Page 25

Chapter

Twenty-Four

THE DUCHESS COMES TO CALL

T he following morning, I found myself enjoying a rare moment of peace in the morning room. The children were absorbed in their lessons, Julia had taken to the garden for a morning stroll, and Chrissie was at the pianoforte—her playing as skillful as it was spirited. She didn’t simply excel at the instrument; she adored it. Though I suppose the two often went hand in hand. The soft strains of one of her favorite pieces drifted through the house, lending a gentle rhythm to the morning. I allowed myself a breath—a real one, full and unguarded—grateful that, at least for now, all seemed right in my little corner of the world.

I was just finishing a note to Steele, offering yet another apology for Petunia’s unscheduled visit and requesting a meeting to discuss my latest findings, when Mr. Honeycutt appeared in the doorway—his usual composure conspicuously absent.

“The Duchess of Steele, milady,” he announced, somewhat flustered.

For one ridiculous moment, I thought he meant the duke.

But no—the figure who swept into the room was no man. Slim and impeccably turned out, the Duchess of Steele carried herself with quiet authority and an almost palpable energy. I had seen her from a distance before—at the opera, a garden party or two—but never this close. Her silver hair gleamed beneath her hat, and her ice-blue eyes—clear and lively—missed nothing. Though age had touched her, it hadn’t dulled her in the slightest. This was the woman who had raised the Duke of Steele.

Curiosity stirring, I rose and curtsied. “Your Grace.”

Entirely self-possessed, she studied me with a gaze that revealed nothing and suggested everything. “Lady Rosalynd,” she said, her voice warm. “I hope you’ll forgive the unannounced call. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Please, won’t you sit?” I replied, gesturing toward one of the settees. “May I offer you some tea?”

A faint smile touched her lips as she settled on the seat. “That would be most welcomed, thank you.”

I turned to Mr. Honeycutt. “Tea, if you please. And something light to go with it.”

He bowed and withdrew with quiet efficiency, leaving the duchess and me alone but for the distant hum of the pianoforte still drifting in from down the hall.

After I sat across from her in the matching settee, we exchanged the expected pleasantries—weather, garden roses, and the season’s relentless calendar of social obligations. Her manner was poised, every word measured and appropriate, yet I sensed there was more beneath the surface—something deliberate in her restraint.

The tea arrived on a silver tray carried by a footman, followed by a maid with a plate of lemon biscuits and neatly trimmed sandwiches. Once the door clicked shut behind them, I poured for us both and handed Her Grace a fresh cup of Earl Grey.

After taking a slow sip, the duchess met my gaze directly. “Lady Rosalynd,” she said, her voice still courteous but now carrying a quiet gravity, “I’ve come to ask something of you. A favor, if you will.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “A favor, Your Grace?”

She inclined her head ever so slightly. “I am given to understand that you and my son have been ... meeting rather often, more so than propriety strictly permits.”

There was no accusation in her tone, only a calm, clear-eyed concern that felt far more disarming than scorn would have been.

Still, I drew myself up with what dignity I could muster. “Your Grace,” I said carefully, “with respect—if you have questions regarding the duke’s activities, you should direct them to him.”

Her brows lifted slightly, a hint of amusement touching her expression. “Yes, that would be the far better path, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately, Warwick rarely takes it. He fears upsetting me. He’s a loving son, you see. Perhaps too much so at times.”

Where was she going with this?

“May I be frank with you, Lady Rosalynd?”

“Yes, of course.” Curiosity had ever been my besetting sin. And in that moment, I was positively desperate to know what she truly wanted.

“Your cousin, Lady Walsh, is now residing with you.”

“Yes.”

“Such a tragedy,” she murmured, with a subtle shake of her head. “How is she faring these days?”

I stiffened. Surely she hadn’t come all this way to indulge in gossip. If so, my opinion of her would plummet at once. “As well as can be expected.”

“I understand she’s expecting a child.”

I said nothing. Whatever curiosity she had, I had no intention of discussing Julia’s private affairs.

“My son Nicholas is rumored to be the father.”

“Your Grace!” I gasped, more out of shock than offense.

She waved a hand lightly, her tone matter-of-fact. “Oh, child, I don’t believe that for a moment. I know Nicholas. He may be impulsive, but he would never commit such a transgression. Still, his name has been linked to hers. And we both know how stubborn rumors can be—how quickly they grow, how vicious they become, unless stopped.”

“A difficult thing to accomplish,” I said, carefully.

“Indeed.” She set her cup down with precision. “Which brings me to the heart of the matter. I suspect that you and Warwick have involved yourselves in the investigation of Lord Walsh’s death— you , to clear your cousin’s name, and he , to protect my son’s. Am I correct?”

She was as perceptive as she was elegant. But before I could respond, a sharp knock came at the door. Without waiting for an invitation, the duke himself strode into the room.

He paused just inside, his gaze sweeping over the scene: his mother seated with regal composure on one of the settees, me opposite her with a teacup in hand and no doubt an expression that betrayed my surprise.

“Mother,” he said, bowing slightly. “Lady Rosalynd.”

“Warwick,” the Duchess returned in a crisp tone.

“Your Grace,” I greeted him in the same manner.

He crossed the room with measured steps, stopping beside her chair. In a measured whisper, he asked, “May I ask what you’re doing here?”

“Why, enjoying a perfectly pleasant cup of tea with Lady Rosalynd.”

“Is that so?” Straightening, he turned his attention to me.

“Absolutely,” I said, managing a smile. “Would you like a cup yourself? Earl Grey—or something stronger?”

“No. Thank you.”

It took only a moment to piece together how he’d found her. Her carriage, of course—was unmistakable and likely parked directly in front of Rosehaven House for all of Grosvenor Square to see. And now he had followed it across the square—in broad daylight, no less—into the home of the very lady his name had recently been linked to. With nursemaids and children milling about, the gossips would already be composing headlines.

“Whatever you came here to learn, Mother,” he said, his tone tight, “you should have come to me.”

“And would you have answered me, Warwick?” she countered calmly. “You treat me like fragile porcelain. As though the truth might shatter me. I assure you, I’m far stronger than that. As well, you should know.”

“I don’t want to cause you pain.”

“It’s far more painful to be kept in the dark about what you and Lady Rosalynd are involved in. Rumor has it you’re having an affair. And in Chelsea, of all places.” Her lip curled as she spoke the name, her voice dipping into something that almost resembled disdain. There was history in that reaction. Of what sort, I couldn’t begin to guess. But clearly, Chelsea struck some hidden nerve.

“Mother!” The duke snapped. “Lady Rosalynd and I are not?—”

She arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Of course you aren’t. I suspect you’re conducting one of your private investigations—this time into Lord Walsh’s death. So, sit down, and tell me what you’ve uncovered.”

Steele turned to me with a look of pure exasperation. “I’ll take that brandy now.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” I crossed to the bell pull and gave it a firm tug. When Honeycutt appeared, I relayed the duke’s request with a calm I didn’t own.

While we waited for Honeycutt to return, the duke spoke, his tone measured. “Lady Rosalynd and I are investigating Lord Walsh’s death. It appears he was involved in several unsavory dealings—cheating at cards among them. We’ve uncovered the names of several individuals, any one of whom might have had motive enough to arrange his murder.”

“Isn’t Scotland Yard pursuing these leads?” the duchess asked, brows lifting.

“Chief Detective Inspector Dodson hasn’t exactly been forthcoming,” the duke replied. “Unfortunately, he’s become fixated on Nicholas. He recently learned Nicky harbors a tendre for Lady Walsh. And Charles Walsh has publicly accused Julia of murdering his father to clear the way for her marriage to Nicholas, whom he insists is the child’s father.”

“Heavens,” the duchess murmured, a hand drifting to her pearls.

Honeycutt returned with a decanter and a snifter. After placing the tray on a nearby table, he withdrew.

“Should I serve myself?” the duke asked, pointing to the decanter.

I nodded. “Please do.”

“As far as I can tell,” the duke continued after taking a sip of the spirit, “Dodson isn’t investigating other suspects. He’s searching for evidence to implicate both Nicky and Lady Walsh.”

“And what will he find?” the duchess asked quietly.

I picked up the thread. “Julia insists that she and Lord Nicholas are nothing more than friends. She maintains that the child she’s expecting is her husband’s. But society is inclined to doubt it—after so many years without children, this sudden pregnancy has tongues wagging. The rumor is that Lord Nicholas paid someone to do away with Walsh so he could marry Julia and claim the child as his own.”

“Which he couldn’t do,” the duke added, “legally or otherwise. Since Julia was married to Walsh, the child is presumed by law to be his.”

At that, the duchess exhaled a slow, measured breath, her mind clearly working behind those ice-blue eyes.

But whatever she was about to say would remain a mystery. Because at that very moment, Petunia burst into the room.

“Rosie, it’s time for—oh.” She halted mid-step, eyes widening as she took in our company. “You have visitors.” Then, brightening at the sight of Steele, she added cheerfully, “Hello, Duke!”

“Good morning, Lady Petunia,” he replied with a warm smile—far more genial than when they’d first met. Turning to the duchess, he said, “Mother, may I introduce Lady Petunia?”

“What a precious child,” the duchess exclaimed, eyes filled with merriment.

Petunia dipped into a curtsy. “Duchess.”

“ Your Grace , poppet. Remember?” I gently corrected.

With a mischievous grin, Petunia turned to Steele’s mother and repeated with exaggerated sweetness, “ Your Grace . Is the duke really your son?”

“He certainly is,” the duchess replied, a note of amusement in her voice.

“You don’t look anything alike.”

“He takes after his father. All three of my sons do.”

“You have three sons?”

“I do.”

“Petunia, you’re being impertinent,” I said—though I couldn't quite suppress a smile.

“She’s being delightful,” the duchess countered, still smiling. “How old are you, my dear?”

“Seven. Do you like fairy cakes?”

“I most certainly do. Let me guess—they’re your favorite?”

“They are. The duke’s cook baked some for me when I visited him.”

The duchess turned a look of quiet wonder toward her son. “Did she really?”

“Don’t get any ideas, Mother,” he muttered.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, all innocence.

At that moment, Mr. Honeycutt appeared in the doorway and bowed with his usual grace. “Luncheon is served, milady.”

“Thank you, Mr. Honeycutt,” I said with a nod.

“Would you care to join us, Your Grace?” Petunia asked brightly.

“Alas, I cannot, child,” the duchess replied with genuine regret. “I’ve a prior luncheon engagement.”

Petunia turned to the duke. “Are you free, Your Grace?”

He glanced at his watch. “I believe I am.”

“Good. We’re having roast beef and potatoes.”

“And fairy cakes for dessert?” he asked with a teasing grin.

“Fairy cakes are for teatime,” Petunia said with mock severity. “But Cook made Madeira cake. My favorite.”

“What a treat that shall be.” Then, turning to the duchess, he added, “If there’s anything else you’d like to know, Mother, I’ll do my best to answer it honestly.”

Her Grace gave him a soft look, full of affection. “Thank you, Warwick.”

Petunia tugged at his hand. “We’d better get to the dining room before Holly and Ivy steal all the bread rolls.”

“Let me guess,” he said, following her, “they’re your favorite?”

“How did you know?” she asked with an impish grin.

“A wild guess.”

As they disappeared through the door, I turned politely to the duchess. “Shall I show you the way out, ma’am?”

“Not just yet.” She waited a beat, listening for the footsteps to fade. Then she turned to me, her expression unreadable.

“Whatever you’ve done to my son,” she said quietly, “I heartily approve.”

Confused, I shook my head. “I’ve done nothing, ma’am.”

“Oh yes, you have.” And with that pithy declaration, she made her way to the door and proceeded down the hallway—leaving behind the faint scent of lavender and something unspoken.