Chapter Four
Oliver had told me once that Linden’s stench had a proper name—effluvia, which struck me as a very poetic word for what could be a soul-curdling miasma.
In winter, it was overwhelmed by the smoke from burning coal and fireplaces. The summer, however, served a generous helping
of it: sunbaked rotten food, bodily odors, and excrement of every kind caught in streets that never fully drained.
But as I stepped out through Fairgate’s doors, there were few things I knew I’d cherish more in life than Branson’s puckered
face as he was informed I was leaving and that first deep breath of effluvia.
A coach waited nearby, blacker than the night air. Foxcourt’s presence loomed behind me, his hand ghosting over the small
of my back for an instant before he pulled it away. He didn’t offer his arm or help me down the small stack of steps to the
street, which suited the both of us.
At our sudden appearance, the coachman looked up from the book he’d angled toward the lantern beside him, then returned to
the pages—only for his gaze to jerk back up. He started to scramble down from his seat, but Foxcourt lifted a hand, staying
him.
“I’ll see to it, Cartwell,” he said. “This is Miss Lockwood. She’ll be staying at Foxcourt House for the time being.”
The coachman absorbed the pitiful sight of me with remarkable aplomb. I liked his essence immediately, a soothing blend of
horses, leather reins, hay, and a flowering, sun-warmed grass that spoke of a happy disposition.
Cartwell braced his boot against the footboard and smiled. “A pleasure, Miss Lockwood.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” I said, summoning the words from dusty memory.
Foxcourt smirked at the primness of my tone, but I wouldn’t embarrass Mama with poor manners or elocution. Despite the current appearance to the contrary, I wasn’t some feral hoyden.
“Any trouble?” Foxcourt asked, opening the coach door himself. There was no crest emblazoned on the black lacquer, which was
polished to such a degree I nearly leapt out of my skin when I saw my reflection in it.
“None at all,” Cartwell began, casting a dreamy look skyward. “’Tis a beautiful night, with the moon in her waning glory.”
Foxcourt held out his hand, waiting—for me, I realized, staring at it, and my stomach gave a little turn. Then my fingers
closed over the soft black leather of his gloves, tightening as the ruined soles of my boots conspired to betray me on the
first step. I slipped, throwing out my free hand to catch myself before I crashed forward into the coach.
Foxcourt was there in an instant, catching me by the elbow, steadying me as hunger burned black blotches in my vision and
my head felt as if it might float away.
“Easy,” he murmured. “I didn’t go to all that trouble for you to fall and break your neck.”
“Of course,” I bit out, and carefully—very carefully—climbed inside.
Immediately, I wanted to climb back out.
Curtains of crimson velvet lined the windows, and the same expensive fabric had been used to cover the plush seat cushions
and pillows. I marveled at the dark wood paneling, painted with delicate gold vines, and at the sheer size of the coach, which made my boarding room feel like little more than a closet. No expense had been spared, clearly. The cost
of it would have fed dozens of families for weeks.
I lowered myself onto the seat, feeling like the intruder I was. Mama’s face rose in my mind, and I tried to imagine her in
a coach even finer than this one, not hunched over a washbasin, her dark hair spilling from its pins with the force of her
scrubbing.
How could she stand to look at me, let alone love me, knowing what I’d cost her?
Foxcourt swept in, shutting the door and claiming the seat across from mine. Somehow, his presence diminished even the coach’s
sprawl and made it feel as though he were crowding me.
Beneath the leather, the horses, the reek of the prison, I thought I smelled something warm and sugary, like honeyed nuts
and meat. And . . . lemon?
Wonderful. Now I was hallucinating.
Foxcourt knocked twice on the window behind him, and the coach lurched forward, swaying as it gathered speed.
I lifted the curtain with trembling fingers and, gazing past my haunted reflection in the glass, watched as the prison grew smaller behind us before vanishing altogether. I still couldn’t quite believe it.
Using his spotless boot, Foxcourt nudged a small, covered basket toward me. The darkness of the coach had been such that I
hadn’t noticed it.
“From my cook, Mrs. Silver,” he explained. “Eat something before you waste away entirely—I can’t have anyone accusing me of
neglect.”
Even half starved, my stubbornness remained undiminished. I wouldn’t thank him. “Yes, well, as my jailer, you are responsible for the care and keeping of me.”
He arched a brow but didn’t rise to the bait. Merely watched, pointedly, as I struggled to lift the basket onto my lap. I
was so unbearably weak with hunger the thought of something other than cold gruel brought a prick of tears to my eyes.
Flipping open the basket, I discovered the source of the lemon flavoring the air: a damp towel. Lifting the cool cloth to
my face, I scrubbed it until it burned, turning as red as beetroot. When I finally pulled it away, using the clean side to
wipe my hands, it came away nearly black. I startled as Foxcourt held out his own hand, gesturing for it.
“I’ll see that it’s burned,” he said, dropping it onto the seat beside him.
I was too taken with the sight of the basket’s other contents to respond. A small jar of honeyed and salted nuts had been
placed alongside the most gorgeous little strawberries I’d ever seen. The delicate tea sandwiches seemed almost laughably
pretty, given the circumstances.
And still, I was so overwhelmed by the bounty, I didn’t know where to begin.
“With the water,” Foxcourt advised. “And then the rest of it, slowly. It’s an hour to the house, and if you make yourself
sick we’ll be forced to sit with it.”
I flushed, but the earl was no longer paying attention. Stretching his long legs out in the chasm of space between us, he
leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes.
I waited until I was sure he wouldn’t open them again before doing as he suggested, letting the water from the packed flask
ease the sourness from my mouth and throat. It was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted—until I took that first bite of strawberry
and nearly moaned.
For a long while, the only sound between us was the pleasant clip-clop of the horses and the creaking of the carriage.
A shaft of moonlight pierced through a gap in the curtains, illuminating Foxcourt’s perfect profile.
It was so annoying I nearly crumpled the paper the sandwiches had been wrapped in and threw it at him.
Instead, I gave him a long, speculative look. “Are you really the Earl of Foxcourt?”
He cracked an eye open. “The time to confirm that was before you released yourself into my custody.”
“Are you?” I pressed. “Or is it a disguise, like your soldier’s uniform?”
“How do you know the uniform was a disguise?” he countered.
“Because you don’t move like a military man,” I said. “You . . . saunter.”
At that, he opened his other eye. “Some would call that a noble bearing,” he said. “I know you’re awed, Lockwood, but please
don’t start simpering. I’m rather enjoying the novelty of dispensing with all the expected niceties and having a straight
conversation for once.”
God help me, I believed him. If Pembrooke’s bowing and scraping hadn’t been proof enough, this man’s boundless arrogance was
the surest tell of all.
His eyes lingered on my mouth as I chewed, and I wondered if he was surprised I had the manners to close it or if there was
something on my face. Resisting the urge to check, I swallowed the last bit of my meal. “You’re a lot less pleasant than the
rumors portray.”
The seventh Earl of Foxcourt was a noted favorite of the scandal sheets for his good-natured humor, torrid affairs, impeccable
dancing, and wild reveling. Depending on the week, the society gossips were just as likely to breathlessly report on him saving
children from a runaway carriage as they were about him climbing out of a third-story window to escape a jealous, knife-wielding
husband.
I could have sworn I heard him mutter, “Bloody ready,” beneath his breath.
“Did you really rescue a baker and his ten children from a fire?” I asked. “Because I’d just as soon believe you started it.”
“You’ll find not all the stories about me are true.” He shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable despite the bumpiness
of the road. “Only the worst ones.”
I rolled my eyes heavenward at that, ignoring him until he dozed off again. Despite the exhaustion weighing my body down like
stones, my mind was restless, too wary to follow suit, even for a moment.
I set the basket aside and slid closer to the window, lifting the curtain once more to watch the night-cloaked streets of Linden’s outer boroughs.
There were, indeed, other stories about the Earl of Foxcourt. Hushed stories. Stories even the scandal sheets had one day,
years ago, decided were best left forgotten in favor of the tales of a fun-loving lad prancing about on an endless lark.
I remembered them still, braided as they were into my own sorry tale. I’d stolen glimpses of his life in the trampled, soggy
broadsheets that littered the rotting woodblock streets of Riverside, in the years we’d lived near the dockyards. The taverns
in the Brickbats had hosted drunken debates on the topic, and later, I’d caught tantalizing snippets of speculation from ladies
and gentlemen in Royal Park and from their servants at Creed Garden.
The most common rumor was that his father, the Duke of Glenmoor, had murdered his second wife in a fit of rage or exiled her
and her son once an affair was discovered. He then died himself of some mysterious illness—or curse.
The unembellished story, as it were, went something like this: The duke, a close friend of the King’s late brother, found