Page 31

Chapter

Thirty

RETURN TO ROSEHAVEN HOUSE

T he carriage rolled to a smooth halt beneath the portico of Rosehaven House just as the final blush of daylight faded from the sky. I descended without assistance, my thoughts still churning with unanswered questions and the quiet menace of what I had discovered at Walsh House. The front door opened before I could lift a hand to knock.

Mr. Honeycutt—ever precise, ever composed—greeted me with his customary bow. "Lady Rosalynd. Welcome home."

I handed him my coat, gloves, and hat. Mindful of the police officer present, I simply asked, “How is Lady Walsh faring?”

"She remains in her rooms, milady. Her supper was taken up not long ago. Our housekeeper reports that she ate a modest amount and has retired with a book."

“Has she received any visitors?”

“Mr. Hanover.”

I gave a small nod, relieved. Julia’s solicitor would do his utmost to see justice done. “Thank you, Mr. Honeycutt."

With no time to waste, I crossed the hall and made for the morning room. Its curtains were drawn tight, something I appreciated as the evening had turned quite chilly. Moving to the writing desk, I quickly retrieved pen, ink, and a sheet of thick cream paper. With measured strokes, I began to write:

Steele,

I’ve returned from Walsh House and have learned much—though far from everything.

The tea packet was delivered to the study while Edwin Heller was present. Mr. Anstruther, the Walsh House butler, placed it on Charles’s desk. It disappeared from the study and reappeared hours later in the morning room, where a housemaid retrieved it and brought it to Cook. The note attached was in an unfamiliar hand and directed that the tea was only to be brewed for Charles’s tea.

Cook confirms it was not locked away but simply kept on a shelf. Anyone could have tampered with it before it was brewed this morning.

Also of note: Mr. Heller has not returned since his visit and could not be found at his Duke Street lodgings.

Please come as soon as you can so we can discuss what I learned. I will wait for you, no matter the hour.

—R.

I folded the letter, wrote Steele’s name on the envelope, and pressed my seal to the wax with a firm hand. The moment it cooled, I rang the bell to summon Honeycutt.

As soon as he appeared, I handed it to him. “Please see that it’s delivered immediately.”

“Of course, milady.” He bowed. “Supper is being served.”

“Thank you, Mr. Honeycutt.” I allowed a small smile to form on my lips. “I don’t know if I’ve said this enough. But you are a treasure.”

“Milady.” I thought I detected a blush on his cheeks as he bowed once more.

After smoothing my skirts, I made my way to the dining room where my family was already gathered. The chandelier glowed overhead, casting warm light over porcelain and polished silver.

Chrissie was positively glowing—chattering about her debut with all the youthful delight of someone who had never tasted real worry. Petunia listened wide-eyed, soaking it all in, while Cosmos presided at the head of the table like a general surveying his troops.

I took my seat and offered a smile, joining the conversation without revealing the storm that churned beneath my calm facade.

Talk turned to gowns and dance cards, to whether Chrissie might waltz with Viscount Darrow or catch the eye of a certain baron’s eldest son.

“You’ve been quiet, Rosalynd,” Cosmos observed after the fish course was served. “Anything I ought to know about?”

I lifted my wineglass and smiled. “Only that I’ve had enough scandal this week to last me through Chrissie’s entire season. I intend to be as dull as toast from here on out.”

The children laughed, as children often do when they think something is a joke, and the conversation moved on. But my thoughts remained fixed on the sequence of events at Walsh House.

After supper, the children went upstairs, their laughter trailing behind them like the final notes of a fading melody. Chrissie with her debut dreams, Petunia with her dolls, and whispered goodnights, Lauren with her book, and Holly and Ivy with their mischief plans. Fox had been awfully quiet during supper. Once Julia’s name was cleared, I would need to have a discussion with him.

Only Cosmos and I retired to the drawing room, the fire casting long shadows across the carpet. He nursed a glass of port, his gaze keen behind his spectacles.

"How is Julia, truly? And please don’t fob me off with some nonsense.”

"She’s resting," I replied, keeping my tone even. "She’s been through quite a shock."

“And Steele? What’s his role in all this?”

“He’s helping with the investigation.”

He studied me a moment longer but chose not to press. With a quiet grunt, he rose from his chair. "I won’t pry tonight. If you need me, you know where to find me."

With that, he withdrew to his study, leaving me alone with the low crackle of the fire and the relentless ticking of the mantel clock.

I waited. And waited. And waited some more. Ten o’clock came, and still no word. At last, with a sigh of resignation, I made my way to my chambers.

Tilly helped me out of my gown, her hands quick and practiced. I had just slipped into my nightgown when a firm knock sounded at the door. Tilly cracked the door open to the footman waiting outside.

“The Duke of Steele is downstairs, milady."

My breath caught. "Tell His Grace I’ll be down directly."

With no time for corset and formality, I asked Tilly to help me into a simple gown. As soon as the buttons were fastened, I was hurrying down the stairs, my slippers silent on the carpet, the chill of anticipation rising in my throat.

Steele was waiting in the morning room.

He stood near the hearth, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the same unrelenting black that seemed to drink in the dim light around him. His coat was still buttoned against the chill, his gloved hands clasped loosely behind his back, the flicker of the fire casting shadows along the hard planes of his face. He looked like something carved from midnight—elegant, forbidding, and utterly arresting.

The scent of the night clung to him—woodsmoke, damp air, and something indefinably his. It caught me off guard, slipped past my carefully constructed walls, and settled low in my throat.

I had seen him before, countless times. Heard his voice, watched the precision of his movements, studied the mind behind the man. But now, standing here in my home, so near and so completely composed, I saw something else.

He was beautiful .

Not in the way of poets or portraits, but in the way storms are—dark, charged, undeniable.

My breath hitched before I could steady it. And for one unguarded second, I let myself feel the weight of his presence as more than an ally, more than an adversary.

As a man.