Page 50 of Immortal Rose

I glanced up at it as we went by, trying to peer through the shroud to see the man hidden beneath. But the King’s rumored spymaster remained veiled in mystery.

This is what I knew for certain about the late Lord Foxcourt: he’d never married nor had children of his own. Beyond one overlarge, spoilt ward and a small, spoilt spaniel, of course. He’d been a collector of intriguing pieces of history and art, certainly. A savant of whimsy, surprisingly.

I turned in a full circle as we reached the dark wood entrance hall, trying to drink in the sight of everything. It was the lovely, comfortable home of a man willing to sing to a dog to encourage her to eat, not one who stalked the halls of power and entertained royalty, politicians, and masters of the business realm alike. Or, maybe, he’d simply felt he had nothing left to prove to any of them.

“This way, Miss Lockwood,” Mrs. Keyes said from a few doors ahead. “His lordship prefers to take breakfast in the drawing room, where the light is best.”

I nodded distractedly. All the essences drifting through the house were recognizable save two. One I suspected to be Mrs. Silver, but the second . . .

The sweet scent of puff pastries had intensified to such a degree that I could all but imagine a river of sparkling sugar leading from the kitchen to the breakfast table. It was a worthy distraction from the mysterious second essence, and the deep voice that carried from the open doors just to the right of the entry.

I smoothed my hands down over my skirt, only to catch myself. My appearance hardly mattered to Foxcourt, and his opinion of it mattered to me not at all.

“—ought to have responded,” an unfamiliar voice carried down the hall. “He is too skilled at turning situations to his advantage, and you gave him the perfect avenue to do so.”

Awareness sparked in me. He—the poisoner?

“I realize that,” came Foxcourt’s terse reply. “But I cannot let it distract me.”

My stomach rumbled with anticipation. The air grew sweeter still as Mrs. Keyes showed me into the elegant drawing room.

The room was the soft, muted blue of a robin’s egg, and everything inside of it looked to be about as fragile as one. The walls were covered in swirling vines of white plaster that instantly recalled the delicate icing piped on the cakes in the windows of Bridle Street’s bakeries. But the ceiling—that was covered in a florid mural of fairies dancing about a maypole, gaily wrapping ribbons and golden threads of magic around one another.

I glanced down at my arms, just to be certain there were absolutely no traces of filth left on them. I had never felt so awed and utterly diminished by a space in my life. Standing on the threshold left me feeling like the street urchin called in to clear the chimney.

Felicity’s voice drifted back to me. We will that character into being, and in that way, we write our own narrative.

The woman who would inherit the House of Rosebourne Perfumery belonged in spaces such as this—she owned spaces such as this. I pushed my shoulders back, mimicking Mama’s flawless posture, and assessed the two figures at the table.

Seated in front of one of the tall windows was the source of the second essence: a young man who looked to be about Foxcourt’s age, amusing himself by tossing a scone up and catching it as he considered a document on the table in front of him.

Full-bodied cheroot smoke clung to his essence. Unusual spices, given the kingdom’s proud preference for bland food, warmed my nose: cumin, turmeric, coriander. Sweet, grassy lanolin oil lay just beyond that, as did ash and soot, brandy-soaked linen, the musk of old books, and something heavy, thunderous . . . a secret that refused to be known.

The young man’s clothing was finer than even Foxcourt’s, immaculately cut with a flourish of color in the paisley pattern of his waistcoat. The tight curls of his hair were cropped close to his scalp, and he’d grown a dark beard that most gentlemen would consider unfashionably short but suited the strong planes of his face. His warm brown skin was a welcome change from the usual Patrician palette, which consisted of varying shades of milk.

I tensed at the sight of Foxcourt’s dark head bent over a freshly ironed newspaper, but he was wholly absorbed in whatever he was reading.

Mrs. Keyes cleared her throat meaningfully.

Both men looked up in surprise and promptly stood. With only the most fleeting glance to acknowledge my existence, Foxcourt sat back down. Reddy, however, remained standing until Mrs. Keyes had guided me over to the seat across from him, then he moved to push my chair in. He grinned broadly at Mrs. Keyes’s look of approval.

“I see one of you retained the manners I attempted to instill,” Mrs. Keyes said, with one last pointed look in Foxcourt’s direction as he returned his gaze to the papers.

My lips parted to introduce myself, only to remember Mama’s lesson that I shouldn’t. A lady was always introduced to a gentleman. The person of lower rank was introduced to the one with superior rank, single women introduced to married women, and . . . my brow furrowed. Drat, why hadn’t I paid better attention? Introductions had only ever seemed like yet another way for the Patricians to tie themselves into torturous knots. Maybe they enjoyed the pain of restraints. Arabella had certainly indicated some of the gentlemen did.

Arabella, I thought miserably. I hadn’t any idea what had become of her.

Reddy was still smiling at me as he reclaimed his seat. Finally, Foxcourt rolled his eyes and sat back from the broadsheet.

“Miss Lockwood, this is Mr. Samir Reddy,” he said drolly. “Ignore him.”

A little victorious smile quirked my lips. I’d guessed correctly.

“Reddy, Miss Lockwood is the guest I told you about,” Foxcourt finished.

A guest, was I? I supposed that was a better introduction than the woman I imprisoned, freed under duress, and now, regrettably, must keep alive.

“Miss Lockwood,” Reddy said with another bow. He had a lovely baritone voice that seemed entirely too smooth for his own good. “What an unbridled pleasure to meet you at last.”