Page 118 of Immortal Rose

“And this time,” Foxcourt continued quietly, “Glenmoor would know exactly where you are. With his power over the prisons as home secretary, you would be at his complete mercy.”

My thoughts raced, overwhelmed. Every second I thought I’d had to complete the perfume was slipping through my clenched fingers. “What is the King’s present condition? Is he experiencing any hallucinations or confusion?”

The poison would ensure his mind would be the last piece of him to fail. He would be horrifyingly aware of his pain and withering body to the end.

“His Majesty is weak, but he has his wits,” Foxcourt said. “For once, his intractable personality has proven useful—he still believes Gallia, and the DeForests, to be responsible for the poison, not you. He told the prime minister as much, when I brought him and several other members of Parliament to see his condition for themselves.”

“He will be lucky to have five more days,” I told him. “Once he slips into unconsciousness, it will be only hours.”

“Then we will have the nectar within five days,” Foxcourt persisted.

The full weight of his attention was breathtaking, bringing its own gravity. It carved away the rest of the world, leaving only us.

“Foxcourt . . .” I shook my head. “Hugh. You said it would need to be my first offense for the privilege to apply, and we both know it wasn’t. Glenmoor can find others to claim I sold them perfume as well.”

“Yes, but peers are exempt from laws forbidding the sale, trade, or holding of fairyborn goods,” Foxcourt reminded me gently. “It will not matter that you sold them before you became a member of the peerage. He would not be able to arrest or imprison you—not for that offense or any other false ones he invents.”

Of course. The lower classes were forced to relinquish their fairy goods they had inherited or found. Only the upper class could be “trusted” with the magic inherent in their families’ fairy relics. Just as they were the only ones allowed access to, and knowledge of, the fairyborn magic in the House of Rosebourne perfumes.

How hideously ironic for that inequality to be the thing to save me now.

“Please,” Foxcourt said, and in that desperation, I saw a hint of the boy he had been, the need to protect others that had been born from everything he’d lost. He was frantic with it. “I have to help you. I need . . . What else can I do to convince you? If you cannot bear the thought of this . . . I can find a way to hide you. We can slip out of the city if we go now.”

Even exhausted, his mind was working tirelessly, tracing out each possibility.

“They would think to search Reddy’s house,” he murmured, bracing his hands against his knees and hunching over them. “Glenmoor would tell them to. But there’s a cottage—no, news of this will spread quickly from town. It won’t be far enough. But if I send you with Keyes . . .”

He was trying. God help the man, he was. It meant something, didn’t it, that he respected my wishes—that he was no longer imposing his domineering will on me? That he had hoped, rather than presumed or demanded, I’d agree to his absurd plan?

Fairgate or Foxcourt.

Foxcourt or Fairgate.

My pulse beat like a hummingbird’s wings.

If I stayed, I could finish the perfume as soon as we found the nectar. A ruined name wouldn’t prevent me from inheriting the Rosebourne fortune, but being imprisoned meant being unable to create the perfume, heralding certain death for the King. I would lose in the court of public opinion before ever being allowed to defend myself on trial.

And his proposed third way, running . . . Exhaustion stole over me like the first snow of winter. I’d been running nearly my whole life. I was sick to death of it.

The thought of letting men drive me back into the shadows was utterly provoking. I was too prideful to give them the satisfaction of my fear. Besides, running would make me look guiltier, and I would never get to make Glenmoor pay for forcing me into this corner.

It wasn’t acceptance that settled in me then, but resolve. Remarkable how much agony was bound up in the making of a decision, and how quickly it eased once the course was set.

“I’ll ask Cartwell to prepare a team,” Foxcourt said. “Tell Fizzy what you’ll need—”

I drew in a deep breath. “I need assurances.”

“—and we’ll—” I saw the moment my meaning finally took root in him. He fell silent, not even daring to draw a breath. The chair creaked as he leaned back against it. “You . . . that is . . .”

“I need assurances it will be annulled,” I said, trying to drive out the last bit of doubt. “Among others.”

A quick marriage and swifter annulment would only add to my notoriety, but it was difficult to see how my reputation could possibly become worse than accused murderess. If it was a scandal the Quality desired, I would ensure it was a story they would never forget. And I would scent it with roses and malice.

“Assurances,” Foxcourt echoed slowly. “Like a marital settlement?”

I nodded. They were common enough among the Patricians that I knew he wouldn’t recoil at the suggestion. When a woman was bound by the laws of coverture, she and her husband merged into a single entity in the eyes of the law. Her husband controlled all her property, as well as her body and children.

Such settlements allowed for some financial protection for women, stating what wealth each party would bring to the marriage and how that wealth would be distributed within it upon one spouse’s death.