Chapter
One
MAY 1889
Rosehaven House London
Correspondence and Mischief
The morning sunlight slanted through the tall sash windows of my morning room, the kind of light that made London appear cheerful. A thin veil of gold lay across my escritoire, warming the inkwell and glinting off the silver paper knife. Outside, the square had not yet fully woken, though the milk cart’s rattle and a cab horse’s unhurried clop reached faintly through the glass.
I was halfway through my correspondence—polite acceptances, polite refusals, and one decidedly less polite note to a supplier who had sent us substandard linens—when the door to my morning room flew open so violently the hinges protested.
Petunia, of course. No one else in the household would have dared burst in without knocking.
Seven years old—small in stature but grand in spirit—she was a storm of copper curls, her braid half undone, and the blue ribbon meant to secure it dangling in defeat. A streak ofsomething glossy and red—jam, by the look of it—decorated her pinafore like a badge of battle.
“Laurel visited the duke!” she cried out, cheeks flushed and eyes blazing with righteous indignation, as though her sister had committed an act of treason against the Crown.
I set my pen down before I could blot ink across the paper. “Good morning, Petunia. Did you forget to knock?”
“Good morning,” she replied with a show of defiance. “You saidIwasn’t allowed to visit him, and she’s been theretwice.”
I took in the flushed cheeks, the determined little chin, and the faint scent of sugar that clung to her—a mixture of mischief and willfulness, braided as tightly as the ribbon sliding from her hair.
“First of all,” I said evenly, “Laurel is visiting hislibrary, not the duke.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It is most certainly not. Laurel sought permission to write to His Grace, which I granted. He, in turn, approved her request. His library is quite vast. As she has already devoured half our shelves, she was in search of additional reading material. That is rather different from bursting into a gentleman’s house uninvited—which, if memory serves, you have done not once but twice.”
Her small mouth turned mutinous. “I was calling on a neighbor. That’s the polite thing to do.”
I resisted the urge to laugh. Seven-year-old logic was impenetrable—an armor no amount of reasoning could easily pierce. Still, I had to try. “It isnotpolite when you arrive unchaperoned without invitation or notice.”
“If I’d informed you, Rosie, you would have forbidden me from calling on him.”
She had a point. But it simply would not do. “That, my dear, should tell you precisely howinappropriateyour behavior was.”
Her arms tightened across her chest, and her chin lifted in outrage. “Laurel was there forhours.”
“Yes,” I said patiently. “Reading. In his library.”
“Books are boring,” she declared with magnificent scorn. “I’d rather have tea and biscuits with the duke.”
The corner of my mouth twitched, though I kept my tone steady. Petunia adored Steele with a child’s blend of awe and possessiveness. I could hardly fault her for it. I was rather fascinated with him myself. But the thought of her turning up on his doorstep—ribbons askew and pinafore sticky with jam—made my stomach clench. These mad escapades had to cease.
“Sweetheart,” I said gently, “he is a very busy man. The House of Lords is in session, and his work on legislation occupies him greatly. He hopes to introduce a measure on worker protections to the full House.”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How do you know how he’s occupied?”
Too late, I realized I ought not to have shared that detail. “He wrote to me,” I admitted.
Since the conclusion of our last investigation, Steele and I had not met privately. After being seen emerging from Lady Findley’s library at her ball a fortnight ago, gossip had done what gossip always does—spread with alarming enthusiasm. So, we’d deemed it wiser to correspond rather than be seen together. Frustrating, certainly, but the strategy had served its purpose. Society’s chatter had fluttered elsewhere. At least for the time being.
I doubted it would remain so for long. The instant we appeared in company again, the whispers were bound to return. To forestall yet another storm, we had put our heads together—metaphorically, of course—and devised a plan. What we needed was a chaperone. And not just anyone. Only someone with unimpeachable credentials would suffice.
Steele had suggested his aunt, Lady Lavinia Thornburn, currently residing in the north. The choice had been an inspired one. As the sister of the late duke, she had an unblemished reputation. After I agreed, he wrote to her at once, offering her a London residence and a handsome allowance in exchange for her assistance. She had accepted with alacrity—no doubt delighted to exchange the bracing sea winds of Whitby, on the North Yorkshire coast, for the far broader amusements of London society.
