Page 107 of Immortal Rose

He had felt her tense as they’d climbed to the second floor, turning her face toward the right and breathing in deeply, but he had noticed it before she had. The door at the end of the hall was ajar, and he knew, by the look of devastation on her face, that it was their destination.

Wordlessly, he held her back, easing into the room first. Something drifted by to tickle his nose—a loose feather. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, the destruction came into focus.

The room was small enough to cross in six paces, with only a bed, a washstand, and a chair hardly big enough for a child. The breeze that followed him into the room through the open window tossed several gray feathers into the air, pulling them from a pillow that had been sliced open. His boots slid against the innards of the thin mattress—horsehair and straw. And . . .

The violets in the window box had been crushed, dark soil scattered across the floor.

He took in the sight with growing dread, committing every inch of it to memory, the way his uncle had taught him. Searching for any clues the intruder might have been careless enough to leave behind.

A low sob sounded behind him. Hugh hung his head, failure crashing over him in suffocating waves. He stepped aside to allow a frantic Viola past him.

She knelt beside the bed, her hands desperately feeling beneath it, again and again, her breathing hitching higher with each fruitless pass. One hand brushed her cheek roughly, then the other. Hugh felt like he might truly die at the sight.

“They took everything,” she said hoarsely. “My clothing . . . Mama’s necklace . . . her journal . . . my oils . . .”

There was a long, shattering moment of silence as the realization of what she’d lost bore down on her, crushing. She braced her hands flat against the floor, her ragged breath the only sound between them.

It felt as though he were being carved open from the inside as he watched, piece by heartbreaking piece, as she put herself back together. Hugh could all but feel the force of her thoughts as she regained control of herself, the way she must have tried to diminish what she’d lost, convince herself it didn’t matter. As if she’d been forced to do it a thousand times before.

He knew then for certain who had the stronger will between them.

My God, he thought, desperate to do something—to say something—to be bloody useful to her.

Viola looked to the window, saw the ruined flowers, and quickly looked away, as if she wouldn’t survive another blow. When she rose to face him again, the moonlight turned the tracks of tears on her face silver.

“Can you tell me anything about the man who broke in?” he asked, surprised at how hoarse his voice was.

“Two men,” she said softly. “One lives near the tanner on Willow Street, or works there, just north of here—Franklin’s. I recognize the vegetable tanning they use on their leather. The other mostly smells of ale and horses, but also”—her gaze met his, searing—“freshly dyed wool.”

There was a sound in the hall behind him. Hugh turned, making for the door, and met the wide-eyed gaze of an elderly woman in a frilly night rail and cap.

“Mrs. Gregory,” Viola whispered, edging out from behind him. She signed, “Good evening,” to the woman with her fingers. As if to confirm his suspicion, Mrs. Gregory looked at him and tapped her ear.

“Did you see who came into her room?” he signed.

She nodded, looking suddenly ferocious, like a fluffy lap dog that had decided to bare its teeth. She signed the word letter by letter so there would be no misunderstanding. P-O-L-I-C-E.

Hugh swore beneath his breath, thanking her.

“Police?” Viola confirmed, retreating into her room. “But why would they seize my belongings? What would give them the right?”

The duke was already a marked man, but Hugh knew precisely how he would draw out his suffering.

“Glenmoor knows who you are and is trying to frighten you,” Hugh said. “I’ll get your belongings back, I swear it.”

The warning was in the jagged rips in the mattress. Logically, he knew it had been cut open during the search, but the way they’d slashed brought something more sinister to mind.

This is what I shall do to you, it said. I will erase you from this earth.

Clearly Glenmoor had not spent time in Viola Lockwood’s company.

“I’ll kill them,” she said fiercely, looking more beautiful than he’d ever seen her in the shadows, her small hands clenched into fists.

“That can be arranged,” he promised.

“My mother’s journal would have had details on where to find Dobbin or what he’s procured for her in the past,” she said. “But now all we have is the name.”

“It’s a start.” And it was, truly; it gave shape to their search. “I had men keeping an eye on your boardinghouse. I don’t know how they missed this. I should have brought you here to collect your things that first night.”