Page 117 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

Rosalynd had eaten almost nothing at our wedding breakfast. A hundred people had claimed a hundred small pieces of us. Every time a plate came near Rosalynd, someone’s aunt arrived to weep on her.

After the last carriage rolled out of Grosvenor Square at half past four, I had taken her upstairs and told her to rest, because it had been a long day and she had been standing in silk since nine o’clock in the morning. And now at eight o’clock I stood at the window of my private sitting room waiting not so patiently for her.

Behind me, Milford supervised the laying of a table with the gravity he brought to his most solemn tasks.

“Ham, Your Grace. Bread and butter. Champagne. And Cook has sent chocolate-dipped strawberries with her compliments.”

He set the last dish down, cast an eye over the whole, and moved a fork one-quarter of an inch to the left. “The household is dismissed for the night. There is no one on the upper floors.”

“Milford.” I turned toward him. “I noticed you speaking with Honeycutt this afternoon.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“May I ask what he said?”

Milford hesitated. “He asked me to look after Her Grace.”

Something tightened in my chest.

I had seen the two men together earlier, standing somewhat apart from the wedding party. I had thought nothing of it at the time. Now I understood.

Honeycutt had served the Rosehavens for decades. He had watched Rosalynd grow up. Watched her shoulder responsibilities that should never have been hers, and carry them so capably that everyone around her had eventually forgotten their weight. But he hadn’t. He had watched over her.

And today, without ceremony or sentiment, he had given the care of her to Milford.

“What did you tell him?”

Milford met my gaze. “That Her Grace would be well looked after.”

I swallowed against the sudden thickness in my throat.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “She will be.”

“Good night, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Milford, for everything.”

He paused at the door. “It has been my very great pleasure, Your Grace.” The door closed behind him, and the house lay quiet just as he said.

A soft knock came on the connecting door. I opened it to find Rosalynd on the other side, in a peignoir the color of cream, her copper hair streaming down her back in a riot of curls.

“Warwick.”

“Rosalynd.”

“I hope food is on offer because I’m famished.”

I bit back a smile. Trust her to bring food up first. “Ham, bread, chocolate-dipped strawberries. And champagne to wash it all down.”

“Excellent.”

We ate on the rug in front of an unlit fireplace, because she declared the table too formal for the occasion.

As she bit into a strawberry, she said, “By the way. Laurel and Chrissie will be joining us at Thornburn Abbey.”

I stopped with the champagne halfway to my lips. “And you waited until now to tell me.”

“Several members of my family assured me you would agree to anything I proposed.”