Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
A Royal Summons
Ihad slept badly and woken worse. The previous night’s event kept replaying in my mind.
By the time Tilly arrived with my morning chocolate, I had abandoned any pretense of rest and was sitting at my writing desk, staring at nothing.
“Did you have a restless night, my lady?” Tilly asked. She could always tell when I had.
But then all I had to do was look in the mirror and see the dark under my eyes. The curse of having fair skin. Every upset showed. “You might say so.”
She set down the tray on the small table near the hearth and began laying out my morning dress with practiced efficiency.
"The whole house is talking about what happened at the opera. Cook says it's in every newspaper in London. ‘Murder at the Royal Opera House,’ in the box next to the Duke of Steele’s.”
Yes, they would be sure to mention Steele’s name. It sold copies. “For once, the papers are not exaggerating."
Tilly had the good sense not to press me for answers. She simply helped me dress, arranged my hair in a simple style that wouldn't require the energy I didn't have, and sent me down to face the chaos that was, inevitably, waiting. If the staff knew about the murder, so would my siblings.
Chrissie did not disappoint. She practically launched herself from her chair as I arrived in the dining room. “Rosie! Is it true? Were you really there? Did you see the body? The Times says there was blood everywhere, and The Gazette says Lady Hale fainted dead away, and—"
"Chrissie, my dear. It is far too early for an interrogation." I headed for the sideboard and the blessed promise of coffee. On mornings like this, tea would not do.
“You witnessed it all. It says so right here—" She brandished a paper she retrieved from somewhere and read from it.
“The Duke of Steele and his companion, Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven, were among the first to reach the scene of the crime.' His companion, Rosie. They make it sound positively scandalous."
They would. “It was an opera, not a den of iniquity. And a man died." I poured my coffee with hands that weren't entirely steady. "Perhaps we might show some respect."
Chrissie had the grace to look chastened, though I suspected it wouldn't last.
The door opened again, and Cosmos wandered in with the distracted air of a man whose thoughts were elsewhere—specifically, I suspected, on whatever botanical specimen was holding his attention hostage today.
"Rosie.” He blinked at me as though surprised to find me in my own breakfast room. "I heard the most extraordinary thing from Honeycutt. Something about a murder at the opera?"
"She was there!" Chrissie supplied eagerly. "Right next to the dead man. With the Duke."
Cosmos's eyebrows rose. "Good heavens. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." I wasn't, entirely, but there was no point in worrying him. I glanced pointedly at Chrissie. “We were in the next box, not the dead man’s.”
“You attended with Steele?” During a previous murder investigation, a rift had occurred between Cosmos and the duke. Even though they’d settled their differences, Cosmos did not entirely approve of my continued association with him.
“With his aunt, Lady Lavinia, acting as chaperone. Afterward, he saw me safely home."
Seemingly satisfied with my answers, Cosmos nodded and began perusing the breakfast offerings.
But before I had a chance to sit and sip my coffee, Honeycutt appeared in the doorway, his expression suggesting that my day was about to become considerably more complicated.
“My lady. A message has arrived. Most urgent, I am told.”
I stared at the heavy cream envelope he handed me and the royal crest embossed at the top.
I lay the cup on the table and tore open the envelope. The words in the note seemed to rearrange themselves as I stared at them.
Her Majesty requests the presence of Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven at Windsor Castle to discuss an urgent matter. An unmarked carriage will arrive at noon.
No explanation. No enquiry as to my availability. A command, wrapped in the language of courtesy.
“What is it?” Chrissie leaned forward, craning her neck. “Who is it from?”
“No one,” I said quickly, folding the letter away. “Nothing of consequence.” I rose from the table. “If you will excuse me, I must change.”
“Change?” Chrissie frowned. “You have only just come down to breakfast. Rosie—”
But I was already retreating, the royal summons clenched in my hand, my thoughts racing. Why would the queen wish to see me? What possible relevance could I have to anything that concerned the Crown?
Tilly, bless her, asked no questions when I burst into my bedchamber and announced that I required dressing for a royal audience in less than an hour. She simply produced my best day dress—dove-gray silk with jet buttons—and worked miracles with my hair while I attempted to steady my breathing.
The carriage arrived precisely at noon. Black. Gleaming. Entirely unmarked. Still, it drew every eye on Grosvenor Square.
Steele was inside.
“You received a summons as well,” I said as I settled opposite him.
“At nine this morning.” His expression was carefully unreadable.
“Do you know why?”
“I have suspicions,” he replied, his jaw tightening. “None of them reassuring.”
The carriage rolled forward, and we began the long journey to Windsor.
After a three-hour ride, the castle rose from the landscape like something out of legend—ancient stone, crenellated walls, centuries of power embedded in every shadowed corner.
As we passed through the gates, I became acutely aware of my own insignificance.
I was the daughter of a dead earl, the sister of an eccentric botanist, a woman who had somehow stumbled into investigations well beyond her station.
What business had I here?
Steele, by contrast, appeared perfectly at ease. Dukes, I reminded myself, were accustomed to palaces.
Upon our arrival, we were escorted through a succession of corridors—past portraits of monarchs long dead, past suits of armor that had seen real battle, past footmen in immaculate livery who pretended not to notice us. At last, we were admitted to a private audience chamber.
Queen Victoria sat near the window in a high-backed chair, the afternoon light unkind to her features.
She was smaller than I had imagined—a compact figure in black silk, her white hair drawn back with severe precision.
Decades of mourning Prince Albert had hardened her into something formidable and remote.
Steele bowed. I curtsied. And then we waited.
“Steele,” the Queen said at last. Her voice was clipped, devoid of warmth. “We are displeased.”
“Your Majesty,” Steele replied evenly. “I regret to hear it.”
“A man was murdered last night at the Royal Opera House. In the box adjoining yours.” Her gaze shifted briefly to me, assessing, dismissive. “You were present. Both of you.”
I maintained my silence. Steele had suggested that as the better course of action unless I was directly addressed.
“We saw a figure flee the box, Your Majesty,” Steele said. “Nothing more.”
“You informed the authorities that you intended no involvement,” she continued. “That the matter properly belonged to Scotland Yard.”
“It does, ma’am.”
“It does not.” Each word fell with deliberate force. “It belongs to the Crown.”
She rose. Though small in stature, the room seemed to contract around her.
“Sir Edmund Hale’s widow is…indiscreet,” the Queen said, her lip curling faintly. “Her associations are not confined to her marriage. Among them is our son.”
The air left my lungs in a rush.
“The Prince of Wales,” the Queen continued coolly.
Beside me, Steele had gone utterly still.
“If this investigation proceeds unchecked,” she said, “Lady Hale will be questioned. Her correspondence examined. Her confidences laid bare. And my son’s name—once again—will be drawn into speculation, gossip, and vulgar conjecture.”
“Your Majesty,” Steele said carefully, “I fail to see how—”
“You will see,” she cut in. “Perfectly.”
Her gaze hardened. “We will not permit a repetition of past embarrassments. You will identify Sir Edmund Hale’s killer. Quietly. Decisively. Before official channels entangle matters that ought never to be touched.”
“And if I decline?” Steele asked.
The silence that followed was absolute.
“You will not,” the Queen said at last. “You are a peer of this realm. Your duty to the Crown is not optional.”
Her attention turned to me.
“Lady Rosalynd.” My name sounded final on her tongue. “We are aware of your…investigative activities. Unorthodox. Improper. But in this instance, potentially useful.”
My pulse unsteady, I curtsied again. I didn’t know what else to do.
“Steele will concern himself with Sir Edmund’s business interests. His rivals. His debts.” A faint expression of distaste crossed her face. “But there are arenas closed to men. Drawing rooms. Social calls. The conversations women believe private.”
Her eyes fixed on mine.
“You will attend where he cannot. You will listen where he is not welcome. You will concern yourself with Lady Hale—and with any woman who may have reason to fear the truth.”
“Your Majesty—” I began.
“This is not a request.” Her voice was sharp as a blade. “You are being afforded the opportunity to serve your Queen and your country. You will not refuse.”
I looked to Steele. His expression was blank, but I knew him well enough to see the tension beneath it.
We had no choice. We never had.
“We are honored to serve, Your Majesty,” Steele said. The words were flawless. The tone was glacial.
The Queen inclined her head once. “Publicly, the matter remains with Scotland Yard. Privately, it will be investigated by both of you. You will report to us directly. No one else is to be apprised of the true nature of your work.” A thin, humorless smile touched her mouth.
“You are dismissed.”