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Chapter

Twenty-Eight

BITTER INFUSION

T he scent of lilies and bergamot still clung to me when the door to Rosehaven House opened—not by a footman, but by Mr. Honeycutt himself. That alone was enough to set my nerves on edge.

He stood in the threshold with grave composure, his gloved hands folded before him, his expression unusually solemn. Without a word, he stepped aside to admit me. The door closed behind with a solid click, the sound echoing through the silence like a verdict.

I had only just begun to unpin my hat when I caught the look in his eyes—gentle, steady, and burdened with something far heavier than words.

“Milady,” he said quietly. “There’s been ... news.”

I froze, my hand suspended mid-motion. “What sort of news?”

He met my gaze with calm sorrow. “It’s Lord Walsh, milady. Lord Charles Walsh. He’s—he’s dead.”

“Dead?” The word struck like a stone, hollowing the air between us. For a moment, all I could hear was the ticking of the long-case clock in the corridor and the distant rumble of carriage wheels outside.

“Yes, milady. Word arrived just a short time ago. He collapsed in his study at Walsh House.”

I moved past him into the morning room, heart hammering in my chest like a warning bell. The space felt too still, too bright, as though the room itself was holding its breath.

“How?” I asked, my voice thinner than I intended. I didn’t know what I feared more—a tragic accident, or something far worse.

Mr. Honeycutt followed and closed the door behind us. “They found him slumped over his desk,” he said. “A cup of tea in his hand.”

I stared at him, stunned. Tea.

Julia had sent him a parcel of her special blend—the same served at the reading of the will. But I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Charles had a weak heart. It could have been natural.

Before I could respond, a sharp knock sounded at the door, followed immediately by a second, more insistent one. Mr. Honeycutt, already tense, moved to answer it.

Inspector Dodson stood in the hall, hat in hand, grim purpose written across his face. Two uniformed constables trailed behind him like shadows. As they made their entrance, Mr. Honeycutt quietly slipped away.

“Lady Rosalynd,” Dodson said by way of greeting, inclining his head with what passed for respect.

“Inspector,” I replied cautiously, my stomach tightening. “What brings you?—?”

“I’m here for Lady Julia Walsh,” he said without preamble, retrieving a document from inside his jacket. “She is to be taken into custody on suspicion of murder.”

For one breathless moment, I felt the ground tilt beneath me. But collapsing would not do. I straightened my spine and forced my voice to remain steady. “You cannot be serious.”

“Indeed, I am,” Dodson continued, his voice clipped and certain. “Lord Charles Walsh died shortly after consuming tea laced with foxglove. The amount present was enough to stop a man’s heart. The cook confirmed the tea was brewed from the custom blend Lady Julia Walsh sent him. We examined the remaining leaves. There were signs of foxglove.”

Julia had poisoned Charles. Or so he would have us believe.

“Signs are not proof, Inspector,” I said, my voice low but cutting. “What time did Charles die?”

“His body was discovered at noon when the butler entered the study to announce luncheon.”

I glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s five o’clock now. No formal analysis could have been conducted in so short a time. You’re relying on assumptions and haste to condemn an innocent woman—and one expecting a child at that.”

Dodson’s mouth pulled taut. “The presence of foxglove?—”

“You don’t know that’s what it was. It takes an expert to identify a plant.” I’d learned that much from Cosmos. “This is not justice. It’s spectacle. If you drag Lady Julia from this house without proper cause, you will answer for it.”

A new voice cut through the air, cool and deliberate. “I believe the lady has a point.”

Steele stepped into the room like a shadow cast by judgment itself. He wore no hat, no coat, no gloves, only the implacable expression of a man who had heard enough and would tolerate no more. The air shifted around him, taut and breathless, as if even the house itself knew to fall silent in his presence.

His eyes swept the room, taking in the constables, the paper in Dodson’s hand. And, more than likely, the pallor in my face.

“What precisely is your business here, Inspector?” he asked, his voice low and cold. “Because unless you have something more than innuendo and intimidation, I suggest you remove your boots from Lady Rosalynd’s carpet.”

Dodson’s spine straightened, his chin lifting as though he could shield himself with protocol alone. “I am here on official business,” he said, voice taut. “To execute a lawful arrest warrant for Lady Julia Walsh, on suspicion of murder.”

Steele’s gaze didn’t waver. “Based on?”

“The victim—Lord Charles Walsh—was found dead in his study. A teacup in hand. The blend came from Lady Julia. Preliminary examination of the leaves suggests the presence of foxglove.”

Steele stepped closer, not looming, but somehow reducing the space between them to something razor-thin. “ Suggests , Inspector?” he said, each syllable polished and exacting. “A suggestion is not evidence, especially when a coroner has yet to perform the post-mortem, and toxicological results are days away. So, what exactly do you have? A cook’s recollection? A leaf you believe came from foxglove? Come, Inspector, you are no expert on poisonous plants.”

“I have experience with such things,” Dodson declared.

“Experience is not evidence.” Steele towered over Dodson, an intimidation tactic he excelled at. “You arrive at a noblewoman’s residence, flanked by constables, and attempt to arrest a grieving, pregnant widow on the strength of observation and experience?”

“We found the remaining tea in the packet Lady Julia sent?—”

“ Allegedly sent ,” Steele interrupted, his tone dangerous in its quiet precision. “You have motive and supposition. What you do not have is proof.”

Dodson’s jaw tightened. “This is not a matter of speculation, Your Grace. The warrant was properly reviewed and signed by Magistrate Harwood this morning.” With clipped formality, he held out the document in his hand to Steele. “You’ll find it in order.”

Steele took it without a word, unfolded the paper, and scanned its contents. His expression remained unreadable, though the muscle ticking in his jaw betrayed the storm simmering just beneath.

“I see,” he said quietly, refolding the warrant with deliberate care. “A legal instrument hastily drawn, based on evidence not yet confirmed, naming a woman with no history of violence and no means to flee.” He handed it back to Dodson. “What you have, Inspector,” the duke bit out, “is an official document. What you lack is judgment.”

Dodson bristled. “I have the authority of the Crown.”

“And I,” Steele said coolly, “have the means to see that Lady Julia Walsh remains under protection, in a secure environment befitting her condition—not paraded through the streets for the satisfaction of gossip and spectacle.”

After a long, brittle pause, Dodson gave a stiff nod. “Very well. She may remain at Rosehaven House—under guard.” He turned to the constables. “Post yourselves at the front and rear entrances. Inside the house.” He directed a scornful gaze at Steele. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scandal.”

“Agreed,” Steele said, his voice like cut glass. “But let me be clear. If Lady Julia Walsh is harmed, distressed, or placed under any further public scrutiny before your evidence can hold up in court, you will answer for it.”

Dodson’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. With a jerk of his head, he signaled to the constables, then turned on his heel.

But the inspector had one more salvo to hurl before leaving. In dramatic fashion, he paused in the doorway as Steele and I both faced him.

“You’re wasting your influence, Your Grace,” he said, his tone cutting. “You’d be better served protecting your own family.”

Steele’s shoulders tensed. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

Dodson gave a tight smile. “I have sufficient grounds to issue a warrant for Lord Nicholas. A witness from a low tavern in Spitalfields claims to have seen him speaking with a man well known to the Yard—one who’d slit a throat for sixpence and not lose a wink of sleep over it.”

My blood turned cold. The implication was clear. Lord Nicholas had hired a killer to murder Lord Walsh.

“That witness is being vetted, of course,” Dodson continued as he arranged his bowler hat on his head with deliberate precision. “We’re trying to locate Lord Nicholas. He appears to have disappeared.”

Steele’s voice was like flint striking stone. “If he has gone to ground, it may be because he’s being hunted by someone who wants this case closed before the truth comes to light.”

“Or it may be because he has something to hide.” Dodson adjusted the cuffs of his gloves with exaggerated calm. “If you happen to find him before we do, Your Grace, kindly let him know we’re coming.”

And with that parting shot, he made his exit. Moments later, the front door closed with a muffled thud.

As silence pressed in, I faced Steele. “That was very well done," I said aloud, my voice steady, cool—the sort one might use when commenting on a well-executed speech in Parliament, not a personal triumph witnessed from a breath away.

But privately, traitorously, the truth flared within me. He’d been magnificent .

Not just his strategy or poise, though those alone would merit the word. It was him . The quiet force of his presence. The sharp edge of his mind. The way he shielded Julia—a woman he barely knew—without seeking thanks or recognition. I saw it now, all of it, and the revelation left me breathless.

And frightened.

Because I had begun to think of him not merely as a partner in enquiry or necessity, but as something more. And that was a risk I hadn’t accounted for.

“I know the law, Lady Rosalynd,” he said quietly, cutting into my thoughts.

“You held off Dodson today, but I doubt he’ll give up,” I said.

“ We held him off,” he corrected. “I heard what you said to him. You were holding your own.” He drew in a breath, steadying himself. “But you're right. Dodson won’t stop. Not only is he under pressure to solve Walsh’s murder, but he sees this investigation as an opportunity to wound me.”

“Because you tried to have him demoted.”

He nodded. “Revenge is a powerful motivator. He’ll stop at nothing. And that means he’ll do everything he can to implicate Nicky. He knows the way to get to him is through Lady Walsh. In her condition, she might very well confess to something she hasn’t done—especially if she believes it could protect her unborn child.”

He paused, the line of his jaw tightening. “Hanover must be informed. He’ll know what measures can be taken to safeguard Lady Walsh. The sooner, the better.”

“I’ll send a footman with a note.”

He inclined his head.

“Do you think Dodson actually has evidence against Nicholas?”

“If he doesn’t, he can fabricate it. Not the murder weapon, but a witness? That’s another matter entirely. He’ll have no trouble finding someone willing to lie to stay out of prison.” He gestured toward the streak of white in his dark hair. “A glimpse of this under a hat, and a thug might swear he saw Nicky just to earn Dodson’s favor.”

A discreet knock at the drawing room door interrupted us, and Mr. Honeycutt appeared once more. “Forgive me, milady, Lady Walsh has need of you.”

“Yes, of course.” I glanced at the duke. “I must go.”

“One more thing before you do,” the duke said.

I glanced at our butler. “Please tell Lady Walsh I’ll be with her in a moment.”

After he departed, closing the door behind him, I turned to the duke. “Yes?”

“See to her, of course,” Steele said. “But don’t linger. There’s something else that needs to be done. Today.”

“What?”

“You need to visit Walsh House. Speak with the staff. We need to know exactly what happened from the moment that packet of tea arrived.”

“The tea Lady Julia sent Charles?”

He nodded. “Who received it? Who handled it? Was it stored or opened? Who brewed it, and did anyone else have access to it before it was steeped? And most importantly—” His gaze sharpened. “Who was present in the house between the tea’s arrival and the moment Charles Walsh drank it?”

I frowned. “You think it was someone in the house?”

“It has to be,” he said quietly.

His certainty sent a chill along my spine. His implication was clear. Someone at Walsh House had murdered Charles.

“After I attend to Julia,” I said, already moving, “I’ll go to Walsh House and find out what happened.”

He gave a single nod, but his eyes followed me to the door—watching, calculating, already several steps ahead.

I paused on the threshold. “And what will you do?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Find Nicky.”

For a moment, I stood there, caught in the silence between us. His expression gave nothing away, but something in his gaze held fast to mine—steady, unwavering. I nodded once, then turned and left, the echo of his words lingering in my mind long after I’d gone.