“Such a delicate constitution,” someone murmured.
“Maybe that’s why she never gave Edmunds a child,” said another vicious-tongued harpy.
Ignoring the jibe, I rose, all concern. “I’d best take her home at once. Poor thing can barely stand bright light when she gets one of her megrims.”
With Claire leaning ever so slightly on my arm, we made our polite farewells and were ushered out with the usual pleasantries trailing behind us.
Once inside the carriage, Claire said, “That,” she said, brushing an imaginary crumb from her sleeve, “was altogether too easy.”
“I thought it rather distasteful.” Gossip might be mother’s milk to her, but I loathed it. Too many lives were shattered by remarks dropped with casual cruelty over cups of tea.
“But you got what you came for?” she inquired.
“Gossip laced with truth,” I said. “The challenge now will be separating the wheat from the chaff.” I would need to unravel the tangled threads we’d gathered—some truth, some fabrication, and far too much veiled behind genteel smiles. Untangling one from the other would be no simple task. But one thing was certain. I would need to meet with Steele again. We had decisions to make and precious little time to make them.
“You were brilliant,” she said breezily. “You only looked horrified twice.”
“Three times,” I muttered. “Possibly four.” I reached across to squeeze her hand. “But I am grateful for your assistance. Thank you, Claire. I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing,” she said with a wave of her fingers. “But I expect a full accounting when it’s all solved.”
I managed a smile, but unease had already begun to coil tightly in my chest. The web we were entangled in was more vast than I’d imagined. How in heaven’s name were we meant to unravel it all?
But the day held one final blow. Upon returning to Rosehaven House, I was met with alarming news—Petunia was missing.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
A VISITOR OF THE MOST UNUSUAL SORT
Iwas drowning in paperwork—and had no one to blame but myself. Immersed as I’d been in the work of the House of Lords and the investigation into Walsh’s murder, I’d let my responsibilities pile up like snowdrifts in January. My secretary, never one to mince words, warned me that if I didn’t attend to them soon, the estate would begin unraveling at the seams. So I dutifully, regrettably, miserably turned to the stack.
Land disputes, tenant grievances, crop rotations, drainage reports, and one interminable argument about mortar—specifically, whether the dam on the northern boundary would hold better with lime or Portland. It was enough to make a man yearn for pistols at dawn.
So when a firm knock interrupted my bureaucratic misery, I dropped my pen with something dangerously close to gratitude.
Milford entered a moment later, as crisp and composed as ever. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” he said with impeccable gravity, “but Lady Petunia has come to call.”
I blinked. “Lady?—?”
But it was too late. She was already through the door.
Petunia Rosehaven, aged seven, stood proudly on the threshold like a miniature general who’d just seized a fortress. Her ribbon hung at a perilous angle, her cheeks were flushed with triumph, and her hands were clasped behind her back in a posture of self-satisfaction I knew entirely too well from her elder sister. “I’ve come for tea, Your Grace,” she announced. “I trust biscuits will be served shortly? I would like fairy cakes, if possible.”
I blinked again. “Fairy cakes.” She’d mentioned them before.
“Preferably with icing. But not the bright pink kind. That tastes like soap.”
Milford bowed, his expression the very picture of butlerly composure—though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his valiant struggle not to smile.
I set down my pen with a sigh, somewhere between resignation and reluctant amusement. “We can’t possibly disappoint our guest, Milford,” I said. “See if Cook can manage tea and fairy cakes. Lavender icing, if possible. But absolutely no pink. Evidently, it tastes like soap.”
Milford, ever the professional, gave a dignified nod. “I shall convey Lady Petunia’s preferences with the appropriate gravity, Your Grace.”
He withdrew with the smooth efficiency of a man long practiced in navigating absurdity—though I’d wager he was smiling before he reached the corridor.
“Are you here on behalf of Lady Rosalynd?” I much doubted it, but it was the only reason that occurred to me.
