Page 22

Chapter

Twenty-One

THE PRICE OF SCANDAL

I spent the following day at Walsh House, assisting Julia as she sorted through her belongings and fending off a steady procession of well-wishers. They came under the guise of offering condolences, but it was clear many were more interested in sniffing out gossip about Walsh’s murder. As if that weren’t irritating enough, Lucretia had the sheer audacity to send a draper to measure for new curtains. Apparently, the drawing room décor didn’t suit her taste. Needless to say, he was not admitted. Lucretia could measure to her heart’s content after she’d taken up residence.

Naturally, this prompted a visit from Lucretia herself—one I could not prevent, as she was now, regrettably, the mistress of the house. I refused, however, to let her see Julia. She was already heartbroken at the thought of leaving her home. Subjecting her to polite conversation with that venom-tongued harpy would only have deepened the wound.

I received Lucretia in the drawing room, where I struggled to hold my tongue as she prattled on about her grand plans to redecorate Walsh House. Fortunately, after half an hour, the butler appeared with word that Julia required me. Lucretia finally took her leave, though not before vowing to return at first light to conduct a full inventory—just to ensure Julia hadn’t taken anything that didn’t belong to her. It was all I could do not to wrap my hands around that long, lily-white neck of hers.

Once every trunk had been packed and arrangements made to have Julia’s belongings delivered to Rosehaven House the following morning, I made my escape. The day had worn me to the bone. My gloves were damp, my skirts clung to my legs from the damp chill, and my limbs ached from too many stairs and too few moments of rest. But worse than the physical toll was the emotional weight—the quiet, heartbreaking grief etched on Julia’s face as she took one last look around what had been her home. That image stayed with me all the way back to Grosvenor Square.

By the time I reached home, I was breathless and half-frozen, the wind having clawed its way through my coat during the rattling hackney ride across town. I had barely set foot on the top step when Honeycutt opened the door, his expression unreadable save for a faint lift of his brows. I had left word I’d be returning by four. It was now close to six. I felt every minute of the delay in my bones.

After stepping aside to allow me entrance, he added with impeccable timing, “Her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess of Rosehaven, awaits you in the morning room, milady.” His tone, though carefully neutral, left no doubt—this was not a social call.

A fresh wave of exhaustion swept over me. Of course, she was here. I should have known better than to think I could end the day without one final reckoning.

I hurried upstairs, barely pausing to let Tilly strip off my cloak, boots, and gown before darting into the bathing chamber. It wouldn’t do to present myself to Grandmother in all my dirt.

A quick plunge, a hasty scrubbing, and within half an hour I was buttoned into a fresh gown of sober navy wool, my hair still slightly damp at the temples. Not exactly my finest presentation. But considering the day I'd had, Grandmother should be grateful I managed a corset at all.

The morning room was warm with the scent of woodsmoke and lemon cakes when I entered. Thankfully, Grandmother was alone, which, given the look in her eye, came as no surprise. She sat in her customary chair, her cane laid across her knees like a scepter, those shrewd eyes fastened on the doorway even as I crossed it.

"Rosalynd," she said sharply. “It is half past six. You’ve kept me waiting."

How was I supposed to know she was coming? Still, one did not bring that up with her. “My apologies, Grandmother,” I said, curtsying. “I was unexpectedly detained at Walsh House. Julia needed assistance finalizing her packing before the move.”

Grandmother’s eyes narrowed, but not with disapproval. “I suppose someone had to see to the poor girl,” she said, her voice clipped but not unkind. “Though heaven knows, you take on far more than is wise.”

I folded my hands in front of me. “She has no one, Grandmother, and she’s expecting a child. She needs all the help I can give her.” I drew a steadying breath, forcing my voice to remain composed. “May I ask what brings you to Grosvenor Square this evening?” Under other circumstances, I would have chosen my words more carefully. But exhaustion had worn away my usual restraint.

For a moment, she said nothing, her gaze sharp and unreadable. Then, with a flick of her wrist and a sniff that could have cut glass, she replied, “Scandal. That’s what has brought me here today.”

I froze. “Scandal? What scandal?”

She tapped the tip of her cane once, smartly, against the floor. "The entire of Mayfair is buzzing. Rumors, child. Rumors involving your name and the Duke of Steele’s.”

I made it to the tea table and busied myself with the cups, if only to hide the flush rising to my cheeks.

"Surely," I said lightly, "Mayfair finds someone to gossip about every week."

“This is no ordinary gossip,” Grandmother snapped. “It’s persistent. Repeated. Vicious. You’re on the verge of courting a scandal of prodigious proportions.” She leveled me with a look so withering it could have silenced Parliament. “If this continues, the only respectable course left will be for you to marry Steele.”

The very idea prompted a sharp, involuntary bark of laughter. “Really, Grandmother.”

“Yes, really. Now," she said, "you will tell me precisely what you are doing skulking about with the duke, or so help me, Rosalynd, I shall imagine far worse than the truth."

I sighed. There was no evading her.

Placing the cups in front of us both, I sat carefully on the edge of the settee and said, "We are investigating Lord Walsh’s murder.”

Grandmother blinked. “Whyever so?”

"His Grace and I believe there are certain ... issues the authorities may overlook. Julia’s future, and that of another innocent party, hangs in the balance."

"And you," Grandmother said icily, "believe it your duty to play detective?"

"In this case," I said calmly, "yes."

Grandmother set her cup down with a force that rattled the saucer.

“How does Steele fit into all this?”

At least that was one thing she hadn’t discovered. “He’s helping me.”

“Out of the goodness of his heart?”

“He thinks it an interesting puzzle.”

“Umm, more likely his brother is involved. I’ve heard rumors about Lord Nicholas and Julia. Are they true?”

“What rumors?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Miss! It doesn’t suit you and belittles me.”

When I failed to comment, she said, “Do you not understand what you are risking? Your name ? Your reputation ?"

"I understand," I said, the knot in my stomach tightening.

"No, you do not," she said, voice low and cutting. "Already, the gossips murmur that you and the duke are ... entangled. They say you’re meeting in Chelsea, in a secret house where illicit affairs have been known to be conducted. That you linger in his company far beyond what propriety allows."

I bit my lip.

Grandmother leaned closer, her lined face fierce with concern.

"And your sister, Rosalynd. Have you thought of Chrysanthemum? If you embroil yourself in scandal, what decent gentleman will offer for her? No man of sense will risk tying himself to a family sinking into disgrace."

The words landed like blows.

Chrissie, bright and hopeful, just beginning her season. What suitor would risk his own reputation if whispers clung to the Rosehaven name?

My chest tightened painfully.

"I am doing this for Julia," I said, my voice thickening despite myself. "She has no one else. The reading of the will was held yesterday. Walsh left her nothing but the Walsh dower house, not even the funds to manage it.”

“Disgraceful.” Grandmother’s expression softened—slightly—but her voice remained firm. "Then you must tread carefully, child. Already, the ground crumbles beneath your feet. One misstep, and you may bring down far more than yourself."

I stirred my tea mechanically, the fire crackling too loudly in the heavy silence between us.

For the first time since I had begun this mad endeavor, doubt crept in at the edges of my resolve. Had I misjudged the cost? But then I thought of Julia’s pale face, her shaking hands, the weight of injustice pressing down on her. And I knew.

I could not turn back. Not now. Not ever. Better to risk scandal—and even heartbreak—than live with cowardice on my conscience.

After Grandmama left—her cane tapping a thunderous rhythm down the hallway—I allowed myself one long, steadying breath.

The room seemed oddly hollow without her fierce presence. The fire hissed in the grate, and the air felt heavier, burdened by the warnings she had left behind. For a moment, I stood there, letting the silence settle like dust around me. But retreat was a luxury I could ill afford.

With a sigh, I made my way to my desk. There were tasks to attend to, however distasteful. Chief among them: a note to Claire. I took up my pen with no small measure of reluctance—not because I feared Claire would refuse. On the contrary, she’d be thrilled by my sudden interest in society teas. Rather, it was the prospect of immersing myself in the clucking company of gossip-hungry matrons that made my skin crawl. Women who pried, dissected, and whispered until lives lay bare like butterflies pinned beneath glass.

But desperate times, as they say.

Claire replied within the hour. Her note, penned in an exuberant hand, read:

"Dearest Rosalynd,

How positively thrilling! Lady Farnsworth is hosting tea tomorrow, and you shall be my honored guest. Prepare to be scandalized. And do bring your sharpest smile. The ladies are positively foaming over Walsh’s demise. Wear something disarming."

Disarming? I thought not. I would wear my dove-gray gown with lace cuffs—elegant, modest, and entirely unmemorable. The better to fade into the background while collecting intelligence. Or so I hoped.