Chapter Twenty-Two #2
you see yourself as above such laws.”
He shifted subtly, the way a cat might as if it had decided a mouse was worth catching. That small movement was enough to
reveal his elegant face and the contempt that flashed in those strange turquoise eyes. “I am the law. I might have thought this morning would have proven as much to you.”
A drip of sweat slipped down my spine. My God, that gaze was terrible; it felt as if my skin were being peeled strip by agonizing
strip.
“Oh,” he cooed, as if he’d taken a sip of the finest of wines. “You don’t know.”
My heart rose to a staccato beat. “I know what you’ve done—”
Brigadier tore out of the hydrangeas then, her ears flying back as she barreled toward us with bared teeth. Glenmoor spun
at her shrill barking, swinging his walking stick like a club. I lunged for the dog, scooping her from the ground.
The walking stick cracked against my upper arm, sending a bolt of agony through it. I gasped, clutching the whining, barking dog to my chest with one hand and brandishing the shears with the other.
Glenmoor only stared at me, amused. “What a perfectly absurd thing to do.”
The welt on my arm would bloom into a bruise in minutes, but my pulse was so high now, I scarcely felt it.
“If you’d intended to kill me,” I began, “you would have done it by now—or, more specifically, you would have watched from
afar as someone did the filthy business for you. And I suspect you would have waited for Foxcourt to return home to witness
it.”
The curl of his lips looked unnatural. A mimicry of a smile. “You know nothing of my mind.”
Which meant, of course, I was exactly right.
“Tell me what you want,” I said. “You’ve proven you know who I am, and now you’ve had your look at me. You have confiscated
my belongings. You have tried to claim my life. What other purpose could you have for coming here, other than to prove that
there’s no safe place for me—no place that you cannot reach me? The trouble is, Your Grace, you have already taken everything from me, and now I have nothing to lose.”
“But that’s not quite true, is it?” he said, with terrifying softness. “There’s that inheritance you so desperately desire.”
He leaned toward me, whispering conspiratorially, “And there’s your freedom.”
There was no hiding the way the blood drained from my face. Brigadier growled.
“I have come with a purpose in mind, yes,” he said. “A final choice for you. You may come with me now and use your ability
as I command, or you may decline and lose what little you have left.”
The duke’s expression was that of a gambler who had gathered the winning hand before anyone else knew the game had begun.
A sickening mixture of smugness and inevitability. But in all that planning, he hadn’t seemed to account for the fact that
I wasn’t here alone.
“Your Grace,” came Fleming’s calm voice. I knew it must have terrified and pained him to break with polite customs and speak
to a duke this way. He was so pale beneath his wig, he looked on the verge of fainting. “I fear we are not at home to visitors.”
Glenmoor’s mouth twisted at the heavy silver candlestick clutched in the butler’s trembling hands. Behind him, Felicity, Willie,
and Tommy stood grim-faced, guarding the way into the house.
I hugged Brigadier to me tighter. Thank God. They must have heard her barking.
“Of course, my apologies.” Glenmoor had an uncanny ability to keep his voice pleasant but luring. In the Brickbats, we called
his ilk a “grinning devil.”
He turned to me again, that same terrifying mockery of a smile in place. “As it happens, I’m due to look in on His Majesty.
As you have likely seen this morning, he has been quite unwell.”
The words had their intended effect, stilling my breath. As you have likely seen this morning . . .
What was going on? What had happened?
The duke stared at me a moment more, his brow arched in expectation. As if to say, Here is your last chance.
“You’d best be off then,” I told him.
He made the barest attempt to doff his hat to me. “A pleasure, Miss Lockwood. I hope you’ll remember, as you rot away in your
dank cell, this very moment . . . though I suspect you may come to regret your decision sooner. Most who refuse me do.”
He strode away, seizing the last word for himself. His steps were light and his bearing refined as he approached the back
gate. Mrs. Keyes held it open for him, saying nothing.
“Ah, Keyes,” he said, loud enough for his voice to carry back to the rest of us. “I look forward to the day I am no longer
a guest here but your employer.”
“How I long to have you in my keeping, Your Grace,” she told him. “The day cannot come soon enough.”
Somehow, I held myself together until he was out of sight. Then, with that crack in my resolve, it all burst forth: the trembling,
my sobbing breaths, the terror. Brigadier licked my cheek, and I pressed my face to her soft fur.
It came together then, with a slow certainty that made me feel utterly cold and sick. Foxcourt’s absence. The odd mood Felicity
had been in. The lack of broadsheets at the breakfast table.
“Here now, ma chère,” Mrs. Silver said, stroking a hand down my back. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”
“I . . .” The garden spiraled around me, dark spangles blotting out the pastel sweetness. Where was Foxcourt? “It’s . . .
I’m all right . . .”
“Yes, chère, we can see that,” Mrs. Silver said soothingly. The others circled around me, their essences enveloping.
“Did he harm you?” Fleming asked urgently, lifting Brigadier from my arms. He must have seen the welt Glenmoor had left then, because he gasped. “And he claims to be a gentleman! I’ll—why I’ll—”
“I’m so sorry,” Felicity said breathlessly, gripping one of my icy hands. “I should have been watching.”
I swayed, momentarily overcome by the force and scent of their fear.
“Let us give her some space,” Mrs. Keyes said, seizing control of the situation. “Willie, Tommy, if you would be so good as
to find his lordship? I believe he went to Parliament.”
Looking grateful to have something to do, the young men took off. I sought the older woman’s face then, knowing she wouldn’t
soften or hide the truth. “What’s happened?”
“Marina,” Mrs. Silver began uncertainly, “perhaps . . .”
“She has a right to know,” Mrs. Keyes protested, taking my arm in hers. “Come with me, Miss Lockwood.”
Fleming and Felicity remained in the garden as I followed her and Mrs. Silver into the kitchen, as hollow as a reed. Mrs.
Keyes pulled out one of the chairs at the staff table and gestured to it. “You’ll want to sit.”
So I did. My hands folded in my lap as she disappeared into the staff hall, and by the time she emerged, clutching a newspaper,
my fingers had turned to strangling knots around one another.
Mrs. Keyes set the broadsheet down in front of me. There was no need to locate the article inside. The news had usurped the
usual advertisements, notices, and columns.
King Poisoned by Lost Rosebourne Heir
Seven days ago, His Majesty was cruelly subjected to the effects of a deadly poison disguised as a perfume, rendering him
ill and unable to conduct his duties. Through diligent investigations by the home secretary and the police, a suspect has
now been identified: one Viola Lockwood, lately of Crescent Street, who asserts that she is the natural-born daughter of the
late Lily Rosebourne, who did not die of fever as was reported, but who was cast out by her father upon the revelation of
her illicit affair.
The text swam. I lifted one numb hand, not to reach for Mama’s missing necklace, but to ensure there wasn’t a knife in my heart. My face felt too hot, too tight, and the rest of me stripped bare. Exposed.
Her story has been proven through a journal of perfume formulations kept by Lily Rosebourne, which includes the very perfume
said to have sickened the King. The journal was recovered from Viola Lockwood’s boardinghouse by City Police, who have been
congratulated and thanked by the palace.
Oh, God. They had Mama’s journal.
“Keep reading,” Mrs. Keyes urged.
I forced myself to look down at the paper again. The softness of her voice had filled me with a new, deeper trepidation.
The Duke of Glenmoor, recently named as regent by the power of the Regency Act, will assume that role in addition to his duties
as home secretary, supporting Princess Eleanor until His Majesty has recovered.
A dark, horrified laugh welled in me, but it came out as a wrenching sob. I pressed my hand to my face, struggling to breathe,
trying to steady the world around me.
Glenmoor hadn’t merely exposed me and named me as the poisoner in front of all of Albion; he had found a way to seize his
power as regent before the King’s death.
“Oh my God,” I managed to say. “Oh my God.”
“If I know anything of you Albionians,” Mrs. Silver began from behind me, “it’s that a cup of tea will only help.”
“Excellent idea,” Mrs. Keyes agreed.
“I think we might be past the healing capacity of tea,” I said dazedly.
“You’re right,” Mrs. Keyes said. “Whisky, then.”
For the first time in my life, I longed for the numbing embrace of alcohol others could throw themselves into. Maybe it would
be enough to drive out the persistent ice in my veins, to relax the knots in my stomach.
Mrs. Silver retrieved a bottle and three glasses, while Mrs. Keyes settled into the chair beside mine. Her raptor’s gaze pierced
my despair, neither judging nor absolving.
“They’re lying.” My voice was a harsh scrape as panic set in. I needed her to believe me. I needed them all to believe me. “I didn’t poison him. There is a poison perfume in her journal, but . . .”
The duke’s words sliced through that thought, eviscerating it. I hope you’ll remember, as you rot away in your dank cell, this very moment . . .
“They’re going to arrest me,” I said suddenly. “They’re going to put me back in Fairgate. That’s why Foxcourt went to Parliament,
to try to intervene.”
The calming, muted scents of the kitchen exploded in my nose. My body was doused with ice, then heat, then ice again, as I
fought to slow my quickening breath. Out—I had to get out of here—