Let them talk.
Each footstep carried me farther from the safety of habit and closer to something that could not be undone. By evening, my name would be spoken with raised brows and lowered voices. The judgment would be passed, repeated, and embellished long before I returned home.
I reached the steps of Steele House and mounted them without haste.
At the top, I paused and turned.
Across Grosvenor Square, the morning had stilled. Conversations faltered. A child stood forgotten beside a hoop. More than one parasol hung at an odd angle, abandoned mid-gesture. Faces were turned toward me, unmistakably so, astonishment written plainly across them. A few mouths had fallen open. Others had already begun to form words.
They were witnessing it. All of it.
Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven standing at the Duke of Steele’s door in broad daylight without so much as a maid.
By teatime, there would be no softening it. No charitable interpretation. The scandal would be complete.
I allowed them a proper look. And then I turned back to the door, lifted my hand with steady purpose, and knocked.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
No More Pretense
Iwas midway through issuing instructions to Finch when the study door flew open, and Lady Rosalynd swept in, Milford hard on her heels.
“Lady Rosalynd, Your Grace,” Milford said, nearly breathless.
Under ordinary circumstances, my butler took considerable pride in the etiquette of a proper announcement. Today, Rosalynd had clearly decided that etiquette was a luxury she could not afford.
“Thank you, Milford,” I said at once.
“Your Grace.” He bowed and withdrew, casting Rosalynd a look of mild reproach as he went.
The instant the door closed behind her, everything else fell away. Finch, the maps spread across the table, the careful strategies for the morrow all vanished from my mind.
Relief struck first, swift and unexpected, followed by something warmer and far more dangerous. She was flushed,color high in her cheeks, her eyes alight with purpose and resolve.
The sight of her loosened something tight and constant in my chest. For one unguarded moment, I allowed myself the simple, unqualified joy of having her before me, alive and determined and wholly herself.
“Rosalynd.”
Apparently, she did not feel the same, as she wasted no time coming to the point. “I have information pertinent to our investigation.”
“Do you?” I allowed myself a small, private smile from the contrast. “Then I am eager to hear it—and so, I imagine, is Mr. Finch.” I gestured to where he stood by the hearth.
“Mr. Finch,” she said, inclining her head. “How pleasant to see you.”
“Lady Rosalynd,” Finch replied with a bow.
“Would you care to sit?” I asked her, noting the quick rise and fall of her breath.
“Not at the moment. Thank you. I am too?—”
“Perturbed,” I supplied, even as I studied her more closely. The breathlessness was not caused by her walk across Grosvenor Square. Something else had unsettled her, something sharper than haste.
She gave a short, humorless laugh. “That is one word for it. Oh, Steele, what I have just learned. And from Claire of all people. It is quite shocking. I never imagined such things existed.”
Without another word, I reached for the decanter, poured a measure of brandy, and pressed the snifter into her hand. “Drink. Catch your breath. We shall wait until you are ready.”
