A Murder at the Royal Opera (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Rosehaven House, London

A Lively Morning

The morning room smelled of fresh ink and spring flowers, a combination I had come to associate with the pleasures and perils of planning the Rosehaven Masquerade Ball. It was a tradition stretching back three generations, and I had no intention of being the one to let standards slip.

Mrs. Bateman and Honeycutt, the Rosehaven housekeeper and butler, were aiding my efforts in that regard.

She sat opposite me, pencil poised, her expression suggesting she shared my determination.

Honeycutt sat equally alert beside her, though there was no note-taking for him.

He depended on his mental faculties to remember each detail.

"We're expecting two hundred guests," I said, consulting my notes. "Which means we'll need additional footmen for the evening, Honeycutt. At least six, I should think."

"I've already spoken with the agency, my lady. They'll send eight, to be safe."

"Excellent." I made a note. "Now, the flowers, Mrs. Bateman. I was thinking roses and lilies for the ballroom—white and pale pink to complement the decorations. And we'll need greenery for the staircase and the entrance hall."

Mrs. Bateman nodded. "I'll speak with the florist this afternoon. And the musicians?"

"Mr. Harrison's ensemble. They're confirmed for the evening." I turned to the next page. "Which brings me to a delicate matter, Honeycutt."

He straightened, all attention. "My lady?"

"The upstairs." I met his eyes. "A masquerade ball, by its very nature, encourages a certain...anonymity. I would not wish any of our guests to mistake that anonymity for an invitation to explore the private rooms."

A knowing look crossed Honeycutt's face. "You're concerned about indiscretions, my lady.”

"I'm concerned about a scandal, Honeycutt. The Rosehaven Masquerade has never produced a hasty marriage, and I don't intend for this year to be the first."

Honeycutt smiled—a rare occurrence. "Shall I station footmen at the stairs, my lady? Or would you prefer something more subtle?"

"Both. Footmen at the main staircase, and the same near the servants' stairs. Anyone who wanders too far should be gently redirected to the refreshments table.”

"And if gentle redirection fails?"

"Then our guests will explain themselves to me." I allowed myself a small smile. "I can be quite formidable when the occasion demands."

"Indeed, you can, my lady." Honeycutt made a mental note with what looked suspiciously like satisfaction. "I shall see to it personally."

"Thank you, Honeycutt. Now, regarding the supper room arrangements—"

A knock sounded at the door, followed immediately by Chrissie's swift entrance, her strawberry-blonde curls bouncing.

"Forgive the interruption, Rosie. I know how busy you are." Her cheeks flushed with what appeared to be mortal urgency. "You haven't forgotten about our appointment at the modiste? It's at one."

I set down my pen. "I have not forgotten. Mrs. Bateman, Honeycutt, and I shall be finished well before then.”

"My gown for the opera must be absolutely perfect. Lady Pennyworth wore the most stunning Worth creation to the Devonshire's musicale, and I cannot—"

"Your gown will be lovely, dearest.” At eighteen, Chrissie viewed each gown she wore during her debut season as a matter of life and death, along with how her hair was dressed and what jewelry adorned her.

Thankfully, my brother Cosmos and I were able to indulge her love of such things.

Between our family fortune and my guidance—as well as her own vibrant personality—she had earned the title of belle of the ball, something she was not so secretly proud of. "I will be ready. I promise."

Chrissie beamed, crisis averted. "You're the best of sisters. Truly." She pressed a quick kiss to my cheek and whirled out as dramatically as she had entered.

"The supper room, my lady?" Mrs. Bateman prompted me, her expression admirably neutral.

"Yes. I was thinking we should open both the dining room and the adjacent parlor. With two hundred guests, we'll need the space. And I'd like the tables arranged to encourage conversation, not—"

The door opened again, this time without a knock.

Petunia, of course. She lacked the patience to wait to be admitted.

She sailed into the morning room, bright copper curls tamed into two braids, wearing a stylish blue frock and pinafore.

In the last several weeks, she'd developed an appreciation for pretty gowns. It was progress, I reminded myself.

"You should knock first, poppet."

"Yes, Rosie." She made no move to leave. Instead, she stood there expectantly, her voice pitched to its most persuasive register—the one she deployed when requesting something she suspected would be denied.

"What is it, darling?"

"May I take Snowball to the park?" A ball of white fluff with blue eyes and an expression of patient resignation was cradled in her arms. Snowball had come to Rosehaven three weeks prior, a birthday gift from the Duke of Steele. It had immediately become Petunia's most treasured possession.

I blinked. "To the park?"

"On a lead." Petunia produced a length of pink ribbon from her pocket, as though this settled the matter. "I've seen ladies walk their dogs in the park, and Snowball would enjoy the fresh air."

"Sweetheart, kittens don't walk on leads. They're not like dogs."

"But Snowball is very clever." Petunia stroked the kitten's head with the gravity of a barrister presenting evidence. "She comes when I call her. Sometimes."

I pressed my lips together to suppress a smile. "I'm certain she does. But even clever kittens prefer to explore at their own pace. The park would be overwhelming—too many dogs, too many carriages, too much noise."

Petunia's face fell. Snowball mewed, as though in solidarity.

"However," I added quickly, "I see no reason why Snowball couldn't explore the garden this afternoon. Under your supervision, and a maid’s, of course. The fresh air would do you both good, and the garden is safely enclosed."

The transformation was immediate. Petunia's face lit with joy. "Truly? Oh, Snowball, did you hear? The garden!" She pressed her cheek to the kitten's fur. "Thank you, Rosie. You're the very best sister in all of London."

"High praise indeed." The second time I'd been awarded that title this morning. Amazing how that worked. All I had to do was agree to something my sisters wanted to earn it.

Petunia giggled and departed, whispering plans to Snowball as she went. Mrs. Bateman and Honeycutt watched her go with the faintest trace of warmth softening their professional demeanors.

“My lady, the supper room?” Mrs. Bateman gently guided us back to our task, probably hoping there would be no more interruptions. The odds of that happening were slim to none. My other five siblings had yet to make an appearance.

"Yes,” I said, retrieving my pen. “We’ll need to ensure the food offerings are abundant and varied—nothing encourages mischief quite like gentlemen who've had too much champagne and not enough to eat.”

"Very wise, my lady."

Another knock at the door followed immediately by my brother’s entrance.

"Rosalynd, a word?" Cosmos stood in the doorway, his burgundy hair slightly disheveled, as though he’d been running his hands through it while contemplating some botanical mystery.

My brother, the Earl of Rosehaven, possessed one of the finest minds in England—a mind almost exclusively devoted to plants.

I closed my eyes briefly. Three interruptions in ten minutes. A new record, even for Rosehaven. "Of course. What do you wish to discuss?”

He glanced at Mrs. Bateman and Honeycutt, then back at me. "It's about Chrissie. There's a gentleman who has expressed...that is to say, I've heard from certain quarters that a particular party may have intentions of a...matrimonial nature."

I waited. Cosmos, for all his brilliance with Latin nomenclature, struggled with plain English when it came to matters of the heart.

"A suitor," I supplied. "For Chrissie."

"Yes. Precisely." He tugged at his cravat. "I wondered if you had any...opinions. On his suitability.”

"Perhaps we might discuss it later?" I suggested gently. "After I've finished with Mrs. Bateman and Honeycutt? We’re discussing the arrangements for the masquerade ball.”

"Ah. Yes. Of course." Cosmos seemed about to retreat when his gaze fell upon the papers spread before me. "Have you settled on the flowers?"

I knew that look. It preceded every botanical lecture I had endured since childhood.

"I was thinking roses and lilies. Simple. Elegant."

"Roses and lilies." His lip curled as though I had suggested decorating with turnips. "My dear sister, this is an opportunity. Have you considered Paphiopedilum rothschildianum? The Rothschild's slipper orchid? I know a fellow at Kew who might be persuaded—"

"How much would such an orchid cost?"

Cosmos waved a hand. "A trifle. Perhaps forty pounds."

"Per bloom?"

“Yes. They're quite rare. Native to Borneo. The pollination mechanism alone is—"

"Roses and lilies," I repeated firmly. "In abundance. Our guests will be charmed."

"But the fragrance of certain exotic species—"

"Cosmos." I met his eyes. "Some exotic species smell like rotting meat. In an enclosed ballroom. With two hundred guests. The stench would be unbearable.”

He paused, apparently recalling a specific specimen. "Ah. Yes. The Amorphophallus titanum. Point taken." He looked genuinely wounded for a moment. "Roses and lilies it is, then."

"Thank you." I softened my tone. "Your expertise is valued, truly. Perhaps for the conservatory arrangements, you might suggest something more unusual? Away from the supper tables?"

Cosmos brightened immediately. "The conservatory. Yes. I have thoughts on that. Several thoughts." He departed with renewed purpose, already murmuring about humidity levels and eastern exposures.

Mrs. Bateman cleared her throat. “Speaking of thoughts, my lady, have you given any to the menu? Mrs. Cosgrove will need to order provisions. She has a few ideas she’d like to discuss.”

"Ah, yes, the menu." With two hundred guests, the amount of food served would be prodigious and the preparations extensive. "Please ask her if she has time this afternoon. I can meet with her after Lady Chrysanthemum and I return from the modiste."

"Of course, my lady. Will that be all? I’m expecting a linen delivery.” Her patience had run thin with all the interruptions. I did not blame her.

"Yes, thank you."

She left before I could change my mind.

Honeycutt, however, remained behind. He apparently desired to make a point. “The upstairs shall be quite secured,” he assured me with the air of a general preparing for battle. “There will be no romantic assignations on my watch."

"You're a treasure, Honeycutt."

He stood and bowed. "I live to serve, my lady."

By the time he departed, I felt the particular satisfaction of accomplished tasks. The ball would be a success. The Rosehaven tradition would continue unblemished. And perhaps, for one evening, I might even enjoy myself.

I was reviewing my notes one final time when Honeycutt returned, a look of dignified disapproval on his face.

"A note has arrived, my lady." He extended a silver salver bearing a cream-colored envelope. "From Steele House." The envelope bore Steele's seal—the Thornburn crest pressed in dark blue wax.

That explained the disapproval. Honeycutt did not approve of my association with the Duke of Steele. He felt it would lead to scandal and the ruin of the Rosehaven family.

“Thank you, Honeycutt.”

As soon as he withdrew, I tore open the note and withdrew a single sheet of heavy paper, covered in Steele’s precise, elegant hand.

My dear Rosalynd,

It would give me great pleasure if you would consent to join me at Thursday evening's performance of Rigoletto at the Royal Opera House. Lady Lavinia will serve as chaperone, sparing us both the wagging tongues of society—though I confess they shall wag regardless.

I shall call for you at seven, if that suits.

Yours, etc., Steele

P.S. Shall I arrange a late supper as well?

I read it twice while a smile tugged at my lips—small, private, entirely involuntary.

Rigoletto. Verdi's tale of obsession, betrayal, and doom. How very like Steele to choose something tragic. And how very like myself to find I was looking forward to it—not for the opera, but for the company. And the intimate supper as well.

I wrote a response accepting the invitation to both the opera and the supper and rang for a footman to deliver it to Steele House. It wouldn't take long. His home was situated directly across Grosvenor Square from ours.

Before the visit to the modiste, I would need to talk to Cosmos about Chrissie's potential suitor. And this afternoon, a discussion with Cook about the menu for the ball.

But for now, I permitted myself a moment—just a moment—to think of him. Of dark hair streaked with white. Of gray eyes that saw too much. Of the infuriating, intoxicating, impossible man who had somehow become essential to my happiness.

Thursday evening could not come soon enough.