Page 2 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Two

A MOTHER’S CONCERN

T he soft scratch of my pen filled the study, the only sound in a room otherwise hushed and still. My desk was strewn with papers—proposed amendments, committee notes, witness statements—all tied to the bill I had been driving through the House of Lords these past months.

It was, admittedly, not the sort of legislation one expected a duke to champion: regulations on industrial safety, enforced protections for workers, mandatory safeguards on the machines that powered factories from London to Manchester.

But I had seen too many reports—too many torn hands, too many shattered bones—to ignore the human cost any longer.

While most of my peers had abandoned the matter to their secretaries, I diligently worked on the language, driving every clause, every word, determined to push the measure through.

After an hour of writing, rewriting, striking words and phrases, my stiff fingers screamed enough. Pausing, I flexed my hand and leaned back in my chair.

Even as my gaze drifted toward the window, the faint cries of children’s laughter floated up from Grosvenor Square. I crossed the room and drew back the heavy curtain.

A lively cluster of red-headed figures darted across the green—all of them unmistakable, their hair like glints of fire in the late afternoon light.

The Rosehaven siblings. Petunia, the youngest, caught my eye the most. Her copper-colored curls bounced wildly as she spun away from her older brother, her peals of laughter carrying faintly up to my window.

The same little girl who had once marched, uninvited and fearless, into my study to ask for tea and biscuits as if she were mistress of the house.

A small, unfamiliar ache tightened in my chest.

No sign of Lady Rosalynd, of course. Today was the meeting of her Society for the Advancement of Women—something I kept far too close an eye on, if I were honest with myself.

Keeping abreast of the Rosehaven family’s affairs was a dangerous indulgence, one I should abandon. It would only lead to heartache.

For a moment, I found myself toying with the idea of crossing the street and joining their game—of perhaps rolling a ball of skittles and hearing Petunia’s delighted laugh ring out.

A sharp rap at my study door broke the thought.

I turned just as Milford, my butler, stepped into the room, his composed features touched with the faintest hint of apology. “The Duchess of Steele has come to call, Your Grace.”

I exhaled softly, letting the curtain fall back into place. “Thank you. Milford, if you could please bring tea.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Moments later, the door opened again to admit the Duchess of Steele. Her posture was perfectly straight, her gray silk gown immaculate, her eyes sharp despite the soft crinkles at their corners.

“Mother.” I managed a faint smile while kissing her cheek. “What brings you here today?”

I expected a quip along the lines of “Can’t a mother visit her own son?” But that was sadly lacking today. Her expression was one of sadness.

Her gloved hands tightened slightly. “Phillip. He’s drinking and gambling again.”

I drew a slow, steady breath, the familiar weight of frustration settling across my shoulders. Of course, he hadn’t. He’d never stopped.

“Let’s talk it through. Come sit, Mother,” I guided her to her favorite settee, upholstered in a shade of blue, the same color as her eyes. “Milford is bringing tea,” I said quietly, lowering myself into the settee across from hers.

She watched me for a long moment. “He’s not answering my letters.” A hint of tears glistened in her eyes.

I waited while she composed herself.

“He’s twenty-five years old, Warwick. I had hoped that he might begin to show sense by now.”

So had I. But sense and Phillip had never been close acquaintances.

“He’s been borrowing,” she said softly. “From friends. From strangers. A man came to the house last week asking for repayment. Said Phillip staked a hundred pounds at a private club in Belgravia.”

My jaw tightened.

“I paid it, of course,” she added, too casually. “But I won’t keep doing so, Warwick. Not when he shows no signs of restraint.”

“No,” I agreed. “You shouldn’t. If it happens again, send that person to me. I don’t want you to be bothered with this.”

She blinked, surprised by the firmness in my tone.

“I’ve already cut his allowance,” I said.

“How did he take it?”

“Pretended not to care. But I saw the crack.”

“I’ve heard things,” she added after a pause. “From acquaintances who are worried about him. He’s keeping odd company, visiting questionable establishments in dangerous parts of London. I believe he’s in over his head.”

That chilled me. “When did you last see Phillip?”

“A week ago.” Her voice hitched. “At his lodgings. He was drunk.” Her lip curled with distaste.

Just then, Milford returned with the tea tray. The quiet clink of china momentarily pushed the shock of her statement aside. Once he left, I poured for her, then for myself.

She accepted her tea with a quiet murmur of thanks, but her thoughts were far from the porcelain cup.

“He reminds me so much of your father,” she said after a pause, voice barely above a whisper. “The same charm. The same self-destructive streak. I used to think it would pass. That youth was to blame. But Phillip . . .” She shook her head. “He’s slipping through my fingers, and I can’t catch hold.”

“You’re not alone in this,” I said, gently.

She looked at me then—truly looked—her eyes filled with a complex sorrow I hadn’t seen in years. “You were never meant to carry so much, Warwick. Not as young as you were.”

“I’m no longer a child, Mother.”

“No,” she said softly. “But you were. When your father died. When Phillip started acting out. When Nicholas still needed raising. You stepped into a role I never asked of you. And you bore it without complaint.”

I looked away, unable—unwilling—to face the truth in her voice.

She placed her cup down on the tray with delicate precision. “Promise me something.”

I glanced at her, wary. “What?”

“When the time comes—and it will come—don’t let loyalty blind you. If Phillip falls beyond saving, you must protect yourself. And Nicholas. And the name your father left behind.”

I froze.

The name your father left behind.

That name had been a curse. A shackle. A weight I’d carried since I was old enough to understand the screams coming from Mother’s room.

She didn’t know what I had done. Not really. Not the full extent of it.

She knew some of it, of course. How I’d burst into her room that night, eighteen and shaking with rage, and wrested the strap from my father’s hand. How I had turned it against him, struck him again and again until his face was bloodied, his ribs bruised, his reign of terror broken.

How, two days later, my father had taken my favorite stallion from the stables—Storm, whom I had truly loved—and galloped into the night.

We found him the next day, broken on the rocks. Storm broken as well.

I had saved us.

But I had never stopped wondering what, exactly, I had destroyed in the process.

She stood slowly, her silks rustling softly.

Then she crossed the room and pressed a kiss to my brow—rare, uninvited, and unexpectedly welcome.

A ripple of laughter rose outside the window, breaking the tension.

My mother glanced toward the sound, a small smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Children’s laughter,” she said softly. “Such a joyful sound.”

“The Rosehaven siblings,” I answered, following her gaze. “They’re out on the square.”

“Ah,” she murmured, returning to her seat on the settee. “The little one must be there. What’s her name again?”

“Petunia.”

She took a delicate sip of tea. “Such a beautiful child.”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “She is.”

My mother turned her head slightly, studying me. “She reminds you of your own little girl.”

A lump rose in my throat before I could stop it. “Yes,” I managed. “Lily.”

There was no more to say.

She looked away first, her voice gentler now. “You have always carried too much. Your title. Your brothers. Even your father’s sins.”

I couldn’t speak for the lump in my throat.

“I will always love all my sons,” she whispered. “But only one of them has ever stood between us and ruin. And I only trust one of them to do what must be done.”

Then she left, the soft rustle of silk fading down the corridor, leaving behind the lingering scent of lavender and old grief.

I crossed to the window, the teacup cooling in my hand, to stare out the window as the last streak of sunlight vanished across Grosvenor Square. It was quiet now. The children’s laughter was no more. They’d returned to Rosehaven House for their tea.

And I wondered—not for the first time—if what I had done to save my family had damned us all the same.