Page 5 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Five

THE SPRING BALL

T he carriage wheels crunched over the gravel, lantern light spilling in golden pools across the grand Langley drive. Chrissie, seated across from me, nearly vibrated with excitement, her gloved hands clenching her fan a little too tightly.

“Oh, Rosie,” she breathed, eyes shining, “can you believe the Spring Ball is finally here? It’s the event of the season. Everyone will be there!”

Beside me, Grandmother gave an indulgent smile, adjusting the lace shawl draped elegantly over her shoulders.

“Yes, child. But remember—composure is the mark of a true lady. No matter what unfolds tonight, you are to remain poised and pleasant. A calm smile will carry you further than a thousand sparkling words.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Chrissie said dutifully, though the sparkle in her eyes suggested the words might escape her anyway.

After relinquishing our outer garments to the footman at the door, we descended the staircase into the grand ballroom, aglow beneath a cascade of chandelier lights.

Chrissie all but floated down the steps in her pale blue gown, radiant with youthful promise.

As I’d expected, it took no more than a heartbeat for eager young gentlemen to flock to her, each vying for a place on her dance card.

From a short distance, I watched her laugh lightly, as one suitor after another scribbled in his name.

Grandmother watched just as fondly. But within seconds, she was swept away by a crony, the irresistible lure of gossip drawing her aside.

With a shake of my head, I moved forward into the room, my eyes sweeping across the sea of silk gowns, glittering jewels, and crisp black coats. Near the long refreshment table, I spotted Claire, Lady Edmunds, waving a gloved hand in greeting.

“Rosalynd!” Claire called brightly, drawing me near with a delighted grin. “Finally, you’re here. I was beginning to think you’d never arrive.”

“Grandmother’s doing,” I murmured as we exchanged cheek kisses. “One shouldn’t arrive too early. It builds anticipation.” I flicked open my fan to cool myself. As it often happened at these events, the ballroom was stifling. “Anything of note to report?”

“Lady Farnsworth’s diamond tiara,” she murmured in a conspiratorial tone. “The very one she’s been flaunting for three Seasons running? It’s paste. Paste, Rosalynd. Apparently, the real one was sold last winter to cover her eldest son’s gambling debts, and she’s been wearing the copy ever since.”

I half smiled as I took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Claire, I sometimes wonder how you manage to know these things.”

Claire’s grin widened. “Darling, it’s a gift. Now, tell me. Who has your eye tonight? And don’t you dare say you’re only here for Chrissie’s sake. A ball is no place for martyrdom, Rosalynd.”

I lifted my glass lightly. “I’m afraid the only thing that’s caught my interest is the quality of this champagne. It’s very good.”

Before Claire could reply, a young officer with a polished smile approached, requesting the next dance. With a delighted laugh, she set her glass on a nearby table and allowed herself to be led onto the floor.

When she returned a short while later, flushed and glowing, I was still stationed near the refreshment table, quietly sipping my champagne and only half-listening as she launched into a tale of her latest social adventures.

A bespectacled gentleman approached and bowed, asking if I would favor him with the next. I offered a polite excuse and declined. He moved on with only a faint flicker of disappointment.

Claire gave me an arched look. “You’re getting a reputation, Rosalynd. As a spinster.”

I gave her a dry smile. “That’s what I am, isn’t it? Come, shall we promenade around the room? A moving target is rarely approached for a dance.”

Claire let out a soft, indulgent sigh. “If we must.”

It was well into the evening, and Chrissie had been dancing nearly nonstop since our arrival—her cheeks flushed with excitement, her eyes alight with youthful delight.

But as the latest set ended, she slipped away from her partner.

Crossing the floor with unmistakable purpose, she headed straight for me.

“Rosie,” Chrissie said in a hushed, urgent tone, tugging lightly at my gloved arm. Her breathless energy had shifted—no longer the giddy flutter of excitement, but something sharper, more focused.

I turned slightly, arching a brow. “Yes, dear.”

“Who is that gentleman?” she whispered, her voice low, eyes flicking meaningfully toward the far side of the ballroom. “He’s standing near the potted palms beside Lady Yarmouth.”

I followed her gaze, expecting some familiar young lord or well-dressed dandy from one of the better families. But the man who had captured her attention was a stranger to me.

Tall, fair-haired, and broad-shouldered, he stood in animated conversation with Lady Yarmouth.

His blond hair gleamed beneath the chandeliers, his build lean but unmistakably strong.

What struck me most, though, were his eyes—an arresting shade of blue, sharp and vivid beneath pale brows, and unmistakably alight with mischief as he glanced back at Chrissie.

She flushed deeper and quickly snapped open her fan, fluttering it with all the subtlety of a nervous bird.

Claire let out a low, knowing laugh. “That, my dear Chrissie, is the new Lord Sefton.”

Chrissie blinked. “New how?”

Claire’s tone was light, but edged with warning. “His father died last spring. Sefton spent the past year in mourning—at least officially. Though I suspect he’s been otherwise occupied.” Her look made the innuendo clear. “He kept well out of sight last Season, at any rate.”

I raised a brow. “And now?”

“Now,” Claire said dryly, “he’s very much back. He’s inherited everything—the title, the estate, the fortune. The previous marquis was a notorious miser, so the coffers are surprisingly full.”

She leaned into me with a conspiratorial murmur. “Don’t be taken in by those angelic looks. He’s had his share of . . . entanglements. Widows, mostly. Though there are whispers of married women as well. No one dares say it outright, but the gossip is there.”

In other words, a rake of the worst kind.

I glanced at Chrissie again. She was still staring at him, utterly captivated.

Nothing good could come of it. That much was clear.

Claire’s voice dropped further as she turned to me. “He’s not the sort of man a debutante should fall for. You’d do well to steer her clear.”

Before I could formulate a proper response to Claire’s warning, Lady Yarmouth began making her way across the ballroom, her jeweled fan fluttering like a pennant of mischief. And alongside her—of course—came Lord Sefton.

Chrissie stiffened beside me, her hand tightening slightly on my arm. I could practically feel the anticipation vibrating off her.

“Lady Rosalynd! Lady Chrysanthemum!” Lady Yarmouth trilled as she drew near, her voice pitched just loud enough to draw the attention of several nearby matrons.

“How lovely to see you both. I simply couldn’t resist bringing Lord Sefton over to make your acquaintance.

And, of course, you as well, Lady Edmunds. ”

She turned to the blond gentleman beside her, beaming up at him like a matchmaking cat who had just dropped a still-twitching mouse at our feet.

“Ladies,” he said, bowing with elegant precision. “An honor.”

“Lord Sefton,” I returned coolly, managing a polite smile. “I trust you’re enjoying the ball?”

“Immensely,” he said smoothly. His gaze drifted toward Chrissie with lazy interest before sharpening to something more deliberate. “Though I find myself suddenly enjoying it even more.”

Chrissie’s flush deepened alarmingly.

“I hope your dance card isn’t full,” Lady Yarmouth said to Chrissie with exaggerated innocence, her eyes gleaming. “Lord Sefton was hoping for a waltz.”

“Unfortunately,” I said crisply, “Chrissie has been claimed for every dance.”

Chrissie cleared her throat, her voice a touch too high. “Actually, my next partner sent word just moments ago. He turned his ankle and begged off for the waltz.”

I turned to her, fixing her with a look. “Are you certain, darling?”

She nodded brightly, already lifting her dance card to Sefton. “Quite.”

After signing it, Sefton extended his arm. “May I have the honor, Lady Chrysanthemum?”

She took it with barely contained delight. “You may.”

And just like that, he swept her into the music, his hand resting lightly at her waist, his frame dangerously close to hers as they danced the waltz.

I watched them, every instinct in me bristling.

Lady Yarmouth—having achieved her goal—slithered away with a triumphant grin.

Claire sidled up beside me, her expression somber. “That was unfortunate.”

I exhaled sharply. “Lady Yarmouth should have been a general. Her strategic maneuvering would be advantageous in warfare.”

Claire frowned. “Let’s hope Chrissie doesn’t become a casualty.”

I was still watching Chrissie and Lord Sefton move through the figures of the waltz when a familiar voice—low, smooth, and threaded with amused challenge—sounded just behind my shoulder.

“I believe you’re glowering.”

I turned sharply.

Steele stood beside me, impeccably clad in evening black, his cravat a crisp slash at his throat. His dark hair was neatly brushed back, but his eyes—those impossibly clear gray eyes—held nothing but mockery and heat.

“I wasn’t glowering, Your Grace,” I said with prim dignity.

“No?” He glanced toward the dance floor. “If I were Sefton, I’d be checking my back for daggers.”

My lips thinned. “He’s far too old for her.”

“He’s four years younger than I am.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

One brow arched as he extended his hand. “Come. Dance with me.”

I blinked. “I beg your pardon?” My presence at balls this season was merely for Chrissie’s sake, not mine. Something he very well knew, as I’d made my feelings known the last time we danced. And yet, here he was asking for something I had no desire to do.

“If you’re going to glare at Sefton for the entire set, you might as well do it from the dance floor. You’ll have a far better vantage point.”

He had a point. If Sefton acted in any way inappropriately, I could more easily step in and avoid a scandal.

“Very well,” I said crisply, placing my gloved hand in his.

The moment our palms touched, a jolt passed between us—ridiculous, unwanted, and wholly undeniable. I made my mind up to ignore it.

He led me to the floor with practiced ease, his presence both commanding and uncomfortably intimate. As his hand settled lightly at my waist and he drew me into the first turn, I became acutely aware of the heat radiating from him through layers of silk and lace.

“You don’t approve of him,” Steele said, tone deceptively mild.

“Of course I don’t. He’s a rake.”

“An attribute many young ladies find . . . intriguing.”

“Chrissie has more sense than that.”

“Does she?” He nodded toward my sister, who appeared utterly enthralled by whatever Sefton was saying.

“That’s because she doesn’t know what he is.”

“And once you tell her?”

“She’ll realize he’s not the man for her.”

“Or perhaps she’ll think she can change him. Have you considered that?”

I kept my eyes on the dancing couple. “It’s dangerous to believe a man can be reformed by a woman, especially one as innocent as Chrissie.

He’s likely to fascinate her. But once she’s ensnared on his hook, he’ll move on, breaking her heart in the process.

” My gaze snapped back to Steele. “I don’t intend to give him the opportunity. ”

“And how will you stop him?”

“I’ll talk to her. Bar him from Rosehaven House, if I must.”

He chuckled, low and dry. “That will only make her want him more. Denial has a way of sharpening desire.”

I met his gaze squarely. “Surely you don’t approve of him.”

“Nothing he’s done has warranted my censure,” he said calmly.

“Because he’s simply ‘sowing his wild oats’? Is that what you did, Your Grace?”

He stiffened. “No. I fell in love and married.”

I faltered. “I beg your pardon. That was unforgivably rude of me.” Not to mention unkind.

The music rose to its final swell. As the dance ended, all I wanted was a respite from his words, his opinions. Him. I stepped back with a small curtsy. “Thank you for the dance, Your Grace.”

He bowed stiffly. “A pleasure.”

Flustered and full of regret, I turned to go, but his voice stopped me.

“Rosalynd.”

I froze. He had not used my title.

I turned back slowly. His gaze held mine—quiet, steady, unreadable. “Be careful how you manage your sister. Your good intentions could have unintended consequences.”

“What do you mean?”

“We often crave what we’re denied. And when we can’t have it . . .” He paused. “We sometimes act in ways we regret.”

For a moment, I could only stare at him, the ballroom dimming around us, sound falling away like the closing of a curtain.

Before I could summon a reply—before I could even breathe—he gave the faintest nod and disappeared into the crowd.

Blast the man.