Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
A Duke Comes to Call
The walk across Grosvenor Square to Rosehaven House took scarcely two minutes, leaving me no time at all to compose what I meant to say—and no inclination to turn back and compose it.
Rosalynd’s note lay in my breast pocket, in the swift, slanted hand I would have known anywhere.
She had not asked me to call. She had, in fact, taken some care not to.
A man may nonetheless be forgiven for treating such a note as a summons.
A footman answered my knock.
Before I could so much as remove my gloves, Honeycutt appeared behind him. Butlers of his caliber do not materialize by accident. The footman withdrew at once, with visible relief.
Honeycutt looked at me. I looked at Honeycutt. Neither of us spoke.
Behind me, Grosvenor Square went about its morning. Somewhere a housemaid beat a carpet with more energy than the carpet deserved.
“The Duke of Steele to see Lady Rosalynd,” I said at last.
A pause.
“Indeed.”
Another pause.
I had faced down armed men with less discomfort. “I should be obliged if you would announce me.”
Honeycutt did not move. “Are you quite certain that is wise, Your Grace?” The words were perfectly civil. The tone could have frozen the Thames.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You wish to see Lady Rosalynd?”
“I had thought I had made that plain.”
“I merely wondered whether, upon reflection, you might prefer to leave your card.”
“I would not.”
“Perhaps write a note.”
“No.”
“Call another day.”
“No.”
The slightest inclination of his head. “I see.”
I had the distinct impression that he did.
He was not being insolent. That was the difficulty.
Insolence I could have answered with a duke’s tools.
Honeycutt was defending that house and everyone in it from the scandal I represented, and he was doing it with nothing but a doorway and impeccable manners.
Had he been in my employ, I would have raised his wages.
“Lady Rosalynd may not wish to receive visitors.”
“She sent me a note yesterday.”
“Yesterday is not today.”
“No,” I agreed. “That is generally how time works.”
His expression did not alter.
I began to suspect I might spend the remainder of my life upon the doorstep. “At the risk of repeating myself,” I said, “I am here on a matter of importance.” I had not mentioned any such thing when I arrived.
Which Honeycutt’s doubting brow caught. “I am sure Your Grace believes so.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
I had once thought Honeycutt the most imperturbable man in England. I had not appreciated the extent of his gifts.
At length he stepped aside. “Very well. If Your Grace insists.”
I had the distinct impression that I had just won a battle and lost the campaign.
As I crossed the threshold, he said behind me, “I shall inquire whether her ladyship is at home.”
I stopped. “You do not know?”
“I know perfectly well.”
“Then why inquire?”
“Because,” said Honeycutt, with immense dignity, “forms must be observed, Your Grace.”
He installed me in the morning room and departed at a pace calculated to remind me that urgency was my affliction, not his.
The room bore her signature everywhere. A workbasket sat upon the window seat, the mending in it untouched. Three newspapers lay upon the table, read and refolded into an order known only to Rosalynd. A botanical journal rested open beside them, a pressed fern marking her place.
I made no attempt to sit.
Instead, I wandered to the window overlooking the square.
Steele House stood scarcely yards away, absurdly close for two people who had somehow contrived to make the distance feel immeasurable.
I had crossed those same yards with remarkable haste.
I now wondered whether I had crossed them too quickly.
The door opened behind me, and Rosalynd stepped into the room. She was not dressed for callers. The realization pleased me far more than it ought to have.
"Steele." She wore a simple gray morning dress, practical rather than fashionable, the sort one selected when there was work to be done rather than society to impress.
A stubborn copper curl had escaped its pins and rested against her cheek.
Another had begun an equally determined rebellion above one ear.
There was the faintest trace of dust along the hem of her skirt, as though she had already spent the morning somewhere far more interesting than a drawing room.
She had never looked more beautiful.
"Rosalynd.” I reminded myself that I had not come to admire Lady Rosalynd's wardrobe. There was, after all, a murderer to catch.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I received your note."
"My note merely said I had attended Lady Pembury’s musicale."
"I know."
"I did not ask you to come."
"No."
She regarded me for a moment. "There was hardly any need for you to make the trek from Steele House."
"It is hardly a trek as it’s but a few yards."
"Well," she sighed, "since you've undertaken such an expedition, you had better sit down."
I obeyed with rather more alacrity than dignity.
She settled into the chair opposite, folding her hands in her lap and waited for me to speak.
"Did you discover anything?" I asked.
"I cannot say I learned very much.”
A disappointment, though hardly an unexpected one.
“Crane was received almost everywhere. No one claimed him as a close friend. He simply…appeared."
I frowned. "Appeared?"
"At musicales, dinners, charity fêtes."
"Did anyone speak well of him?"
"Not particularly. They merely accepted him." A brief pause. "Several people made much the same observation, though.”
"Which was?"
"That he listened too closely. He had an unnerving habit of knowing things one did not remember telling him. One lady laughed as she said it, but I don't think she found it amusing."
"Blackmail takes many forms."
"It would seem so.”
I pondered that observation for a few moments. “There’s something I've been considering."
"What's that?"
"How did Crane learn about the potion?”
She nodded slowly. “I’ve wondered the same.”
“Claire never volunteered that?”
"No. And I neglected to ask."
"She had just admitted she had been blackmailed for months. Under the circumstances, I doubt either of us would think clearly under similar circumstances.”
"No," she agreed softly. "Claire was quite undone. She blamed herself for Cosmos being suspected of Crane’s murder.”
“She had nothing to do with it. Somebody else committed that murder. Your brother certainly didn’t.”
She gazed at me with wonder. “You believe him innocent then?”
“Of course, I do. His emotions might have run away with him at the Argosy, but he would never commit murder, especially with the pistol his father gave him. Clearly, he treasured it.”
For a moment, her countenance failed her. “Oh, Steele.”
I barely stopped myself from reaching out to her. “Take heart, Rosalynd. We will find the murderer.”
“Will we?” She brushed a hand across her brow. “I’m not sleeping. All I do is toss and turn. I wish…” She never finished the thought. Instead, she shook her head, and she was Rosalynd once more. "I should speak with Claire. See what she has to say.”
I nodded. “That would be the best approach. Now that she has had time to think, she might remember something. Sometimes the most important detail is the one a person believes too insignificant to mention."
"Or too painful."
"Yes."
She met my gaze. "I'll visit her this afternoon."
For a few moments neither of us spoke. The silence was not uncomfortable. It rarely had been.
“Has Finch discovered anything?” she asked.
Yes, he has. But it’s nothing I can share with you. “Not yet. He’s put two men on the enquiry. I expect his report soon.”
Outside, a costermonger called his wares somewhere in Grosvenor Square. The sound drifted faintly through the closed window before fading into the ordinary business of London.
I rose and said goodbye. Best leave before I gave away the game.