Page 130 of Immortal Rose

At my soft gasp, Foxcourt turned, his icy expression thawing as he steadied me. “Do you ever do as you’re told?”

“There was no obey in those vows,” I reminded him. “You made him skip over that part.”

I felt the others’ eyes on me, curious and worried, but my own were solely on the white box on the table. A fine satin ribbon, as silver as Hugh’s eyes, lay draped around it. My stomach crimped at the stench of blood and lavender.

“It’s good to see you up and about,” Mrs. Keyes said, giving my arm a gentle pat. “I do think a spot of tea is in order. Shall we gather ourselves in the kitchen?”

The others followed without protest. Even Brigadier, her tail slumped and her head lowered.

Foxcourt smoothed a loose curl away from my shoulder. “You don’t need to see this.”

My stomach was in agreement, roiling at the familiar stench of lavender. A step forward. Another. The gruesome sight edged into view, a slow-dawning horror.

Inside the box, on a velvet cushion, was a pair of women’s hands, severed at the wrist. Dressmaker’s scissors had been placed beneath the left, and the right bore a large silver ring with an intricately engraved A.

I spun away, pressing a hand to my mouth, unsure if I would vomit or scream. Foxcourt was at my side in an instant. I sagged into him, closing my eyes.

I didn’t need to ask whom the hands belonged to. “Who would have . . . ?”

Foxcourt reached for something on the table—a crisp white card—handing it to me wordlessly.

My felicitations on the happy occasion of your marriage.

—G

An old terror rose in me then, its fangs only sharpened by the years. My knees bobbed.

“This is why,” he murmured. “This is why I must handle it alone.”

He bent, sweeping me into his arms and starting toward the stairs. My arms clasped around his neck, feeling the silky glide of muscles beneath his linen shirt.

I didn’t fight it. I didn’t argue.

And I didn’t tell him that the Duke of Glenmoor hadn’t been the one to send that message.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The letter from Hornsby & Featherson stared at me from the still room’s worktable, its elegant cream parchment pristine in the morning light. I read it again as I tied my apron.

Dear Miss Lockwood,

William Rosebourne’s last will and testament outlines a small personal bequest for “the natural-born child of Lily Rosebourne.” As that appears to be you, it falls within my power as executor of his estate to dispense with it. If you should like to claim it, you will find me at Briarwood Palace, half past noon on the fourteenth.

I would advise using the servants’ entrance at the back of the house so that you might avoid the crowd of disorderly spectators who have gathered at the house and refuse to be dispersed by the police. They may be provoked into action against you.

I leaned back on my heels, my curiosity sinking into a mire of worry. “Provoked into action”—as in, he feared a mob might attack me? Stone the supposed murderess?

Despite knowing he’d already gotten the gist of it, I had passed the letter wordlessly to Hugh across the breakfast table, the two of us steadfastly avoiding each other’s gaze. I’d embarrassed us both greatly last night, it seemed.

After receiving the terrible parcel, he had deposited me into my own bed. I’d tried to sleep, only to find the memory of the poison, of the agony and terror, there to greet me. I don’t know why I did it, exactly—I’d felt like a needy child, seeking the comfort I’d had only hours before. But I’d left my bedroom and gone to his, slipping back into bed beside him.

The utter self-hatred I’d felt earlier, finding he’d returned me again to my bed, was hollowing. Gutting.

“Do you intend to meet him?” Hugh had asked as he’d passed it back to me.

“I don’t know,” I’d answered honestly. “What is a small bequeath when I’m intending to take the entire fortune?”

“What if it involves the business, or rare oils?” Hugh had pressed.