Behind us, Lucretia exhaled a little laugh, quickly smothered. But I saw the way she practically bounced on the settee cushion, her eyes already measuring drapery and carpeting, likely envisioning herself presiding over the Walsh drawing room with all the grace of a particularly smug cat.
“Perhaps,” she said, her voice syrupy, “we might begin redecorating once the house is officially ours.”
I turned, slow and deliberate. “You may begin when Lady Julia has moved out and not a moment before.”
Her smile faltered.
Good.
As I guided Julia from the room, I couldn’t help but think that the dead could still wound the living in ways more viciousthan any dagger. Walsh had not just abandoned his wife in death. He had ensured her humiliation, her ruin.
But she would not fall. Not while I drew breath.
She was coming home with me.
Chapter
Twenty
A MEETING OF SECRETS
The Chelsea House butler, formal, dignified, and composed to the point of stillness, opened the door with a nod so crisp it could have sliced paper. "His Grace is expecting you, milady," he intoned.
Without a sound, he ushered me down a narrow-paneled corridor and into the front sitting room where Steele waited by the fire. Dressed, as always, in unrelenting black, he looked as if he had just stepped out of a portrait titled The Art of Intimidation. Not a thread out of place, not a button askew. Even the faint gleam of firelight across his dark hair seemed deliberate.
And here I was—windblown, flustered, and achingly aware of both.
It wasn’t entirely my fault. After the reading of the will, I’d rushed home to change for the meeting with Steele, only to discover a minor disaster had erupted at Rosehaven House. The calamity involved Chrissie’s new ball gown—the wrong one had been delivered. Instead of the soft green silk we'd commissioned, she’d received a ghastly confection of mauve andmustard yellow that would have made a peacock blush. Tracking down the modiste, retrieving the correct gown, and soothing Chrissie’s inevitable tears had eaten up the better part of my afternoon—and my patience.
"Forgive my tardiness," I said briskly. "There was a situation at home. A wayward ball gown and a missing modiste."
His lips twitched. "Managing younger siblings sounds remarkably like herding lunatics through a haberdashery."
I stiffened. "They are not lunatics."
A glint of amusement softened into something closer to regret. "No disrespect meant, Lady Rosalynd. Only admiration for your resilience."
Some of the indignation bled from my spine, but I offered him a cool nod. I would forgive the slight—eventually.
"Would you care to sit?" he asked, gesturing toward one of the chairs.
After a brief hesitation, I obliged. The chair was as comfortable as it was elegant.
"Tea and biscuits will be served shortly," he added, settling into the armchair opposite.
"I’d prefer brandy."
His lips quirked, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes, no doubt recalling our last encounter when he’d forsaken Earl Grey for something stronger.
"Of course."
He tugged the bell pull, and the butler reappeared almost at once. After giving his order, Steele remained silent, allowing me a quiet moment to take in the room.
The Queen Anne furnishings were polished to a soft glow. A walnut settee with delicately curved legs, an antique escritoire beneath a gilt-framed mirror, a pair of Chippendale chairs upholstered in rich damask.
This was no bachelor’s bolt-hole.
Everything whispered wealth—not the gaudy, ostentatious sort, but a cultivated, inherited ease. Even the air smelled faintly of lavender polish and old wood.
