Page 188 of Immortal Rose

“Your Grace,” she said, her flawless elocution carrying the words across the length of the gardens. “I must ask: Did you, or did you not, poison His Majesty the King?”

A curtain of shocked silence swept down, so heavy that no one escaped it. Not the guests. Not the guards. Not even Glenmoor himself.

His throat worked visibly, his pale face flooding with red. The veins in his forehead bulged. He had the look of a man being boiled alive, of one who knew that all those carefully spun layers of protection and planning he’d covered himself in were on the verge of being unraveled.

Glenmoor spun toward Hugh, his nostrils flaring as he trembled. But Hugh was still looking down at me, a soft smile on his face as he stroked my hand.

It had worked.

“I would advise you not to lie,” Eleanor said, spreading her hands out before her. “I have been wearing the Crown of Veracity all evening. The longer you resist the truth, the more agonizing it will become.”

Glenmoor’s eyes widened as he reached up to touch the fairy charm that was no longer there. I saw the moment he realized what had happened—the trap he had sprung in believing that Hugh’s final, desperate play would be for me to bring Immortal Rose to the King tonight. In allowing himself to think of Eleanor as nothing more than a pet he controlled.

And now he stood in front of the whole of society, including the prime minister. Everyone he had expected to bow and simper to him.

“Did you poison the King?” Eleanor asked again.

Glenmoor strained, his face tormented as the magic raked over him, clawing into his skull like a crown of thorns.

Finally, he gasped out, “No.”

This time, I was the one shocked. My grip on Hugh tightened. He looked to Eleanor, communicating something to her in the silence. The princess nodded.

“So you did not poison the King directly,” she said, “but allow me to be more specific: Did you play a role in the conspiracy to poison him, so that you could become regent?”

“I—” Glenmoor choked out, his face reddening. “I—”

“Are you responsible for the deaths of the late Duchess of Glenmoor and Lord Foxcourt?” Eleanor continued, advancing a step toward him.

“That’s—” Glenmoor’s voice quivered. He shot a murderous look toward Hugh, who ignored him.

“Answer me,” Eleanor continued, her voice imperious. “Are you a traitor to Albion?”

Glenmoor clutched at his head. Around us, several of the gentlemen had begun to push forward, their anger clouding the air like a battlefield clearing of smoke.

The prime minister, clearly shocked, was at the base of the stairs. “Answer Her Royal Highness’s questions, Glenmoor. If you are innocent, defend yourself.”

“I—” the duke choked out. “I—”

His gaze drifted one last time to Hugh. To the assembled crowd of shocked and titillated Patricians. To Eleanor.

He uttered a single, whispered word. “Yes.”

And fled.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

In the end, Glenmoor ran like a rat as Hugh expected he would, shoving through the wall of guards and police on the steps behind him. Two of the latter peeled off to follow him at once. Whether it was the shock of the moment or fear of Glenmoor, the other guards lingered, as if at a loss of what to do.

“Go after them!” Eleanor ordered. “Bring him back at once!”

Viola and several of the Patrician men, including the prime minister, surged forward, as if to follow the princess’s command.

“No, sweetheart,” Hugh said firmly, drawing her back. “Your work is done tonight.”

Viola’s eyes flared with defiance. “He’s getting away.”

“He won’t,” Hugh promised. Not while there was breath in his body, at least. He cast a searching look around. But where the devil was—?