Page 24

Chapter

Twenty-Three

A VISITOR OF THE MOST UNUSUAL SORT

I was drowning in paperwork—and had no one to blame but myself. Immersed as I’d been in the work of the House of Lords and the investigation into Walsh’s murder, I’d let my responsibilities pile up like snowdrifts in January. My secretary, never one to mince words, warned me that if I didn’t attend to them soon, the estate would begin unraveling at the seams. So I dutifully, regrettably, miserably turned to the stack.

Land disputes, tenant grievances, crop rotations, drainage reports, and one interminable argument about mortar—specifically, whether the dam on the northern boundary would hold better with lime or Portland. It was enough to make a man yearn for pistols at dawn.

So when a firm knock interrupted my bureaucratic misery, I dropped my pen with something dangerously close to gratitude.

Milford entered a moment later, as crisp and composed as ever. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” he said with impeccable gravity, “but Lady Petunia has come to call.”

I blinked. “Lady?—?”

But it was too late. She was already through the door.

Petunia Rosehaven, aged seven, stood proudly on the threshold like a miniature general who’d just seized a fortress. Her ribbon hung at a perilous angle, her cheeks were flushed with triumph, and her hands were clasped behind her back in a posture of self-satisfaction I knew entirely too well from her elder sister. “I’ve come for tea, Your Grace,” she announced. “I trust biscuits will be served shortly? I would like fairy cakes, if possible.”

I blinked again. “Fairy cakes.” She’d mentioned them before.

“Preferably with icing. But not the bright pink kind. That tastes like soap.”

Milford bowed, his expression the very picture of butlerly composure—though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his valiant struggle not to smile.

I set down my pen with a sigh, somewhere between resignation and reluctant amusement. “We can’t possibly disappoint our guest, Milford,” I said. “See if Cook can manage tea and fairy cakes. Lavender icing, if possible. But absolutely no pink. Evidently, it tastes like soap.”

Milford, ever the professional, gave a dignified nod. “I shall convey Lady Petunia’s preferences with the appropriate gravity, Your Grace.”

He withdrew with the smooth efficiency of a man long practiced in navigating absurdity—though I’d wager he was smiling before he reached the corridor.

“Are you here on behalf of Lady Rosalynd?” I much doubted it, but it was the only reason that occurred to me.

Lady Petunia swung her legs over the edge of the nearest chair. “I’m here on behalf of myself. I wanted to inspect the bedchambers.”

I blinked. “The bedchambers?”

She nodded solemnly. “I need to choose one for when I move in.”

“When you what ?”

“Move in,” she repeated patiently. “Grandmother says you and Rosie are courting a scandal of prodigious proportions. Something about being seen in a place called Chelsea. Which sounds frightfully dull, if I’m being honest.”

“Were we, by Jove?” I muttered. How did that happen? No one of quality ever visited Chelsea.

“When people court scandal, they must marry or else everyone becomes very cross. And once you're married, I shall be moving in with you. I prefer a bed with a canopy, if you please.”

I stared at her. “You’re very ... efficient.”

“Laurel says I’m a menace. If I’m a menace, what does that make Holly and Ivy?”

The twins who had a light of mischief in their eyes, if I recalled correctly. Lady Petunia seemed to have a point.

Milford returned some minutes later, hands neatly folded behind his back, his expression polished but contrite. “My apologies, Your Grace. The fairy cakes were not immediately available. However, Mrs. Weatherby has taken the matter in hand and assures me they are baking as we speak.”

Lady Petunia gave a solemn nod. “She is to be commended.”

Milford bowed slightly—whether to me or to her, I wasn’t certain—and departed with the quiet efficiency of a man who'd realized that fairy cakes might one day take precedence over dukes.

Petunia turned to me with that fearless sparkle all Rosehavens seemed born with. “Since we’ve time to spare, perhaps you might show me the house?” she said, folding her hands primly. “I’d like to see the upstairs and choose my room.”

I blinked. “Choose your?—?”

“For when I move in,” she said patiently, as though reminding a slow-witted footman. Her tone was all gentle correction, but the implication was clear: heaven help me.

Refusing to be bested by an seven-year-old, I found myself pushing to my feet. “As you wish, Lady Petunia.” And with that, I led her from the study and toward the main staircase.

The second floor was quiet—unsurprisingly, as I was the only one who ever used it. I showed her into a series of guest chambers, all well-appointed in the fashion of quiet Mayfair elegance—high ceilings, carved moldings, pale wallpaper, a touch of faded grandeur.

She inspected them with a critical eye far too advanced for someone of her tender years.

“This one,” she declared in front of an eastern-facing room. “I like the light. It will suit my dolls.”

I had no idea what made a room suitable for a battalion of porcelain figures, but I nodded gravely. “Very well.”

“And where would Rosie sleep?” she asked, glancing up at me with a spark of something perilously close to cunning.

“In the duchess’s chambers,” I answered before thinking better of it.

“May I see them?”

There was little point in refusing. Petunia was a force to be reckoned with. Without a word, I led her down the corridor to the suite I hadn’t entered in years and opened the door.

It lay just as it had been—walls draped in pink damask, ivory moulding soft with dust, and fragile furnishings untouched since ... well, since. Sunlight filtered in through lace curtains, and the faintest trace of lavender lingered in the air, like a memory unwilling to leave.

Petunia’s nose wrinkled. “Oh no. This will have to be redecorated. Rosie abhors pink. She prefers soothing colors—blues and greens. But soft ones. Nothing garish.”

“Noted.”

“Was this your wife’s room?” she asked, turning toward me with a gentleness that startled.

“Yes,” I said, simply.

She didn’t pry. For that, I was grateful.

After our brief tour, we returned to the study just as the tea service arrived—Milford wheeling it in with a grace that suggested he’d anticipated our timing precisely. A silver tray bore a steaming pot of Earl Grey, delicate china, and a plate of what must have been fairy cakes, their pale lavender icing glistening like sugar-kissed frost.

Petunia beamed. “Perfectly splendid.”

And for the moment—however improbable it seemed—I almost agreed with her.

Now resigned to the logic of seven-year-olds, I poured tea into her cup and tried not to ponder the implications of being so thoroughly domesticated by someone under four feet tall.

“So tell me, Lady Petunia,” I said with mock solemnity, “will anyone notice you’ve vanished?”

“Oh, eventually. At teatime, certainly. But we have at least a half hour.” With the poise of a seasoned duchess, she nibbled delicately at a fairy cake. “Your cook is a treasure. You ought to increase her wages.”

I chuckled, surprised by the warmth the sound brought to my own ears. “I shall give it serious consideration.”

She looked at me over the rim of her teacup, eyes far too knowing for someone of seven. “You like me now. But you didn’t when we first met. Why was that?”

It caught me off guard—how easily she saw through things. Rosalynd had warned me she was sharp, but I hadn’t expected to be disarmed so thoroughly by someone whose feet didn’t yet reach the floor.

“Well?” she prompted gently, not unkindly.

I took a breath, steadying myself. “You reminded me of my daughter.”

Her eyes widened. “But you said you didn’t have children.”

“I don’t.” My voice was quieter now. “She passed away.”

Petunia’s face softened with something far older than her years. “Was she like me?”

“She lived but a few minutes,” I said, the words catching despite how long they’d been buried. “Complications at birth.”

A pause, then a whisper of sorrow in her voice. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I,” I admitted. “I miss her every day. More than I can say.”

She reached across the tea table and placed a small hand over mine. It was a child’s gesture—simple, direct, and devastatingly kind.

“I think she would have liked fairy cakes,” she said.

I couldn’t speak for a moment. I could only nod.

The poignant moment shattered as the door burst open and an out-of-breath Rosalynd, her hat askew, fury radiating from her eyes, stormed into the room. “Petunia Marigold Rosehaven! Have you lost your mind?”

Petunia, completely unfazed, dabbed her lips with a linen napkin. “The duke and I were just having tea.”

Milford quietly closed the door behind Lady Rosalynd—a wise move, as the skirmish ahead promised to escalate into something truly formidable.

I stood, bowing slightly. “Lady Rosalynd, I was honored by your sister’s unexpected visit.”

“I do apologize , Your Grace,” Rosalynd said, mortified. “She escaped her maid. We searched Rosehaven House top to bottom, and then Grosvenor Square. That’s where we discovered she’d come here.” Glaring at her sister, she snapped out, “No fairy cakes for you.”

Petunia smiled beatifically as she reached for another fairy cake, unbothered. “The duke’s cook made some just for me. She’s perfectly splendid. You should keep her once you marry the duke.”

“When I do what?” Lady Rosalynd’s voice rose to a pitch that might have startled nearby sparrows.

Petunia gave her the same look she’d given me—mild disbelief that someone could be so slow.

“When you and the duke marry,” she said, entirely matter-of-factly.

“I am not. Marrying. The duke.” Each word clipped and carefully enunciated, as though restraining herself from throttling the child on the spot. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“Grandmother. She said you’re courting scandal in a house used for illicit affairs.” Her brow wrinkled as she gazed at Rosalynd. “What does illicit mean?”

Rosalynd’s face flushed bright red. “Never mind, you horrid child.” She grabbed Petunia’s hand and yanked open the door. Seemingly half of my staff was standing right outside, including Milford, who was having a hard time keeping a straight face. They dispersed immediately.

As Rosalynd escorted her sister out of the room and down the corridor, Petunia offered one last parting shot.

“Next time, I shall expect raspberry jam.”