Page 187 of Immortal Rose

I took the fairy charm from him, shaking my head in amazement. Out of the corner of my eye, Reddy was shucking off the heavy police overcoat and trousers, revealing his evening attire.

“D’you think anyone heard?” Willie asked. “The gunshots, I mean?”

Given that we could hear the music and laughter pouring from the party even at this distance, it was hard to say.

“Let’s hope they mistake it for popping corks,” Reddy said, offering me his arm. “Shall we? Fox’s bound to be driving himself mad with worry.”

“I’ll return to the coach,” Willie told me, toying with the door handle to lock it from the outside. “We’ll leave at the moment you’re ready.”

Reddy’s composure fortified mine as we made our way down the empty corridor, retracing the path the policeman had dragged me through only minutes before.

“What did he say to you?” Reddy murmured, covering the hand I’d placed on his arm with his own. “Until this moment, I wasn’t aware you were capable of being shaken. I’ve half the mind to find you a quiet place to lie down.”

I slowed, swallowing to ease the painful knot in my throat. “His plans go far beyond tormenting Hugh—far beyond claiming the throne.”

He listened intently, his expression darkening as I outlined the duke’s plans for his monstrous perfumes and the lives he’d take to claim them. Hearing it all again had a transformative effect on my fear, blossoming it to rage. It nearly overwhelmed me by the time we reached the exterior door. A few of the servants gave us curious looks as they returned with their empty trays but said nothing.

“Last chance, Lockwood,” Reddy said softly. “I can get you far away from here, if that’s what you really desire. You’ve already risked enough.”

I shook my head. “And miss the opportunity to boil this bastard alive? Never.”

The call of trumpets sounded, heralding nothing good.

“Then,” Reddy said, his smile betrayed by the sadness in his eyes, “I believe that’s our cue.”

Something about the landing of the lovely, age-old stairs down into the palace gardens had turned sinister, making it look, even from a distance, like an executioner’s stand.

Eleanor was visibly struggling to maintain her usual poise as the Duke of Glenmoor returned to her side. A line of royal guards and police fell in place behind them, a looming shadow.

The Patricians gathered at the base of the stairs, their excitement peppering the air. Reddy held us back, just beyond the light of the firepots and torches. It was a moment more before I saw Hugh’s dark figure in the middle of the throng. The only sign of his worry was how very, very still he was, only giving a curt nod in response to something the man beside him said.

Glenmoor held up his hands, seeming to relish the immediate hush that fell over the Patricians.

“It is with great pleasure,” he began, his voice clear and carrying, “that I welcome you, esteemed guests, to Summerland Palace on behalf of His Majesty, who is not well enough to join us this evening . . .”

He paused here, and a shared, murmured prayer rose as the Patricians dutifully made the sign of the holy wheel.

“. . . and on behalf of Her Royal Highness, Princess Eleanor,” Glenmoor said. His smile as he lifted his mask made my skin crawl. “Who I am blessed to call my future wife.”

I carefully wove through the frothy dresses and riveted faces, spying Oliver standing with his brothers, all watching the scene with rapt attention. At the last moment he caught my eye, his brows raised in question. But I had no answers for him, not yet.

If it were possible, Hugh seemed to sense I was nearing. His posture relaxed, even before I came up beside him, slipping my hand around his arm.

A celebratory cheer went up around us, as grating as it was terrible. Eleanor flinched, but Glenmoor only smiled at the assembled peers, ever benefic. Ever superior.

Until his gaze landed on me.

The moment of shocked silence was absolutely delicious. It took him far longer than I might have expected to recover. He cleared his throat.

“I am honored by His Majesty’s faith in my ability to protect our beloved princess,” Glenmoor said, carefully looking anywhere but at us. “And I look forward to serving the realm for as long as there is breath in my body.”

He turned, reaching a hand back for Eleanor.

My heart hammered painfully in the silent lull that passed.

Eleanor’s hand rose from her side, descending toward his upturned palm—only to lift away, just before his fingers could close over hers.

Instead, she used that hand to rip away her mask, revealing the dark bruise he’d left on her to horrified gasps from the crowd.