Page 117 of Immortal Rose

Oh, yes, I was quite familiar with that particularly outrageous inequality, one of a thousand blessings granted to the powerful and denied to the rest of us. As if their noble blood somehow absolved them of their crimes—if they were ever investigated and brought to light at all.

“No.”

Foxcourt released a shuddering breath, sweeping out of his chair in frustration. “Of all the times to be stubborn—”

“No,” I repeated, hearing the word crack with anger.

“It would be a marriage in name only,” Foxcourt continued. “It would never be consummated, and therefore there would be no impediment to it eventually being annulled.”

My blood heated to a boil. He’d thought of it all, hadn’t he? “No.”

His scowl twisted into something that was altogether more bitter. Almost as though I’d hurt him. “Am I to receive any sort of explanation as to why?”

“You know why,” I bit out. “I will never consent to be a man’s property. If it’s to be one prison or another—”

“What a charming assessment of marriage,” he cut in, now edging toward anger himself. Foxcourt began to pace, only to stop to throw back the whisky Mrs. Silver had left for him.

I wondered then if he felt it, too—the way we had somehow circled back to a more crushing version of his original offer: him or Fairgate.

God. As feeling returned to my body, so, too, did the burn of the welt the shackle had left around my ankle. Every breath pulled at the healing bruises across my back. It had felt like a lifetime ago, but it had been only days. Three? Four?

I cannot do this. The room swirled around me once more, darkness seeping into the edges of my vision. I cannot go back there. I cannot go forward.

I had only ever felt this powerless once in my life, as I watched Mama draw her last breath, her body and soul broken.

There had been no line thrown to save her from her marriage’s daily pain and terror. Not the priest at church, who had encouraged her to obey her husband with the meekness and virtue demanded of her by the holy book. Not the law, which allowed only for a husband to petition for divorce. To destroy the bond of holy matrimony, she’d had to destroy herself.

I couldn’t stop the tremors that worked through me, and I no longer cared that Foxcourt bore witness to them. Let him see. Let him understand. Let him have this key.

“Would it truly be so awful,” he asked quietly, “to be married to me? Have I done nothing to earn your trust?”

I pressed a hand to my eyes, drawing a ragged breath. No. Of all the men I’d known, save Oliver, only Foxcourt had ever given me a feeling of safety. He had upheld his word and never sought to use mine against me. He had never raised a hand to me, but he had protected me with his body.

“Even if I were to agree, it would not work,” I said, grasping at that miserable fact as my other arguments threatened to unravel. “The privilege of the peerage does not protect peers from charges of murder, let alone high treason. I cannot see how attempted poisoning of a king would be deemed anything less.”

Foxcourt slid back into the chair, trying desperately to master the hope in his expression. “Contrary to what the papers would portray, Glenmoor does not have the legally required evidence to bring such charges against you,” Foxcourt explained. “He needs two witnesses to attest to you making and applying the poison to the King’s garments, and Vernon, as well as the only other valet present, are too loyal to His Majesty to do so, even with threats of retribution from the duke.”

“He can manufacture witnesses,” I pointed out. “Many men will do and say anything for a few coins.”

Foxcourt shook his head. “I have a written statement from the man who delivered the King’s Blend, stating that the flacon came directly from Briarwood Palace, and it was brought directly to the King’s chambers, where you would have no way of reaching it. Your former employer at the flower stall has also submitted a statement that you were there at the time of the poisoning.”

I stared at him. “You accomplished all that in a single morning?”

Foxcourt waved an impatient hand.

“If he cannot prove high treason or attempted murder,” I began, “then what charge would Glenmoor bring against me?”

Foxcourt swallowed harshly, looking miserable.

“Selling my perfumes,” I guessed, “at the Midnight Market.”

“I’m sorry, Viola. I cannot say it enough.” His expression was agonized. “I removed all the records of your arrest from Fairgate, but Glenmoor found the original witnesses who claimed you sold them perfumes containing fairyborn magic.”

“But what about the King’s pardon?” I pressed. “Can’t he issue it now?”

“All pardons are supposed to pass through the Office of the home secretary,” Foxcourt said, looking as frustrated as I felt. “He’s to advise the King on their merits. The King can circumvent him—especially if it means his own salvation—but it will take time to formalize the royal prerogative of mercy, and Glenmoor would be able to hold you in the interim.”

Stalling all progress on Immortal Rose. By the time I was released, the King could be dead—just as Glenmoor intended.