Chapter Eighteen #3
or returning home from it.
Mid-bite of bread, he gave a little bow in my direction. “Glad to see you up and about, Lockwood. You had the household worried.”
His eyes lit suddenly, as if something had sparked. “Say, if you’re feeling well—”
“No,” Foxcourt said flatly, handing my water glass back to me. “Absolutely not.”
“What?” I asked.
“We need a third,” Reddy argued. “The Roach never showed at the meet—”
“He didn’t?” Foxcourt interrupted. “That’s not like him.”
“There were a number of police about, it might have sent him scurrying,” Reddy said, with a dismissive wave. “Regardless,
I told Carrington that I’d be making an introduction, ergo I need someone to introduce. And being the clever lad I am”—he
popped a blueberry into his mouth—“I never specified if that someone was a man or woman. Lord So-and-So of Nowhereshire can
just as easily be the widow Lady So-and-So seeking to move some of her dearly departed husband’s contraband from one coast
to another.”
“No,” Foxcourt repeated firmly.
“Fox wants to search the ship and cargo Glenmoor has smuggled in for evidence that the duke’s aligned with Gallia,” Reddy
explained to me, propping a hip against the table and momentarily blocking Foxcourt’s exasperated face from view. “I’ve arranged
a meeting with the ship captain as a distraction, but also to inquire about anyone importing or moving fairy relics, including
flowers and the like.”
My heart leapt at the prospect. I turned back toward the earl. “Is that why you’re dressed to heave a cough?”
“Rob a house,” Reddy helpfully clarified for Foxcourt. “Didn’t you say that Lockwood can tell when someone’s lying? Wouldn’t
that be a rather invaluable skill to have while prodding the old sea dog for answers?”
“It would indeed,” I said. And it would be worth sacrificing a few hours of blending the other oils in the dark. After all,
I couldn’t complete Immortal Rose until we found a source for the nectar, and speaking to the captain might turn up just the lead we needed.
“Isn’t it considered bad luck for a woman to turn up on the docks?” Foxcourt asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“It’s bad luck for them to be on ships,” I corrected. “Otherwise the markets and half the brothels in Riverside would shutter.”
“It’s dangerous for a woman regardless,” Foxcourt countered. “These sailors are a rough sort—”
“I was born in Riverside,” I told him. “I am a rough sort.”
That stilled his tongue, at least. Reddy’s grin deepened. “What do you say, Lockwood? Are you up for a bit of mischief tonight?”
“Are you up for a bit of mischief, my lady,” I corrected in a crisp, refined tone I’d heard countless Patricians affect. “I suppose it’s for my jailer to decide.”
Foxcourt made a noise of protest as we both turned to him. The question in my heart was reflected in his troubled eyes: Why
would I ever want to do this?
Not for him, certainly. But perhaps to restore the balance between us, after his unexpected kindness. To ease that strange feeling
of vertigo I had looking at him now.
Foxcourt took a deep breath. “We cannot delay more than a few minutes—”
I spun toward a smirking Reddy. “I need only one. Restrain him, if it comes to it.”
Reddy gave a mock salute with the last bite of cheese.
I undressed and redressed as hastily as I could, retrieving the finer, claret-colored silk dress from the wardrobe. My usual
dresses were simply constructed, designed to be donned without the help of a maid, sister, or partner, but Madame Audette’s
were altogether more elegant beasts, with frills and laces and delicate constitutions. Twisting and tugging, I managed to
get my tapes knotted without tearing the dress.
Fastening my stocking garters and ankle boots, I turned back to the wardrobe, tugging out a suitable hooded velvet evening cloak that hopefully conveyed disgustingly wealthy woman without the good sense to wear a humble disguise.
I was breathless by the time I burst back into the kitchen.
Reddy stood near the door, staring at Foxcourt in bewilderment. He must have been out in the garden a moment before; the smell
of fresh, damp flowers brightened the kitchen’s herbal notes.
“I’ll pin my hair up in the coach,” I said, gesturing to my braid.
Foxcourt snipped a length of twine and turned, holding something out to me: a small posy of flowers—a rose, lavender, and
a sprig of honeysuckle had been bound and placed in a silver pin. Such little bundles and bouquets had been used for hundreds
of years to drive away the foul odors of cities, but it wasn’t until he took a step toward me that I understood.
The flowers were for me.
The gentle halo of scent caressed us as he gently shifted my braid, affixing the posy to the cloak, just above my heart.
“There we are,” he said, stepping back to assess his work.
“What?” I could scarcely find enough breath to ask. The world was shifting beneath me, turning upside down and inside out.
“An abundance of caution, given how odorous the Temese can be,” Foxcourt explained, his face cool and beautiful in the dim
light. “Now, shall we?”