A Murder on the Thames (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Rosehaven House London

Correspondence and Mischief

The morning sunlight slanted through the tall sash windows of my morning room, the kind of light that made London appear cheerful.

A thin veil of gold lay across my escritoire, warming the inkwell and glinting off the silver paper knife.

Outside, the square had not yet fully woken, though the milk cart’s rattle and a cab horse’s unhurried clop reached faintly through the glass.

I was halfway through my correspondence—polite acceptances, polite refusals, and one decidedly less polite note to a supplier who had sent us substandard linens—when the door to my morning room flew open so violently the hinges protested.

Petunia, of course. No one else in the household would have dared burst in without knocking.

Seven years old—small in stature but grand in spirit—she was a storm of copper curls, her braid half undone, and the blue ribbon meant to secure it dangling in defeat. A streak of something glossy and red—jam, by the look of it—decorated her pinafore like a badge of battle.

“Laurel visited the duke!” she cried out, cheeks flushed and eyes blazing with righteous indignation, as though her sister had committed an act of treason against the Crown.

I set my pen down before I could blot ink across the paper. “Good morning, Petunia. Did you forget to knock?”

“Good morning,” she replied with a show of defiance. “You said I wasn’t allowed to visit him, and she’s been there twice.”

I took in the flushed cheeks, the determined little chin, and the faint scent of sugar that clung to her—a mixture of mischief and willfulness, braided as tightly as the ribbon sliding from her hair.

“First of all,” I said evenly, “Laurel is visiting his library, not the duke.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It is most certainly not. Laurel sought permission to write to His Grace, which I granted. He, in turn, approved her request. His library is quite vast. As she has already devoured half our shelves, she was in search of additional reading material. That is rather different from bursting into a gentleman’s house uninvited—which, if memory serves, you have done not once but twice. ”

Her small mouth turned mutinous. “I was calling on a neighbor. That’s the polite thing to do.”

I resisted the urge to laugh. Seven-year-old logic was impenetrable—an armor no amount of reasoning could easily pierce. Still, I had to try. “It is not polite when you arrive unchaperoned without invitation or notice.”

“If I’d informed you, Rosie, you would have forbidden me from calling on him.”

She had a point. But it simply would not do. “That, my dear, should tell you precisely how inappropriate your behavior was.”

Her arms tightened across her chest, and her chin lifted in outrage. “Laurel was there for hours.”

“Yes,” I said patiently. “Reading. In his library.”

“Books are boring,” she declared with magnificent scorn. “I’d rather have tea and biscuits with the duke.”

The corner of my mouth twitched, though I kept my tone steady.

Petunia adored Steele with a child’s blend of awe and possessiveness.

I could hardly fault her for it. I was rather fascinated with him myself.

But the thought of her turning up on his doorstep—ribbons askew and pinafore sticky with jam—made my stomach clench. These mad escapades had to cease.

“Sweetheart,” I said gently, “he is a very busy man. The House of Lords is in session, and his work on legislation occupies him greatly. He hopes to introduce a measure on worker protections to the full House.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How do you know how he’s occupied?”

Too late, I realized I ought not to have shared that detail. “He wrote to me,” I admitted.

Since the conclusion of our last investigation, Steele and I had not met privately.

After being seen emerging from Lady Findley’s library at her ball a fortnight ago, gossip had done what gossip always does—spread with alarming enthusiasm.

So, we’d deemed it wiser to correspond rather than be seen together.

Frustrating, certainly, but the strategy had served its purpose.

Society’s chatter had fluttered elsewhere. At least for the time being.

I doubted it would remain so for long. The instant we appeared in company again, the whispers were bound to return.

To forestall yet another storm, we had put our heads together—metaphorically, of course—and devised a plan.

What we needed was a chaperone. And not just anyone.

Only someone with unimpeachable credentials would suffice.

Steele had suggested his aunt, Lady Lavinia Thornburn, currently residing in the north.

The choice had been an inspired one. As the sister of the late duke, she had an unblemished reputation.

After I agreed, he wrote to her at once, offering her a London residence and a handsome allowance in exchange for her assistance.

She had accepted with alacrity—no doubt delighted to exchange the bracing sea winds of Whitby, on the North Yorkshire coast, for the far broader amusements of London society.

At present, we were awaiting her arrival before venturing out in public again. With any luck, her presence would keep the gossip to a low roar. Though, in truth, I harbored few illusions on that score.

Petunia’s foot tapped sharply against the carpet, a pointed reminder that she had not forgotten my admission of corresponding with Steele.

“Even if Laurel only visits his library, it’s still not fair.

She’s enjoying herself while I’m stuck in a boring old schoolroom learning sums and practicing penmanship.

And there it was—the true seat of rebellion.

Lessons. Miss Bradford’s endless drills in arithmetic, the neat rows of copywork, the tangle of embroidery threads that refused to obey.

I could hardly blame her. At seven, I too had gazed longingly out of schoolroom windows, yearning for freedom instead of practicing my sums or stabbing clumsy stitches into linen.

But wishing, however ardent, did not excuse disobedience.

“Speaking of your schoolroom,” I said, “shouldn’t you be there now?”

She sniffed, chin high. “Nature called.”

“Well,” I replied, schooling my expression, “now that you’ve answered it, I suggest you return to your lessons. Miss Bradford must be wondering where you are.”

I thought that would be the end of it, but she wasn’t finished. “If I wrote the duke a note asking if I may call—like Laurel did—would that be allowed?”

I paused, weighing my words. Writing letters was a skill to be encouraged. It would hardly do to crush her eagerness. Yet with Petunia, every permission risked becoming a new campaign. Give her an inch, and she would march a mile—complete with banner and fanfare.

I sipped my tea, watching her over the rim of my cup. “A proper, polite note might be acceptable. Draft one, and I shall read it.”

Even as the words left my lips, her eyes lit quick and bright. More than likely, she was already plotting something. Petunia, in possession of an idea, was like a match struck against flint. She tilted her head with exaggerated nonchalance. “What makes a note proper?”

“Oh, the usual things. A respectful greeting, a clear request, and one’s full name signed at the bottom. Neatly, of course.”

She cast a sidelong glance toward my stack of engraved note cards. “And … if someone didn’t know how to spell all the words?”

“Then she would ask for help.”

Her gaze flicked away swiftly. I knew that look too well. She feared I might read the scheme taking shape in her mind.

I softened. “You are clever enough to write the finest notes in London, Petunia. But you need patience to do it properly. Now you best return to your lessons.” I glanced at her dress and the suspicious stain upon it.

“And before you come to tea, do change into clean clothes and let your nursemaid rebraid your hair. A proper lady always presents her best.”

“Yes, Rosie.”

A bird tapped at the window, momentarily drawing my gaze. In an instant, Petunia snatched one of my monogrammed note cards and slipped it behind her back. Although I caught the movement, I pretended not to see. Better to learn what she intended than to stifle her at once.

As I watched her go, a spark of unease settled in my chest. Lessons in arithmetic and penmanship might discipline her hand, but they did little to occupy her quick, darting mind.

Petunia was not like Laurel, content to disappear into a book for hours, nor like Chrissie, busy with gowns, balls, and suitors.

Left with nothing but sums and studies, she would find her own amusement. And that way lay trouble.

What she needed was a pursuit to match her restless spirit.

Something to make her feel clever and capable, rather than trapped in endless copywork.

Riding lessons, perhaps? Or sketching, if her hand proved steadier with a pencil than a needle.

Even music, though I could already hear the clamor of scales echoing through the house.

Anything to give her a proper outlet, before her mischief turned from charming to downright dangerous.

I would need to discuss the subject with Miss Bradford.

Turning back to my correspondence, I discovered, among the invitations and formal replies, a letter of an altogether different character.

My lady,

Forgive the liberty of my writing. My name is Miss Martha Larkin, a mission worker attached to the Marylebone Women’s Aid Society.

I have lately heard of your kindness to certain girls at St. Agnes Home for Unwed Mothers, and of your part in finding justice for one who met with a tragic end.

There is a matter of some concern I would speak to you about, should you be willing to hear it.

I am mindful of my station and do not wish to intrude.

But the matter troubles me greatly, and I know not to whom else I might turn.

The phrasing was humble, but the urgency beneath it seemed to press through the paper itself. Something in her words—perhaps that frank confession that she had “nowhere else to turn”—left me in little doubt as to my answer. I wrote a note at once, bidding her call on me the following day at eleven.

Just as I set her letter aside, our butler, Honeycutt, entered with a silver salver in hand. “From Steele House, my lady,” he said, offering the envelope.

“Thank you.” I handed him the letter to the mission worker. “See that it goes with the next post, if you please.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Once he withdrew, I opened the envelope he’d just delivered and found a note in the duke’s bold, unmistakable hand:

My dear Rosalynd,

The Lyceum is offering The Dead Heart tomorrow evening. If this should tempt you, might I beg the honor of your company? If agreeable, I shall call for you at a quarter past six.

Afterward, perhaps a quiet supper?

Respectfully,

—S

P.S. All the ridiculous strictures of society shall be satisfied. My aunt, Lady Lavinia Thornburn, has arrived in Town and will serve as your proper chaperone.

A smile tugged at my lips despite myself. Drawing a fresh sheet of paper toward me, I dashed off a brief reply:

S,

Your kind invitation is accepted with pleasure. That time will suit. I look forward to meeting Lady Lavinia.

—R

A footman was dispatched across Grosvenor Square without delay, carrying my acceptance, and with it the certainty that London would have much to talk about by week’s end.