Page 42 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

Poor Claire. Poor Cosmos.

"I hate this," he said.

"I know."

There was nothing to add, so I added nothing, and let the silence sit between us until it had done its work.

“Try not to get into trouble."

"I never try.”

He gave me a look. “No. You just do.”

A few moments later I was crossing Grosvenor Square toward Steele House, curiosity carrying me along at a pace I did not trouble to disguise.

The square was not empty. Two nursemaids held the gardens between them, a footman was polishing the brass at number eleven, and the whole of the north side possessed windows with eyes behind them. Had I come at midnight I might have gone unremarked. As it was, I went in full daylight, unchaperoned, to the door of an unmarried gentleman—a set of facts I elected to leave on my own side of the square, together with my better judgment.

Somewhere ahead, three men were discussing something in a room I had not been invited into. Between me and that room lay a stretch of gravel and the entire question of what Steele and I now were to each other, which I had no intention of solving before I reached the far pavement.

If Mr. Finch and Inspector Graves had both been summoned, something had happened. I have never possessed the good sense to leave interesting things alone.

The footman who answered the door was young enough to look alarmed at finding me upon the step. "Lady Rosalynd."

"Good afternoon."

Of Milford there was no sign, which told me something in itself. Butlers do not surrender their front doors to footmen unless they are wanted more urgently elsewhere.

The hall was cool and dim after the glare of the square, and smelled faintly of leather and beeswax—a house kept by staff, and kept well.

"Is His Grace at home?" I asked, knowing perfectly well that he was.

"Yes, my lady. In his study."

"Excellent."

He drew himself up. "I shall show you⁠—"

"Don't trouble yourself. I know the way."

Before he could protest, I was crossing the hall. "Lady Rosalynd⁠—"

But I had already reached the stairs.

He did not pursue me. Sensible boy. There was no future in it.

I went up quietly. Not stealthily—quietly. There is a distinction.

The upper corridor lay shuttered against the afternoon sun. It held that particular hush of a house conducting a meeting—doors shut, servants elsewhere, every sound in the place gathered into a single room.

I was halfway toward that room when my name came through the door.

"…Rosalynd." Steele's voice.

I stopped.

Eavesdropping is a low practice. My grandmother has said so many times, generally while doing it. I gathered my skirts in one hand so they would not rustle, and stood very still.

Another voice, deeper, with the Yard's patience in it. Graves’s. "You haven't told her?"