“Of course,” I said. Once coffee and a light breakfast were served, we settled into our discussion.
“If you recall,” I began, handing her a plate, “Mrs. Greystone was mentioned—rather pointedly—at Lady Farnsworth’s tea. She was seen leaving Walsh House around midnight several days before his death.”
Claire bit into her biscuit with the air of a cat who’d just scented cream. “And you believe Mrs. Greystone was involved?”
“Call it intuition or something more, but yes, I believe she played a part.”
“And now you wish to lure her into a trap—upholstered in silk and scented with bergamot. How deliciously subtle.”
“My original plan was a quiet tea here,” I admitted, passing her a steaming cup. “But that won’t do. Between the children and Grandmother—who tends to appear at the most inopportune moments—it would be chaos. Not to mention impossible to conduct any sort of meaningful conversation.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “So it falls to me to make something scandalously appropriate out of a social inconvenience.”
“Indeed.”
She sipped thoughtfully. “A simple tea won’t do. Not with someone like Mrs. Greystone. You need something clever. Something layered. What you need, my dear, is a salon.”
I arched a brow. “A salon?”
Claire leaned forward, warmed by both firelight and inspiration. “A proper one. Drawing-room discussion, sharp minds and sharper tongues, women only, naturally. An extension of your beloved Society for the Advancement of Women. You’ll speak. Oh, don’t make that face. You’re quite captivating when you’re passionate about your causes. Mrs.Greystone will attend just to see who dares to challenge the rules.”
I couldn’t help a small smile. “You think she’ll come?”
“She won’t be able to resist. Intellectuals are moths, and I am an exceptionally captivating flame.”
Before I could reply, the door opened, and Cosmos stepped inside with the cautious air of a man trespassing into unknown territory. His hair was still damp from the greenhouse, curling slightly at the temples, and he carried a small terracotta pot cradled carefully in both hands.
“Rosalynd,” he said, then caught sight of Claire and hesitated. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
Claire rose with the fluid grace of a prima ballerina and offered a slow, elegant curtsey. “Lord Rosehaven. What a pleasure.”
He looked vaguely panicked. “Er—yes. Good morning, Lady Edmunds.”
I stood to greet him, unable to help a smile. “What brings you out of your hothouse so early?”
He stepped forward and extended the pot. Nestled within was a delicate spray of tiny white blossoms, their dark green leaves glossy and fine. “It’s one of the alpine varieties from Father’s collection. I repotted it for you. I thought ... well, your morning room looked rather bare.”
Of flowers, he meant. Furnishings were in abundance.
The gesture caught me off guard with its thoughtfulness. I took the pot gently. “Thank you, Cosmos. It’s beautiful.”
He gave a sheepish nod. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” His eyes flicked once more to Claire. “I’ll leave you to your ... planning.”
“Oh, do stay,” Claire said, stepping just slightly closer. “I’ve always had a weakness for alpine flora. So dainty and yet so very resilient.”
“They’re hardy by necessity,” he said, shifting awkwardly.
“I do admire necessary hardiness,” she murmured, her eyes full of wicked amusement.
Cosmos flushed to the roots of his hair.
“Claire,” I said sharply, slicing through the charged moment like a blade through silk.
She turned to me with a look of mock innocence—lips demure, eyes dancing—and then faced Cosmos once more. “Well then, thank you for the visit. Do enjoy your greenhouse.”
Cosmos gave a strangled sort of nod and retreated, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug on his way out.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, I set the pot down and turned on Claire. “Must you toy with him?”
