Page 126 of Immortal Rose

Tommy hurried to open the door, guiding us away from the strange scene there. Fleming was stretched out over the staff table; Willie hovered over him with smelling salts and a lady’s silk fan.

Foxcourt’s voice was a low, pleasant rumble against my ear, conspiring with his warmth to lull me back to a calmer, heavier darkness.

I drifted toward it, surrendering my body and my mind, breathing in the beloved scent of the house.

Of him.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Consciousness brushed my forehead like a kiss, rousing me gently.

Something medicinal and sticky coated my face, my arms—ointment?

What I wanted was past that scent, past the stiffness of my limbs and the agony of swallowing in my ravaged throat. That essence . . . leather, honey, blades . . . the warm musk of skin . . . I turned my face against the pillow, seeking it, only to find it already surrounded me.

A hand stroked down my braid, knuckles trailing lightly over the peaks and valleys of my spine. It was soothing enough that I almost drifted away again. The warm, steady presence at my back, the soft sound of his breathing and the rustle of parchment, made me feel safe enough to open my eyes.

The room was shadowed, save for the scattered candles. It was small and cozy, tucked into a pocket of the house like a secret, with barely room for a desk, washstand, and large wardrobe—all fine, handsome pieces, if not simple in design. It made the large, moody painting above the washstand rather stand out.

I squinted at it. The image seemed almost familiar, though I knew I’d never seen it before. A finely dressed gentleman stood at the center of what appeared to be a workhouse of some kind, striking an arrogant pose. One booted foot was propped up against a small back, while another set of little hands polished it.

“Is that man . . . using a child as a footstool?” I croaked out with great consternation.

The longer I looked at it, the worse the image became. Haunting figures of filthy, too-thin women and children lined the tables picking oakum. Some had fallen to the ground, wasted away. Others were dead.

The hand stroking my braid stopped and would have pulled away, had I not shamelessly arched back into the touch, seeking it. After an uncertain moment, the gentle stroking continued.

“He is indeed,” Hugh said from behind me, his voice low.

I was too exhausted to question why he was sitting next to me on the bed, rather than in the wood chair next to the bedside table. The latter looked uncomfortable, and the bed was large, wasn’t it? And so very comfortable.

And smelled entirely of him.

His bed, my traitorous mind whispered in delight, his room . . .

“Your bedchamber,” he began, sensing my thoughts the way he always did, “is still being . . . aired. And I was . . .” He sounded so self-conscious then, I almost turned to look at him. Somehow, it was easier to be beside him without feeling the pull of his gaze, and I sensed the same might be true for him as well. “I was rather fixed on the task at hand,” he finished carefully. “I can bring you to one of the guest bedrooms now, if you feel strong enough. I hadn’t wanted to jostle you before, as moving seemed to cause some distress . . .”

He was speaking at a quick clip, as if trying to convince himself as well. Leaving was the last thing I wanted to do; it felt as though I’d found a crack in his armor and slipped inside. Now I’d get to discover what he’d hidden there. And the scent . . .

His essence.

I’d been right; he’d done something to mask it. And, damn him, he’d done it again. As I breathed in, I found only traces of it clinging to the bedclothes. The realization left me agitated, bereft.

“Why that piece?” My voice was a raw scrape.

He stopped stroking my hair again, chuckling at my faint noise of protest. A moment later, a cool, round glass pressed against my shoulder. Someone—someone I desperately hoped was not him—had dressed me in a clean night rail, at least.

Reluctantly, I turned onto my back and, with an embarrassing amount of effort and Foxcourt’s gentle assistance, managed to sit up. I was exhausted by the time I leaned against the headboard. It was the only reason I allowed him to bring the glass to my lips. My arms were simply too heavy to lift.

I drank as much water as I could, but it did nothing to stop the clawing pain in my throat. As he withdrew the glass, I looked at him again, brows raised.

“Because it brings me great satisfaction,” he said, his lips curling in a smug smile, “to remember the look on Devening’s face when it was revealed.”

He’d managed to astonish me again. “This is the Devening portrait? By Shallowbrook?”

I and the rest of Linden had read all about it in the papers as the drama had spilled on and on over the weeks, eagerly lapping up the details of its scandalous reveal at the National Gallery.

Lord Devening, a rising star in Parliament who had made his name with impassioned speeches against child labor, had commissioned his Rexford school chum and dearest friend, the Earl of Shallowbrook, to paint his first portrait. Shallowbrook himself was becoming renowned for his realistic renderings of his subjects. The project was intended to elevate both in the esteem of the Patricians.