Page 138 of Immortal Rose

“I told you this was a bad idea from the start,” Reddy said, undaunted, “but you insisted there was no other way. You brought her into Glenmoor’s sights.”

“What was I meant to do?” Hugh ground out. “Let the King die?”

“Now you play with not just her life, but her heart and reputation.” Reddy lowered his voice further still, and Hugh nearly lost the thread of it. “You’ve only given society another reason to despise her. Your annulment will be the grave they use to bury her.”

“You think I don’t know this?” Hugh ground out. “That I don’t remember, every moment of every day, the choices I made?”

“And can you say in all honesty that you did not manipulate this situation to suit your own desires?” Reddy cut back. “That your choices, consciously or not, were not a way to snare a woman who had previously refused to be caught?”

A disquieting feeling slithered through Hugh. Had he? Not by intentional design, but through his subconscious choices, his rotted heart, had he contrived this outcome? They both knew Hugh wasn’t above such scheming and rather excelled at it, just as they knew this was one of those rare instances he’d been outplayed.

Viola was incomparable—perhaps not by society’s definition, but certainly by his own. Had he been like all those other men he despised, the ones who wanted to cage a fiery woman simply for the pride of having been the one to do so? No. Hugh blew out a harsh breath. He wasn’t like them. He would never seek to smother her inner flame or crush her spirit. She was indomitable in that regard.

That was enough of this. He had come here for Eleanor, not to be chastised for something that would be impossible for Reddy to understand. He knew of only one way to end this argument, and he seized it.

“I wasn’t aware we were only allowed to have a single purpose,” Hugh bit back. “You running your business and driving through Linden seeking rumors of her would indicate some divide in your own, wouldn’t you say?”

Reddy’s head pulled back, all traces of geniality gone. Hugh’s gut twisted with immediate regret, his fury at himself deepening. He had never used Reddy’s misery against him. Not since they were boys. Once you learned a man’s key, you didn’t twist it carelessly or without reason, and God knew Reddy enjoyed being perceived as much as Hugh did.

“I should call you out for that,” Reddy said, the words iced.

Hugh forced himself forward, climbing to the second floor, then the third, letting the cold silence grow between them. His mouth twisted in a humorless smile. Another person he’d have to make amends to.

He had marked the entrance to Eleanor’s apartments with a small carved X. He held out a hand, feeling for it along the wall as he made his way forward. He could all but hear Reddy grinding his teeth behind him as he shifted the lock and slowly eased the hidden door open into the apartment’s lavender sitting room.

In the sudden glare of light, it was a moment before he spotted Eleanor’s willowy figure at the window, staring morosely into the gardens below. She wore a simple morning dress and silk wrapper, but she had left her tight, dark curls down to frame her face.

“Elly,” Hugh called softly, trying not to startle her.

She gasped, clutching her hand to her chest as she spun toward them. Her eyes widened as she took in what had only been a wall panel moments before. “You’re here—I thought I heard your voice, Reddy, but then—I wasn’t sure what day it was—goodness, I had no idea that was there—”

“You know how we love our dramatic entrances,” Reddy said, shutting the wall.

Eleanor had possessed an almost preternatural discipline and restraint from the time she was a child, solemn and alone. The way the words spilled from her now, how very young she looked in her relief, jabbed at Hugh painfully.

She had been waiting for them, hoping they would come.

The princess took a step toward them, only to bring herself up short. Hugh exchanged a concerned look with Reddy as she resumed her place at the window, angled away from them.

“I’m all right,” she told them bravely. “Especially now that I know there is another way out of here to look in on Uncle.”

“Elly, what’s happened?” Hugh asked, coming toward her. He reached for her arm, the rigidness of her body betraying her desperation for comfort. Still, she resisted, pulling away from him. And he knew. He knew why Glenmoor was keeping her hidden.

Gently taking her elbows in hand, he turned her toward him. She resisted, trying to keep her other cheek angled to the window, but he saw it all the same.

“I spoke back to him after he threatened one of the footmen,” she said softly. “He seemed rather surprised that he had done it.”

A bruise covered her right cheek, as dark as an inkblot on her brown skin. The blow had had enough force to slice her cheek open, leaving a horrid scab. She was being hidden, not just from society, but from Glenmoor himself, who could not abide proof of his loss of control.

A molten rage surged in him, burning away that last thread of restraint.

“Hugh?” Eleanor began warily.

“I’ll kill him,” Hugh snarled, turning toward the hidden door.

“Hugh!” she called after him, but he was already gone, rushing headlong back into the darkness.

In his younger years, Hugh had treated Almici’s School of Arms as his personal refuge—a place away from his uncle’s ever-judging gaze, a place to ease his helpless fury into more manageable and useful anger.