Chapter Seventeen
If there was a single thing to recommend the day, it was the prospect of finally seeing Oliver.
I woke to an oven-hot room, having sweated through my night rail. Even Felicity had seemed wilted as she’d come in, pronouncing
it a boiler of a day.
And so, I’d powdered myself with more talc than usual as I’d dressed, hoping it might help absorb my sweat and salvage my
appearance into something presentable.
No chance of that. By the time Foxcourt handed me into the coach, my lilac dress was splotched with dark stains and clinging
to me.
These unpredictable, wretched flares of temperature always stirred the good people of Linden into a febrile state of irritation,
myself included. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst of it, of course, was the unholy smell.
It was as if we were trapped beneath the armpit of a rotting body. The strength of the city’s fetid reek had shoved me back
a step with the force of a thrown fist.
I was no stranger to discomfort. It had formed the foundation of my existence for as long as I could remember, and I’d always
credited it fairly with sharpening my drive, to find new ways to cut opportunity from life’s bones.
But just then, as I bounced on my seat with each dip in the cobblestones—who had thought bloody cobblestones a good idea?—not
a single part of me felt well. The sores on my back and ankle stung under drips of sweat, and what little breakfast I’d managed
to choke down was threatening to make itself known again.
More ominous, however, were the blurred spots in my vision and the pain stabbing at the back of my left eye. It could mean
only one thing.
I shifted uncomfortably on my seat, consoled, at least, by the drop of sweat that had collected on the bow of Foxcourt’s top
lip. Another traced a sleek path from his temple, down over the strong plane of his cheek, to that stubbornly masculine jaw—
I blew out a harsh breath, averting my gaze to the covered window.
Well, he’d at least been forced to forgo his usual demonic black attire, which was very likely his own version of suffering.
Confronted by the revolting heat, he’d surrendered to a light gray linen jacket and waistcoat that made him seem altogether too soft.
I closed my eyes and focused on breathing through my mouth, not that it helped. Taste and scent were sisters, after all. I
could make it through the next hour. I could. I wanted to see Oliver, to assure him I was well—not that I was positively glowing with good health and humor just then,
but I was at least no longer covered in Fairgate’s filth.
“What is it that you’re reading so intently?” I asked irritably into the silence. The fact that this infernal man could read
in a moving coach without wanting to cast up his accounts only deepened my annoyance.
“Some of Rosebourne’s recent correspondence,” Foxcourt said, not looking up from the missive. His voice seemed deeper, more
honeyed, in the heat somehow. My fingers curled.
Yes. Right. He’d told me this morning he’d gone back to Briarwood Palace without me, only to discover the nectar had been there. My irritation at being left behind was second only to knowing the nectar had vanished.
“I believe that is considered stealing in most civilized countries,” I said pointedly.
A droplet of sweat slid down to kiss the curve of his faint smile. “They were requisitioned in the name of His Majesty the
King.”
“I’m not sure why Rosebourne would sell such a rare, valuable oil,” I said, stifling an unwelcome smile. “It seems more likely
he used the last of it.”
“That could be,” Foxcourt conceded. “There was nothing about the oil in the ledgers and other records we took yesterday afternoon.
I’ve already made some inquiries.”
There was still a chance then, however small, that the second, unfathomable option to infuse Immortal Rose with magic would
not come to pass.
“What about the Midnight Market?” Foxcourt asked suddenly. “Are there any vendors there who might be able to procure it?”
“No,” I said. “There were certainly some fairy relics being sold there, but all the herbalists claiming to have fairy flowers
were frauds.” And the next market wouldn’t be for another two weeks.
“I see,” he said.
“I may have some names,” I said cagily. All of which were listed at the back of Mama’s journal. “But I’ll ask Oliver first.
He’s in and out of markets, pawnshops, and florists to source rare oils and medicines for his father’s apothecaries.”
My stomach heaved as the carriage slowed and lurched forward again, battling through the congested streets. The stench of
humanity and horse sweat festered in my nose.
“Who is Oliver Radcliffe to you?”
I startled at the question. Foxcourt seemed pensive as he lowered the letter into his lap, as if he’d confused himself by
asking.
“Oliver is a trusted friend,” I said. “As I told you.”
“Oliver, is it?” Foxcourt interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut glass, and just as sardonic. “Rather familiar, don’t you think?”
“He is a friend. One I’d hoped might simply deliver the supplies to Foxcourt House.” I dabbed at my face with a handkerchief. “Why do we have
to engage in this subterfuge?”
“Because Glenmoor has police watching the house to report on all comings and goings from it,” Foxcourt said, plucking up a
letter from the stack beside him and making a show of returning his attention to it. “And because I do not invite strangers
to my home.”
“I am a stranger,” I reminded him.
“You are the exception,” he said curtly. “To my every rule.”
My lips parted. I drew in a sharp breath and regretted it. We were passing through a street of butchers and tanners.
“Oliver is as trustworthy as they come,” I told him. “If you could show him a measure of respect, I would appreciate it.”
His eyes flashed. “Do you ever refer to him as Mr. Radcliffe?”
“In polite company, yes,” I said, feeling my temper prickle dangerously at his implication. “But he has been my friend for
years. Does that not grant me the privilege of using his given name?”
“Ah, yes,” he said, mocking. “Your dearest friend.”
The words knocked me back against my seat. For a moment, I forgot even the vile stenches percolating around us.
The letter had crimped under the force of his grip. He appeared to be reading, though his eyes were fixed on the very center
of the page.
“Are you . . . jealous?” I asked in disbelief.
He turned the letter over with enough force to tear the page, fuming, “You flatter yourself to think so.”
That was not a no, was it? I looked at him in astonishment.
“What a mood you’re in this morning,” I said. “You’re acting like a petulant child.”
“Petulant child!” He tossed down the letter, as if to call me out.
Or kiss you. The thought came, wild and unbidden. The heat of my anger felt different from the sweltering air swirling between us, throbbing
with some kind of want I couldn’t name. His eyes held a scalding intensity, flashing like silver mirrors.
“You’d like it if I were jealous, wouldn’t you?” he murmured, his gaze dipping to my mouth. A fluttering began low in my belly
again, my pulse beating like hummingbird wings.
Not him. Never him.
I couldn’t take another insufferable moment of this. “Stop the coach. I’ll get out and walk.”
“You don’t even know where we’re going,” Foxcourt said.
“I don’t care,” I told him, pushing up on unsteady feet to knock on the window behind him. If Cartwell wouldn’t stop, I’d
simply fling myself out the door. “I’ll go anywhere as long as it’s not with you—”
The coach wheels hit a divot in the road, launching me forward with the momentum of a bullet. I gasped, my hands shooting
up to avoid crashing headlong into the window and seat.
A firm grip caught me about the waist and held me upright.
Breath shuddered in and out of me. The warmth of his gloved hands seeped through two layers of clothing. My face tipped down
toward Foxcourt’s, his brow furrowed in a way that begged to be smoothed by soft fingers. His hands flexed around my waist
almost imperceptibly, his arms and broad shoulders tensing as another jarring bump threatened to dislodge me.
“Sit. Down,” he got out between clenched teeth.
“Let. Go,” I said through the same.
We glared at each other. It was impossible to tell who relented first—if I moved back and he released me, or he released me
and I moved back. I dropped ungracefully into my seat, my breath as uneven as my pulse. My stomach rioted again as the carriage
finally slowed.
Lifting the curtain, I glimpsed the seafoam-green storefront of the original Radcliffe & Sons Apothecary location at the less
fashionable end of Royal Park, and the figure that hurried out its door toward the coach. My heart gave a little leap at the
sight of him, looking splendid, almost radiant, despite the churning midday heat.
I felt Foxcourt watching me as Cartwell hurried down to open the door for Oliver, imparting a friendly greeting.
The door swung open, and Oliver stood there in his blue brocade jacket and waistcoat, peering into the darkness, his eyes
passing right over me—only for his gaze to double back. Widen.
A low, humorless laugh bubbled up in my throat.
He hadn’t recognized me.
“Get in, Radcliffe,” Foxcourt ordered. “Before the sun turns you any pinker.”
“I—yes, good afternoon, my lord,” Oliver said, hugging a leather case to his chest as he scrambled into the carriage. There
was a moment of indecision as he looked between us, as if weighing the cost of impropriety against his desire, before he swept
into the space I’d made beside me. He set the case down and reached for my hands as Cartwell shut the door behind him.
“You look so very well,” he told me earnestly. A warm glow formed at the center of my chest at the compliment. “You’re all
right? Truly?”
His hat cast a shadow over his face, one that only seemed to deepen his expression of relief. My heart wrenched painfully
at the sight of it.
“She’s sitting in an earl’s carriage, not a Fairgate Prison cell,” Foxcourt said, rudely intruding on the moment. “So, I would
say yes. She is perfectly fine.”