Page 3 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Three

TEA AT ROSEHAVEN HOUSE

T he day after the Society meeting, the drawing room at Rosehaven House felt like another world entirely.

Yesterday’s tension—the sharp debates, the simmering disagreements, the weight of the vote—seemed far away as sunlight poured warmly through the windows, glinting off polished silver and fine china.

The laughter of my sisters and younger brother echoed through the air, mingling with the scent of scones and strawberry jam and the sweet perfume of fresh flowers arranged along the mantel.

For a moment, I paused in the doorway and took it all in.

There was Petunia, the youngest at seven, a blur of butter-yellow skirts and vivid red curls as she twirled gleefully around the tea table, ribbons flying.

Holly and Ivy, the nine-year-old twins, darting after her, shrieking with laughter, sending a stack of neatly folded shawls tumbling to the floor.

For once, they were not fighting over fairy cakes.

“Girls!” came Grandmother’s voice—sharp, imperious, and unmistakable. She sat in her high-backed chair, silver hair gleaming, her teacup poised just so in her gloved hand. “This is tea, not the village green!”

“Yes, Grandmother,” the three girls chorused, though Petunia’s grin flickered impishly as she plopped onto a settee, cheeks flushed with triumph.

I made my way to the tea table, next to which my cousin Julia sat comfortably—or as comfortably as one could at five months pregnant. She positively glowed with impending motherhood, a striking contrast to the pale, wan figure she’d been when she first came to us after her husband’s murder.

“There you are, Rosalynd,” she said with a smile as I approached. “I was beginning to worry the Society work had kept you from us.”

I laughed softly and bent to kiss her cheek. “Almost, but not quite.” I’d spent most of the morning writing reminders to our members about their monthly contributions. “How are you feeling today?”

“Restless,” Julia admitted, smoothing her hand over her belly. “And terribly curious to know if it will be a boy or a girl.”

“Whichever it is,” I murmured fondly, “she, or he, will be adored.”

As I settled myself on the sofa next to her, the door burst open, and Cosmos swept in—tall, auburn-haired, and quite out of breath, his coat unbuttoned and his spectacles slightly askew.

“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, raking a hand through his hair as he crossed the room. “I’ve come straight from the Royal Society for Botanical Inquiry. Fascinating lecture on the pollination habits of rare orchids.”

“Cosmos, do sit,” Grandmother said crisply, arching a brow. “You look as if you’ve outrun your own carriage.”

“I very nearly did.” Cosmos dropped into a chair with a grin. “Oh, by the way, Rosie, Lady Edmunds was in attendance. She’s recently taken to coming to the lectures, you know. I sat beside her and explained the various floral references as the speaker went on. She seemed most interested.”

I hid a smile. Claire’s interest had little to do with flowers and everything to do with Cosmos himself.

For reasons I couldn’t quite fathom, she found him attractive.

I doubted the fascination would last. Soon enough, she’d flit off to a gentleman who preferred balls to botanical lectures.

She was a social butterfly, after all. In any case, I’d decided to stop worrying about it.

“How are your lessons coming along, Foxglove?” Grandmother asked, her tone prim. She always insisted on using our full names, no matter how many times we protested. “I trust they are not suffering.”

“Oh, no, Grandmother,” Fox said earnestly. “Mr. Butterworth is an excellent tutor. We’re working on differential equations and exploring the principles of chemical reactions.”

Grandmother blinked, clearly out of her depth. “Good to hear.”

Fox was sprawled in an armchair, a book open in his lap, with Laurel, our resident bookworm, perched beside him reading her latest literary discovery.

And then there was Chrissie—fresh-faced, sparkling Chrissie, all of eighteen and wearing a delicate pink silk. She hurried to sit next to me, her eyes alight.

“Oh, Rosie, can you imagine?” she breathed. “The Spring Ball is almost upon us.”

“Is it really?” I asked, all innocent inquiry.

“Stop teasing,” her clear laughter rang out. “You know very well it is. I can hardly sleep for all the excitement. The dance cards, the music, the gowns . . . the gentlemen.” She gave a delighted little laugh, practically bouncing in place. “I hardly know how I shall choose!”

“Indeed, they’ll be lining up for you.”

Chrissie flushed pinker still, ducking her head for a moment before lifting her eyes with a spark of youthful mischief. “Do you really think so?”

I smiled faintly over the rim of my teacup, watching her. “You’ve been the belle of the Season so far, Chrissie. I doubt that will change tomorrow night.”

Across the room, Grandmother let out a soft, dry sniff, folding her hands lightly atop her cane.

“My dear Chrysanthemum,” she said, her voice touched with wry amusement, “I would caution you not to be too eager. Gentlemen prefer a challenge, not a prize handed to them on a silver platter.”

She might be the darling of the ballrooms, but under Grandmama’s watchful gaze, even the belle of the Season was reminded to play her part carefully.

Chrissie blinked, momentarily chastened, then gave a sheepish little smile. “Yes, Grandmother.”

I bit back a faint laugh, exchanging a knowing glance with Chrissie.

Chrissie let out a soft sigh. “I just wish you would dance more, Rosalynd. You’re so beautiful when you dance.”

I gave her a dry, affectionate look. “I’m not the one on display this Season.”

She huffed softly but let it go, already half-lost in imagining the swirl of gowns, the gleam of candlelight, the eager faces of London’s eligible bachelors.

As I settled a cup of tea in my hands, Petunia came bouncing over, her copper curls shining and her blue eyes wide with the kind of innocent mischief that only a seven-year-old could carry off convincingly.

“Rosie,” she chirped sweetly, climbing up onto the ottoman beside me, “when are you going to invite the Duke of Steele to tea again?”

I nearly choked on my sip.

“Well?” she asked, utterly unbothered, tilting her head to one side. “He’s been here before. I like him.”

I set down my cup, narrowing my eyes just slightly. “Petunia, we are not inviting the Duke of Steele.”

“You invite your friends, like Lady Edmunds. He’s your friend, too. Isn’t he?” Petunia pressed, her small brow puckering.

Barely a month ago, the Duke of Steele and I had investigated the murder of Julia’s husband.

During that time, I thought of him in different ways—enigmatic, fascinating, mesmerizing, but not once did I think of him as a friend.

“No, Petunia,” I said firmly, though I could feel the prickling flush creeping up my neck.

“We are . . . acquaintances. There is no reason for him to come to Rosehaven again.”

Petunia tilted her head, a slight frown marring her brow. “Why not?”

“Because he is a very busy man, and this is hardly a place he’d?—”

Her mouth curved slowly into a sly, knowing smile far too old for her years. “You like him, don’t you?”

“That is absolute nonsense,” I hissed under my breath, feeling my face heat in earnest.

Petunia gave me a look—a wide-eyed, secretive little glance—then giggled softly and hopped down from the ottoman. She skipped back across the room to the settee she’d previously occupied, flopping onto the cushions with a satisfied little smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.

As the laughter and chatter bubbled on around me, I gazed fondly at my family.

Cosmos’s scholarly ways, Julia’s gentle warmth, Fox’s sharp intelligence, Laurel’s quiet reading, Chrissie’s glowing excitement, and Grandmother’s clipped no-nonsense commentary about which debutantes were behaving with dignity, and which were, in her words, “on a ruinous flirtation path.” Holly and Ivy sat curled up together on the settee, whispering behind their teacups and clearly plotting something.

Mischief was always more effective in pairs.

And most of all, Petunia, wise beyond her years, her sharp little eyes seeing more than they should.

It was all so familiar, so dear. And yet, my thoughts, unwelcome and persistent, strayed to the Duke of Steele.

It was foolish, really. I had no business thinking of him, no business recalling the quiet intensity of his gaze or the wry twist of his mouth when he allowed himself the rare indulgence of amusement.

He had come to tea—a precursor to a discussion of the investigation.

Once we’d identified the murderer and made sure justice was meted, I had gone out of my way to avoid further meetings.

Because I knew myself.

I knew how dangerous it would be to let that acquaintance deepen, how easily the walls I had so carefully built around my heart could begin to crack if I allowed him near. The Duke of Steele was brilliant, compelling—and far too attractive for my comfort.

No, I could not afford such distractions. Not with so many depending on me, not with responsibilities stacked one atop another like fragile china. Whatever foolish stirrings he awoke in me, I would see them safely smothered.

With a soft sigh, I straightened in my chair, forcing my thoughts back to the here and now, to the sound of Julia’s laughter, to Chrissie’s dreamy sighs over the Spring Ball, to Petunia’s giggles as she whispered secrets to the twins.

This was where I belonged.

And I would remind myself of that as many times as it took.