Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Curtain and Whispers
Isat before the looking glass, hardly recognizing the woman gazing back.
Tilly had arranged my copper curls with unusual care, coaxing each lock into soft, gleaming order.
A few tendrils framed my face in a way that felt almost daring, as though the mirror had captured a version of myself I seldom allowed the world to see.
Once the coils were pinned to her satisfaction, she secured them with a pair of polished jet combs.
The gown I had chosen for the theatre outing was of midnight-blue silk, its sheen catching the lamplight with every shift of the fabric.
A modest scattering of jet beads traced the neckline, enough to draw the eye without daring Society’s censure.
The sleeves were short, softened by lace cuffs, while the skirt fell in graceful folds that whispered elegance with every movement.
A simple gold locket that had once belonged to my mother gleamed at my throat.
Long ivory kid gloves and a reticule of midnight blue silk lay on my dressing table.
Tonight would be my first official public evening beside the Duke of Steele. That thought alone set a restless flutter through my stomach. I smoothed my palms over the skirt of my gown to steady myself.
Tilly, sensing my turmoil, gave me a quiet, encouraging smile. She had dressed me for countless dinners and gatherings, yet never for anything quite like this.
Stepping back, she folded her hands, her eyes softening. “You look beautiful, my lady,” she said with quiet conviction.
I attempted a laugh, though it sounded strained. “Do I? I feel more like a girl bound for her first ball.”
“You will dazzle them,” Tilly replied.
A knock sounded at the door. One of our footmen. “His Grace, the Duke of Steele, and Lady Lavinia Thornburn have arrived, my lady. They’ve been shown to the drawing room.”
My breath caught. For the briefest instant, I considered begging another few minutes, if only to quiet the wild flutter in my chest. But it was too late for nerves now. I drew on my gloves and hung the reticule around my wrist while Tilly fetched my wrap and settled it about my shoulders.
Leaving the sanctuary of my chamber, I stepped into the hush of the stairwell where the sconces cast long shadows across the paneled walls. With one hand resting on the banister, I descended slowly, my heart keeping a far quicker pace than my measured steps.
At the foot of the staircase, Honeycutt inclined his head in silent acknowledgment and turned to lead the way. After he announced me, I took a deep breath and stepped into the drawing room.
My gaze went to Steele first. How could it not?
He was dressed in evening black, the austerity of his coat and waistcoat only heightening the breadth of his shoulders.
I had not seen him since our last investigation concluded, and the sight of him standing there—so assured, so very himself—set my pulse into a most inconvenient race.
His gaze caught mine, steady and intent, as though the days between us had been nothing more than a breath.
Remembering myself, I dropped a graceful curtsy. “Your Grace.”
He returned it with a bow. “Lady Rosalynd, may I present my aunt, Lady Lavinia Thornburn.”
“Lady Lavinia,” I replied, curtsying to her as well. “You do me honor with your visit.”
“It is I who am honored, my dear,” she said, her voice low and warm.
Steele’s aunt was a woman of perhaps sixty, her silver hair arranged with immaculate precision, secured by jet combs that caught the lamplight.
Her gown of dove-grey silk was cut with simple elegance, adorned only by a small diamond brooch at her throat.
Yet it was not her appearance that struck me most, but her manner.
Where I had half-feared hauteur, I found only a gentle smile and eyes softened by genuine kindness.
She carried herself with the calm assurance of her birth, but without a trace of condescension.
“I have long wished to make your acquaintance. My nephew has spoken of you with the highest regard.”
Heat pricked at my cheeks, though I managed a steady smile. “You are most welcome to Rosehaven House.”
Lady Lavinia’s eyes swept over me with kind approval. “And how charming you look this evening—midnight blue becomes you beautifully. I daresay the theatre will be quite outshone.” She gave a soft laugh, her manner so easy that the last of my nerves eased.
I dared a glance at Steele. He stood a little apart, his gaze fixed upon me, his mouth curved in the faintest of smiles—warm, unguarded, meant for me alone.
“I fear I am a poor hostess,” I said, recovering myself. “May I offer you a glass of sherry before we set out?”
Lady Lavinia’s smile deepened. “How thoughtful, my dear, but I shall not impose. We mustn’t keep the carriage waiting. The horses get restless if still for too long. And I do find the theatre more diverting on an empty palate.”
Steele gave a faint huff of amusement. “You see why I never dare argue with my aunt, Rosalynd. Shall we?” He extended his arm.
I laid my gloved hand upon it, and the three of us left the drawing room.
As we stepped out into the night, Lady Lavinia followed at a composed pace.
The lamps in Steele’s carriage gleamed against black-lacquered panels as a footman held open the door.
It was only then I noted the absence of the ducal crest. The carriage was a plain, unmarked one—not Steele’s familiar equipage.
Handsome enough, yet discreet to the point of anonymity.
Trust Steele to squash Society’s curiosity before a wheel had even turned.
He handed his aunt inside, then assisted me with the same steady care. Once he joined us, the carriage rolled into motion.
At the Lyceum, our entrance drew every eye. So much for him seeking anonymity. But it was only to be expected given who he was. Whispers rippled behind gloved hands as we ascended the carpeted staircase, Steele’s height and bearing marking us out whether he wished it or not.
As we settled into the sanctuary of the Duke of Steele’s box, the weight of a hundred curious gazes pressed in on us. Steele leaned close, his voice pitched low. “Intrusive lot, aren’t they? I hope their scrutiny isn’t too intolerable.”
I turned my head, our gazes meeting in the half-light. Amusement tugged at me despite myself, tempered by the weary knowledge that Society would never stop staring. “You’re worth it, Your Grace.”
Something darkened in his eyes at my words. His gaze dropped, lingering a fraction too long on my mouth, and in that instant, I knew precisely what he wished. My breath caught, memory tugging me back to Lady Findley’s library and the kisses that unsettled us both.
Before I entirely lost myself to that recollection, the house lights dimmed, conversation ebbed to a hush, and the curtain swept upward to claim the crowd’s attention.
The Dead Heart. Even the title sent a shiver through me.
Within moments, the stage was awash with revolution, whispered plots, and cries for liberty.
The tale promised treachery, sacrifice, and the guillotine—grim fare for a late spring’s evening.
Yet I found myself leaning forward, caught by the raw passion of it and the shadow of violence crouching behind the romance.
When Act I ended, Steele rose, offering me his arm. “A turn about the corridors?”
Accepting his offer, my glove brushed the fine cloth of his sleeve. Lady Lavinia followed, her eyes alight with quiet amusement as we joined the throng in the corridor.
The passages were soon teeming with people, the air rich with chatter, perfume, and the rustle of silk.
For many, the promenade seemed as important as the play itself.
It provided an opportunity to display jewels and exchange gossip.
Steele drew glances and whispers wherever we passed, though he paid them no heed.
At the far end, I glimpsed the crowd pressing eagerly toward the refreshment saloon. Steele followed my glance, and his mouth tightened. “Would you care for something to drink?” he asked.
“Punch would be welcome,” I admitted, though the thought of forcing my way into that crowd made me shrink.
Following my gaze, he said, “We wouldn’t want to wade into that crush.”
“No, indeed.”
“I’ll have my footman bring something directly.” A brief signal over his shoulder and a word to his manservant, who’d ridden to the theatre next to the coachman, and the matter was well in hand.
We had gone but a short distance when a deep voice hailed him. “Steele! Well met, Your Grace.”
A broad-shouldered gentleman approached, accompanied by two ladies—one with the composed dignity of experience, the other fresh with youth. Steele’s expression warmed with recognition as he extended his hand. “Greystowe. Out for a bit of amusement?”
The gentleman replied with a genial laugh, “We snatch our pleasures where we may. May I present my wife, Lady Greystowe, and daughter, Lady Honora?”
Lady Greystowe inclined her head with quiet dignity, while his daughter dropped a graceful curtsy. She was radiant in white silk, her eyes bright with curiosity as they alighted on Steele and me.
Steele performed our introductions with due courtesy. Lady Lavinia and I offered our greetings in return.
Lady Honora cast a fleeting glance toward the young gentleman hovering just behind her parents—a glance that spoke of eagerness and perhaps something more. “May I present Mr. Carleton?” she said brightly, turning half toward him.
Greystowe’s smile tightened as his hand settled firmly on her arm. “Mr. Carleton requires no introduction here.” The words, though lightly spoken, carried the unmistakable chill of reproof.
Color touched Honora’s cheeks, and she lowered her gaze, retreating into silence with the docility expected of a daughter. Yet the glance she stole from beneath her lashes toward Mr. Carleton was not so easily suppressed.
I felt a pang of sympathy. Honora could not have been more than seventeen, still at the threshold between girlhood and womanhood. Her father’s disapproval of Carleton might curb her tongue, but not her heart. And hearts, once awakened, seldom obeyed reason.
After a few more minutes of polite conversation, Steele excused us, and we returned to his box, where our refreshments awaited us. The rest of the evening passed smoothly, Society’s curiosity giving way to the drama onstage until at last the curtain fell to thunderous applause.
Amid the departing crowd, we made our way back to the carriage, where our conversation lingered on the play. Before long, Lady Lavinia declared herself pleasantly fatigued. “You must set me down at my own door, Steele. I shall be quite content with a cup of tea and my bed.”
“As you wish, Aunt,” he replied with the faintest smile. “You have borne Society’s gaze with more grace than I.”
After we saw her safely inside her home, the carriage door closed, and the night grew quieter about Steele and me. For the first time all evening, we were alone.
He leaned back against the cushions, his gaze steady upon me. “I had thought to offer you a quiet supper before returning you to Rosehaven. But it is late.”
I hesitated. Grosvenor Square loomed in my mind. Inquisitive eyes watched at every window, and tongues were quick to wag. “At Steele House?”
He shook his head, that rare flicker of amusement lighting his eyes. “Hardly. Every curtain twitches there. I keep another house in Belgravia. Few know of it, and fewer still have cause to watch. There, we might dine in peace.”
My breath caught—not at the suggestion itself, but at the way he said we. For all the risks, the thought of a supper with him away from prying eyes was more tempting than I cared to admit.
I met his gaze, the promise in it unmistakable. “Yes,” I said softly. “I should like that very much.”