Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
Ballroom Intrigue
As I stepped into Marwood House, the footmen bowed in greeting, their movements practiced and precise. Lady Marwood presided at the head of the receiving line, radiant in pale blue silk that shimmered beneath the lamplight.
“Your Grace,” she said warmly. “A beautiful evening, is it not?”
“It is indeed, Lady Marwood.” I inclined my head, exchanged the expected pleasantries, and took advantage of the next arrival to excuse myself sooner than etiquette would have preferred.
Music spilled from the ballroom beyond, rich and lively. Chandeliers bathed the room in gold, illuminating silks, satins, and a sweep of late spring flowers arranged with exquisite care. Peonies and lilac perfumed the air while creamy roses softened the edges of the glittering scene.
I scarcely noticed.
My attention was fixed on one thing alone. Somewhere amid the dancers and the press of guests, Rosalynd would be waiting, and every moment spent admiring the surroundings was a moment wasted.
It did not take long to find her.
She stood near the far side of the ballroom with Claire and Cosmos, her gown a deep garnet that caught the light with every movement.
The rich hue set off her copper curls, drawing the eye as surely as the sound of her laughter.
She was smiling at something Claire had said, her eyes bright, her posture relaxed and assured.
For a moment, I allowed myself the familiar comfort of that sight.
I paused at the top of the stairs, waiting for the steward to announce me. It was then that she looked up.
And saw me.
The change was immediate and unmistakable.
A heartbeat earlier, she had been laughing freely.
Now her expression shuttered, the warmth folding inward until only smooth composure remained.
She straightened, not stiffly, but deliberately, as though bracing herself, and inclined her head in the barest acknowledgment of my presence.
No smile followed.
Not even the suggestion of one.
I stood there, momentarily at a loss. The last time we had spoken, there had been no such distance between us. Whatever had altered her manner had done so without my knowledge—and with a finality that left me profoundly unsettled.
I crossed the ballroom and bowed over her hand. Beneath my fingertips, I felt the faint flutter of her pulse, yet her expression remained guarded, as though she had drawn a veil between us.
Perhaps she meant to keep gossip at bay.
But I had not come without purpose. There were things I had to hear—and things she ought to know. “We need to talk,” I said quietly.
“Not here in the open,” she murmured, her gaze already flicking past me to the surrounding crowd.
I did not argue the point. Instead, I turned to her brother, already composing the excuse.
It was a flimsy one, but it would serve—provided he took the hint.
“Rosehaven, I wonder if I might have a word in private. It concerns a proposal I recently submitted to the House of Lords. Do you have a moment?”
“Well, er—”
He had not taken it.
Before I could attempt a rescue, Claire stepped in with practiced ease. “Why don’t we all escape for a moment?” she said lightly. “The air in here is stifling, and Rosalynd has scarcely had a chance to breathe.”
Relief crossed Cosmos’s face as he seized upon the suggestion. “Yes. Of course.”
“There is a corridor that runs alongside the ballroom,” I said, grateful for the opening. “It should be quieter.”
“That will do nicely,” Claire agreed at once.
With the matter settled, the four of us moved together toward the quieter hallway that ran alongside the ballroom. By the time we reached it, the music had softened behind us, and the corridor lay empty of guests.
I reached for Rosalynd’s hand. She did not withdraw it.
“Come,” I said quietly. “I know of a private room.”
“Steele—” Cosmos began, concern sharpening his tone. “That is not quite—”
“It is fine, Cosmos,” Rosalynd said, cutting in before he could finish. Her voice was calm, decisive. “The duke and I need to have a word.”
I inclined my head. “Nothing improper, I assure you, Rosehaven.”
Claire slipped her hand through Cosmos’s arm with an ease born of long practice. “Lady Marwood’s garden is quite magnificent this time of year. I am told she has acquired several rare specimens.”
“Did she really?” Cosmos asked at once. Mention flowers or plants, and his attention was easily secured.
“Indeed.” Claire drew him toward the door that I knew led into the garden, leaving Rosalynd and me in the quiet of the hallway.
In no time at all, I found the small music room that Lady Marwood used for intimate recitals.
A single lamp burned low inside, its light warm against the polished wood and pale upholstery.
A pianoforte stood near the far wall, while a half-dozen carved chairs flanked a small settee meant for listeners.
The room felt quiet, expectant, as though waiting for the next notes to be played.
As I closed the door behind us, the faint hum of the ballroom faded away.
Rosalynd released my hand at once and crossed to the window overlooking the garden. The space she put between us was deliberate, a quiet line drawn across the carpet.
“Have I offended you, Rosalynd?”
She did not turn. “We may not have much time, Steele. Our absence from the ballroom will be noticed.” Her gaze remained fixed on the darkness beyond the glass. “We should confine ourselves to the matter at hand.”
She had given me no answer at all.
I studied her for a moment, weighing the silence between us. Whatever had shifted, it was not something she meant to name—not tonight. Pressing her would gain me nothing.
So I made the only choice left to me.
“Very well,” I said evenly. “What did Finch have to say?”
Rosalynd folded her hands, her posture composed. “He visited the households where three of the young women worked as maids. The same story emerged in each case. They went out on errands and never returned.”
A quiet chill moved through me. “Like Lady Honora.”
“Yes. Two of the disappearances occurred several months ago, but one was recent. Finch focused on that one. The girl had been sent by the housekeeper to collect a package from the laundry. They had failed to deliver linens that were needed for a supper party. She left in the late afternoon. She did not return.”
“How far was the laundry from the house?” I inquired.
“A few streets over. She should have gone and come back in less than an hour. Finch visited the establishment. She never showed up.”
The echo of Lady Honora’s borrowed cloak and the few dozen yards she managed before vanishing pressed hard against my thoughts. “So the pattern holds. A simple errand. A short distance. And then nothing.”
“It appears so.”
I let out a slow breath, the image refusing to loosen its grip. This was no accident, no single lapse in judgment. Someone was counting on routine, on trust, on the belief that danger did not lurk so close to home.
“Last night, I requested a meeting with Commissioner Linwood. I visited him this afternoon.”
She turned sharply toward me. “What did you find out?”
“He knew nothing about the missing girls. As we suspected, the Yard never followed through. But there are bound to be reports. I demanded they be submitted to me by tomorrow evening.”
“So the police never investigated the disappearances?”
“It appears so. I will know more when I receive the files.”
Her eyes searched my face, quick and intent. “You did not tell me that was what you intended to do.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
She did not look away. She did not move. The music beyond the closed door drifted on, distant and indistinct. “I see.”
After a few moments, she crossed to the pianoforte and rested her fingers against the polished wood. “So you expect things of me,” she said evenly, “that you are not willing to do yourself.”
Her tone was controlled. The anger beneath it was not.
I knew her well enough to hear what she did not raise her voice to say—and worse, to know she was right.
“I apologize,” I said quietly. “I should have sent word.”
“Yes,” she replied at once. “You should have.” She held my gaze a moment longer, then looked away, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. When she spoke again, it was no longer an accusation but a problem to be solved.
“How are they managing to take these women?” she asked. “That is the thought that keeps running through my mind. Lady Honora’s ruse may have been arranged, but only her maid and Mr. Carleton knew of it. And the errand to fetch the laundry was spontaneous.”
“Crimes of opportunity would be my guess,” I said. “Both women were unaccompanied. They were young and alone. That was all that mattered to whoever took them.”
“And then what?”
“Chloroform, most likely. It is readily available and easily administered.” I glanced toward the shadowed corners of the room. “But it would require more than one person. A kindly appearing woman to draw their interest, and a man to administer the chloroform and carry them off.”
“And not one person noticed?”
“Someone saw something,” I said quietly, “but thought nothing of it. Or if they did, they chose not to involve themselves.” I met Rosalynd’s gaze. “They have done this before. By now, they are well practiced in their scheme.”
Rosalynd turned toward the tall windows at the far end of the music room. A faint breeze stirred the lace curtains, carrying the cool scent of the garden inside. She moved closer, as though drawn by something beyond the glass. Moonlight traced the line of her shoulder as she leaned in, listening.
“Steele,” she murmured, glancing back at me.
I stepped toward her, but she lifted a hand in a sharp, silent warning. Her attention fixed on the open upper pane, her posture gone utterly still.
Before I could speak, voices drifted in from the night air beyond the window.
Male voices.
Young.
Careless.
Untroubled by walls or consequence.
“…a Venus Grotto of sorts…exclusive…the finest girls in London…some untried…”
“…where—”
“…invitation only, old man…only those with deep pockets allowed…”
“…I could speak to my uncle about a loan…”
“…doubt that would be enough…”
“…no harm in trying…”
Rosalynd stiffened. A chill cut through me, sharp and immediate.
Another burst of laughter followed—soft, indulgent. Ugly.
“…they’ve been well trained…”
“…obedient as clockwork…”
“…will do anything you wish them to do—or have done to them…”
A low whistle of appreciation.
“And by anything, I mean anything.”
Rosalynd’s hand curled against the windowsill. Her breath caught, barely audible.
“…worth every sovereign…though some break too easily…”
“…they replace them quickly enough…”
The words slid through the open pane, each more revolting than the last.
The final word had barely drifted away when I leaned close to Rosalynd. “Come.” I caught her hand and drew her with me toward the garden door Claire and Cosmos had used moments earlier. She moved without hesitation, her steps quick and soundless, the shock of what we had heard driving us forward.
The door opened onto cool night air and a stone path lit by softly glowing lanterns. Their light brushed the beds of early roses and the clipped yews framing the lawn. From the terrace beyond, the music of the ballroom throbbed faintly, muffled but insistent.
We hurried to the patch of garden beneath the music room window.
No one was there.
They could not have gone far—not without being seen—so we followed the curve of the gravel walk, moving deeper into the shadows toward a small arbor draped in early-blooming clematis. It was the nearest place one might duck into unseen.
A rustle. A whispered protest. Then a pair of startled lovers emerged from the dim interior.
“This corner is rather spoken for, old chap,” the gentleman murmured, drawing his coat about the lady as she hid her face against him.
Rosalynd gasped. I issued a brief apology, and we moved on at once.
“That was Lord—” she began.
“Yes.”
“And Lady—”
“Quite.”
“They are not married to each other.”
I stopped and turned to her. “You will forget what you saw, Rosalynd.”
“Yes,” she said solemnly. “Of course.”
We continued our search, but only the breeze remained. As we stood together in the stillness, listening for any hint of footfall or hushed conversation, the garden remained empty. The night had swallowed the men whole.