Page 31 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

“I would not.”

“Perhaps write a note.”

“No.”

“Call another day.”

“No.”

The slightest inclination of his head. “I see.”

I had the distinct impression that he did.

He was not being insolent. That was the difficulty. Insolence I could have answered with a duke’s tools. Honeycutt was defending that house and everyone in it from the scandal I represented, and he was doing it with nothing but a doorway and impeccable manners. Had he been in my employ, I would have raised his wages.

“Lady Rosalynd may not wish to receive visitors.”

“She sent me a note yesterday.”

“Yesterday is not today.”

“No,” I agreed. “That is generally how time works.”

His expression did not alter.

I began to suspect I might spend the remainder of my life upon the doorstep. “At the risk of repeating myself,” I said, “I am here on a matter of importance.” I had not mentioned any such thing when I arrived.

Which Honeycutt’s doubting brow caught. “I am sure Your Grace believes so.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

I had once thought Honeycutt the most imperturbable man in England. I had not appreciated the extent of his gifts.

At length he stepped aside. “Very well. If Your Grace insists.”

I had the distinct impression that I had just won a battle and lost the campaign.

As I crossed the threshold, he said behind me, “I shall inquire whether her ladyship is at home.”

I stopped. “You do not know?”

“I know perfectly well.”

“Then why inquire?”

“Because,” said Honeycutt, with immense dignity, “forms must be observed, Your Grace.”

He installed me in the morning room and departed at a pace calculated to remind me that urgency was my affliction, not his.

The room bore her signature everywhere. A workbasket sat upon the window seat, the mending in it untouched. Three newspapers lay upon the table, read and refolded into an order known only to Rosalynd. A botanical journal rested open beside them, a pressed fern marking her place.

I made no attempt to sit.

Instead, I wandered to the window overlooking the square. Steele House stood scarcely yards away, absurdly close for two people who had somehow contrived to make the distance feel immeasurable. I had crossed those same yards with remarkable haste. I now wondered whether I had crossed them too quickly.

The door opened behind me, and Rosalynd stepped into the room. She was not dressed for callers. The realization pleased me far more than it ought to have.