room. I caught myself studying him—the hard set of his jaw, the tension in his broad shoulders.

He was not merely investigating. He was hunting. And heaven help whoever he caught.

After a moment, Steele’s voice softened, though it lost none of its intensity. "We must find out where that money is before Dodson does. If he uncovers anything before we do, Lady Walsh—and my brother—may suffer for it."

I nodded once, fiercely. "Agreed."

We remained in silence, the weight of our shared task settling between us like a tangible thing. The intimacy of purpose drew us closer, yet at the same time, another possibility loomed: to save Julia, we might have to condemn Nicholas.

At length, he moved to stand before the hearth, his figure cutting a tall, commanding silhouette against the firelight.

“I’ll investigate the men who invested in the silver mine. I’ll visit them. Discreetly. And locate that bank.”

“And I’ll attend a few ladies’ gatherings—teas and such. Lady Finch and Lady Danforth are bound to attend at least one. I can feel them out about their husbands’ minds on an investment that went so wrong.”

Steele inclined his head once, formally. “Yes, do that.”

I stood and smoothed my skirts. It was time to bring our discussion to an end. "Until next time."

The butler appeared when summoned. Before I could say another word, I found myself once again in the cool, damp air of Chelsea, the door closed behind me.

I paused on the steps, drawing a slow breath, trying to shake the lingering weight of the conversation.

But as I turned toward the waiting hackney, one truth settled in my mind with stubborn, uneasy clarity.

I needed to discover the truth, even if it meant Lord Nicholas was implicated.