Page 7

Chapter

Six

TEA REVELATIONS

O n the best of days, afternoon tea at Rosehaven Mansion was a pleasant affair. The youngest conducted themselves like well-mannered children. No one spilled anything or slurped their Earl Grey like a walrus in a teacup. And everyone ate their pastries without causing a ruckus—even Petunia, who once declared, with great ceremony, that the last éclair was promised to her by fate and ought not to be contested.

Today was not one of those days.

I walked into the drawing room to find Holly and Ivy hoarding the tray of fairy cakes. Predictably, Petunia had taken objection and was trying to wrestle it away from them. Poor Chrissie was attempting to reason with the twins. But they turned up their noses at her and crammed more of the treat into their mouths. Fox, who’d been sent down from Eton after he’d fed an emetic to a group of bullies, causing them to vomit for hours on end, was staring morosely out the window. That was never a good sign. And Laurel, book in hand, had withdrawn to the farthest corner of the room, more than likely hoping the earth would swallow her quarreling siblings so she could read in peace.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I clapped my hands to get their attention. When that didn’t work, I stomped my feet. It had the desired effect. All heads turned toward me. “Children. If you don’t stop this arguing, you will all be vanished to your rooms with no supper, no books, and no dessert.”

Laurel shot to her feet. “Why should I suffer? I’m not fighting over some silly fairy cakes.”

Scrunching my brow, I folded my arms across my waist. “The punishment will apply equally to all.”

She swallowed hard and threw herself back in her chair. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right. It isn’t.” I glared at Ivy, Holly, and Petunia. “Well, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

A red-faced Holly came upright. “Petunia commandeered the entire tray of fairy cakes. And she wouldn’t share.” With a triumphant grin, she said, “So Ivy and I took it from her.”

“They ate most of them, Rosie,” Petunia said, pouting. “There’s almost none left for me.”

There was only one solution to this problem. “Chrissie, please bring me the tray.”

After a brief tussle, Holly and Ivy gave it up. As soon as Chrissie’s back was turned, they stuck out their tongues at Petunia.

Once I had the tray in my possession, I handed it to the maid who was standing by the pastries table. “Please return it to the kitchen with my compliments to Cook. Tell her it’s to be shared among the staff.” Not that there were many left.

The maid curtsied. “Yes, milady.”

As the maid made her way out the door, Petunia jumped to her feet, her eyes filled with tears. “No!”

“Sit down, Petunia.”

It was a sad little imp who retook her seat.

“Since you cannot behave yourselves, no fairy cakes will be served for the next seven days. They will return only when you demonstrate proper decorum. Is that clear?”

Dead silence met my pronouncement.

“I can’t hear you!”

A chorus of “Yes, ma’am,” and “Yes, Rosie” circled the room.

“Now, one at a time, starting with Chrissie and proceeding in descending order of birth, you will each serve yourselves one sweet from the pastries table. You will then sit and eat it like the ladies and gentleman I know you are. There will be no talking, no pelting each other with food, no sly glances. If I detect the slightest infraction of these rules, you will all be vanished to your rooms. Nod if you understand.”

They all nodded.

“Chrissie, if you will, why don’t you start us off?”

As she passed me, her lips quivered with mirth. But sticking to the rule I’d just laid out, she didn’t say a word. One by one, her siblings followed equally silent. Once they’d helped themselves, they returned to their seats and proceeded to eat quietly.

Into this ocean of calm walked our butler, Honeycutt. “You have a visitor, ma’am. Lady Walsh.”

I turned to find my cousin walking toward me. “Julia, how pleasant to see you.” Embracing her, I kissed her cheek.

“Rosalynd,” her smile was more sad than happy, which unfortunately was often the case these days. She’d made her debut the same year I had. Unlike me, though, she’d been eager to marry a titled lord. But lacking a large dowry, she believed her chances were slim of capturing the attention of a gentleman of noble birth.

That season, however, Lord Walsh, a widower of one year, had been on the hunt for a wife. His son, who suffered from a weak disposition, was not expected to make old bones. So Lord Walsh was eager to marry a young lady who would provide him with the spare he desperately needed. In Julia, he’d found the perfect candidate. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping in.”

“Of course not. You’re welcomed any time.” I led her to a settee where we could enjoy a comfortable coze. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, sugar only, please.”

I nodded to the maid in charge of the tea service, who prepared a cup to Julia’s preference and served it to her.

“How are the ball preparations coming along?” In years past, her celebrations had been perfectly splendid, but this season I’d sensed a lack of excitement in her. Maybe she’d grown tired of all the work that went into them.

Still, she answered pleasantly enough. “Very well. I just hope it goes off without a hitch.” She put a palm to her stomach as if her anxiety was making itself felt in that region.

I pressed her hand. “I’m sure it will be perfectly splendid.”

“It’s just nerves, I know.” She removed her gloves so she could drink her tea. That’s when I noticed the bruises on her arms.

“What happened?” I whispered, pointing to her forearm.

“It’s nothing. Walsh was a bit too ... amorous, that’s all.” Her voice descended into a whisper.

What kind of lovemaking inflicted such bruises on a woman’s fair skin? “Really?”

“He likes to hold me down when we ...” she murmured without finishing the thought.

I hitched a brow. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen marks on her arms. And her shoulders as well. One time, I’d spotted the imprint of a man’s hand around her throat. Today she was wearing a high-neck gown. Could she be hiding bruises there as well? “He should take more care with you.”

Her lips twisted. “You wouldn’t know, Rosalynd, since you’re not married. Marital relations can be quite physical.”

To the point of inflicting damage? I yearned to ask. But now was neither the time nor the place to hold such a discussion. It would have to wait until after the ball. But afterward, I would most surely bring it up. I feared what her husband would do to her.

After his first wife died from a fall down the stairs, a rumor had spread that he’d caused her death. Nothing had ever been proven. Indeed, no charges had ever been brought. But in the years Julia had been married, she hadn’t been able to conceive a child. And Walsh was growing desperate for another son.

His son Charles had married against the advice of his physician, who’d warned him marital relations would stress his heart. Predictably, Lord Walsh had grown even more frantic. If Charles met his demise, the title and the Walsh estate would go to Walsh’s nephew, something Walsh desperately wanted to avoid. He might very well be thinking of doing away with Julia so he could marry a third time and get the spare he so ardently desired.

“Let us not quarrel, Rosalynd,” Julia suggested. “Can we talk about happier things?”

“Yes, of course. What would you like to discuss?”

“The ball. I was wondering about?—”

She proceeded to ask my opinion about details which I deemed rather minor. But it did make her happy to discuss such things with me. So I didn’t hesitate to offer my advice. By the time she left, she seemed to be in a better frame of mind. I was glad our conversation had done her some good. But after the ball, we’d be having a serious discussion about her husband’s treatment of her. Such behavior could not continue.