Page 9

Chapter

Eight

LADY WALSH’S BALL

T he ballroom at Walsh House glittered with a thousand points of light. Candlelit chandeliers hung from the lofty ceiling and refracted off gilded mirrors, bathing the elegantly dressed guests in a warm, shifting glow. Every person of note in London society seemed to have converged here. Jewels winked at throats and wrists, silks whispered along parquet floors, and a hum of polite laughter and music wove through the crowd.

I scarcely wanted to be here. I preferred my study—its quiet order, its refuge of papers and inkwells—to the chaotic brightness of a crowded ball. But duty demanded I attend. There were several important gentlemen who had yet to commit their votes to my pending measure in the House of Lords. With Parliament in session, I needed every edge. If it took a few waltzes and some flattery delivered through a forced smile, so be it.

At some point, I would have to ask Lady Throckmorton’s granddaughter to dance. But not now. Not just yet.

As a string quartet in the gallery began a lively tune, couples drifted to the center of the floor. I kept to the perimeter, nursing a glass of champagne I had no real interest in drinking. My eyes scanned the crowd, searching for those particular gentlemen, noting their absence yet again. If they did not appear soon, I would have attended this charade in vain.

And then, almost as if it sought her out, my gaze found Lady Rosalynd. She was calmly observing the festivities with a detached air while standing near a marble pillar. Her gown, a soft dove-gray silk, was unadorned except for tiny seed pearls at the neckline, elegant but understated. She was not the sort to clamor for attention. Well, except when her ire was raised. She got it nonetheless. Both her beauty and bright copper hair couldn’t be missed. As usual, some of her curls had escaped the—no doubt—painstakingly sculptured arrangement. Much like the lady herself, they would not be tamed.

With the gentlemen I sought nowhere in sight, and my patience already frayed by the endless clamor of small talk, I found myself strolling across the floor toward her. It was unlike me, but something in her repose, so out of step with the frantic gaiety around us, drew me on.

When I reached her side, she offered a slight curtsy, just on the side of proper etiquette. Probably in case someone was watching. And somebody always was.

“Good evening, Lady Rosalynd,” I said, keeping my tone cordial. “I trust you’re enjoying your cousin’s ball?”

Her lips curved, though not in a smile of delight. More like a private amusement. “I find it as diverting as any crowded, noisy event might be, Your Grace.”

I inclined my head in acknowledgment. “High praise indeed.”

She said nothing, only looked over the dancers, as if trying to recall why people chose to whirl about to violin music.

“I trust you did not attend such an event unchaperoned.”

A small smile acknowledged our conversation of two days ago. “No, Your Grace, my grandmother is here, along with my sister. She’s making her debut this season.”

“Yes, I remember.” We’d both been invited to Christmas festivities at Needham Manor in Yorkshire. But when a priceless necklace had been stolen, an investigation into its disappearance had taken up most of our time. I wondered what she would say if I asked her to dance. She’d once refused the same offer.

I offered my hand. “I believe the set is just beginning. Will you do me the honor?”

Her eyes narrowed. Exactly as I expected, she replied, “I would rather not, Your Grace.”

My hand remained extended. “Alas, if you do not, you risk insulting your own cousin. It is her ball, after all. Think of the talk if you refuse the Duke of Steele so publicly.” The last time we’d met, our public disagreement had caused a stir. I doubted she wished to do so again.

Her gaze flicked from my hand to the crowd around us. Clearly, others were watching. Backing away now would not prove to her advantage, or her cousin’s. Finally, her delicate, gloved fingers touched mine.

“Very well,” she said, voice cold as a winter morning. “One dance, Your Grace. Let’s make it count.”

We moved onto the floor and took our places among the other couples. The music began—some old-fashioned dance, the steps of which had been drilled into me from my youth. Polite, controlled, we moved in graceful motion. From a distance, we must have appeared the very picture of harmony. Up close, our words were anything but.

“I wonder,” she began softly when we came together, her voice low enough that no one else could overhear, “if you derive pleasure from cornering ladies into compliance. Is that the secret to your famed political success, Your Grace?”

I nearly missed a step. That amused me, I could not lie. “No,” I returned, keeping my tone mild. “I find it much easier to maneuver gentlemen in the House of Lords than to force an unwilling lady to dance.”

“How fortunate that I am here to pose a challenge then,” she said dryly. “And what is it you hope to gain by this dance?”

I tilted my head. “I hoped for three minutes of civilized conversation. One can grow weary of endless chatter on fashion and scandal. I thought you might offer something more substantial.”

“Is that supposed to flatter me, Your Grace? You drag me onto the ballroom floor to avoid boredom?”

“Perhaps,” I said, feeling a strange thrill at sparring with her. Most women would have simpered or at least pretended that faint praise was welcome. Not her. She parried and countered like a skilled duelist. “Maybe I sought your company because I find you intriguing.”

Her elegant brow arched, more than likely with disbelief. “Let us say I remain unconvinced.”

Once more, the swirl of dancers drew us apart, spinning her into a different pairing. I caught sight of her through the shifting crowd—her gaze distant, her posture stiff—and when the music guided us back into each other’s arms, I immediately sensed a change. The brittle sharpness in her eyes had softened, and something—regret, perhaps—shadowed her fine features.

She lifted her chin slightly, and I could almost feel the tension vibrating within her. “I apologize, Your Grace,” she said, her voice quiet yet laden with sincerity.

My brow creased. Only moments before, she’d met every word of mine with resistance, each phrase with an unsheathed edge of steel. “For what reason?” I asked, confused by this sudden reversal.

“I was rude,” she replied, refusing to meet my gaze. “Argumentative, while you’ve done nothing but show politeness. I was taking out my frustrations on you.”

Her confession pricked at something inside me, stirring a curious sympathy. We moved through the next steps, skirts swishing and slippered feet gliding over polished floors. “Does something weigh on you?” I asked, as questions tugged at my mind.

A flicker of distress passed over her face. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice low. “My cousin’s husband, Lord Walsh, has not shown his face at his own ball. Julia is utterly mortified. This was to be their grand evening, and he leaves her to greet a sea of guests alone.”

The tension mounted between us as her words pressed on the very air we breathed. “Perhaps he is merely delayed,” I offered, trying to reassure her, though I found it difficult to believe a gentleman would be so careless.

Her lips parted, and she swallowed hard, a tremor flashing through her. “If he was in fact delayed, he should have sent a note, a messenger—anything to explain. But there’s been no word.” She glanced toward the entrance of the ballroom, where her cousin, Lady Walsh, had stood earlier, bright and proud in her finery. Now, that familiar figure was gone. The empty space where she should have been felt like a dark void, absorbing the laughter and chatter into uneasy silence.

The violins continued their lilting melody, but Lady Rosalynd did not appear to hear them. Her gaze drifted restlessly among the guests, searching for answers that did not reveal themselves. “It’s well past ten,” she murmured, her voice threaded with growing worry. “He knew this night was special, how important it was to her.”

In that moment, I understood. Her earlier barbs had been shields, masking an anxiety she did not want to claim as her own. She did not fear for just the evening’s success, but for the well-being of someone she cared about. Someone who’d been left alone in a spotlight that should have been shared. And so, as we continued to dance, our steps now slower, more deliberate, I held her troubled gaze and sought to find the right words to ease her doubt.

But before I could do so, a piercing scream sliced through the music. Instantly, the dancers halted. Heads turned toward the double doors leading out into the corridor. Instinct and duty propelled me forward, even as I released Lady Rosalynd’s hand. She refused to be abandoned, however, and followed me as I left the dance floor.

“I advise you to remain behind,” I said over my shoulder to her as we moved. “This may not be suitable for?—”

She shot me a sharp look. “If something terrible has happened, I will not cower behind potted palms.”

We emerged into the corridor just as Lady Walsh herself stumbled into the ballroom. The hostess’s beautiful gown hung awkwardly, and her face was white as a sheet. A hush fell over the guests like a heavy curtain.

“He’s dead,” Lady Walsh gasped, her voice cracking. “He’s dead!”

A shocked murmur spread through the guests. My brother Nicky, standing not far from the center of the crowd, caught Lady Walsh’s eye. When her gaze latched onto him for a fleeting instant, my stomach clenched with sick certainty.

Lady Walsh was the married woman entangled with my brother.

I had hoped to speak to him tonight and dissuade him from this madness, I had not imagined it would come to light in such a dreadful manner.

Rushing forward, I pushed past a cluster of horrified onlookers, reaching Lady Walsh just before her knees gave out. She fell against me, her trembling fingers clutching at my lapels. The scent of jasmine clung faintly to her hair. She tried to speak, but her words broke off into sobs.

“Steady,” I said, supporting her weight. Over her shoulder, I caught Nicky’s eye. His face was pale with shock. He started to move forward, but I shook my head. Thankfully, he acknowledged my command and made no further move toward her. His clothing was just as disheveled as hers. Had they been engaged in something untoward?

In the next instant, others pressed in—Lady Rosalynd among them, her expression grave and eyes full of concern. As I felt the weight of the entire ballroom’s attention, whispers started at the edges, hissing possibilities and suspicions into the charged air.

“Who’s dead, Julia?” Lady Rosalynd asked softly as she knelt next to her cousin.

Lady Walsh’s voice emerged again, thin and fractured. As her lips trembled, I leaned closer, straining to catch her words. “Walsh,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper, “someone murdered him.”