“You are my sister, Rosalynd. I care for you. But ever since you involved yourself in these investigations along with Steele, you’ve invited scandal at every turn.” He stopped pacing and glared at me. “Have you forgotten this is Chrissie’s debut season? If she’s to receive a respectable offer of marriage, you cannot run off to Steele every bloody time he asks.”
“I was not alone,” I snapped. “Milford was there. And Steele and I were working in his study. That is all.”
Cosmos’s eyes narrowed. “Are you honestly offering his butler as a chaperone? A servant who owes his living to him? The world won’t care a fig about that.”
A cold dread uncurled in my stomach.
Scandal.
Of course, it would be a scandal.
And if my grandmother learned about it?—
Cosmos pressed his fists to the mantel.
“Tell me everything,” he said. “Everything you’ve done.” His voice gentled only slightly. “And then you will tell me how you intend to prevent this family from collapsing under the weight of your outrageous behavior.”
So I told him.
Quietly. Carefully. Without sparing the details of the dead girl or the Yard’s negligence.
He listened, anger slowly reshaping into something sharper.
Fear.
When I finished, he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “This path will destroy your reputation.”
There was nothing I could say to that. It was likely the truth.
“And Steele’s involvement?—”
“Is vital to the investigation.”
His expression tightened. “Can you honestly tell me that’s the only reason?”
I had no answer that would soothe him.
He exhaled hard. “I will not forbid you,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Father tried that with Mother once, and it broke something in them both.”
He faced me full on.
“But understand me clearly, Rosalynd. If word spreads—if even a hint of impropriety reaches the wrong ears—I will take action.”
My stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll demand he marry you.”
Chapter
Twenty-Two
A Place No One Questions
Finch arrived at Steele House at eleven. I had sent for him the day before, eager to learn whether he had uncovered anything new and to share what Rosalynd and I had learned from the Scotland Yard reports.
“You look worn to the bone,” Finch observed after Milford had shown him into my study.
“I’ve had better mornings.” I felt the truth of it in the stiffness of my shoulders. The weight of the previous hours had settled deep into my bones. A trip to a mortuary to witness the abuse inflicted on a young woman would try any man’s soul. “Do sit.”
