Chapter Twenty-Two #4
“I will leave this for you,” Mrs. Silver said, sliding her untouched dram of whisky toward him. “I suspect you need it more
than I do, mon chou.”
They made a show of leaving the kitchen, though I was certain Foxcourt noticed, as I had, the shadows of their feet lingering
just on the other side of the door.
Even then, as the silence stretched between us, Foxcourt held himself back, looking to all the world like a man about to walk
the plank.
“There’s no need to tell me the bad news,” I said with forced lightness. “Glenmoor came to deliver it personally.”
Foxcourt straightened, his eyes raging with a fury I’d never seen in him before as he fixated on my bruised arm. His voice
went low. Murderous. “Did he do that to you?”
I held up a soothing hand. “Yes, but I wasn’t the intended target. He came to make an offer.”
Foxcourt lowered himself into the chair Mrs. Keyes had abandoned with a harsh breath. “What offer?”
“That I could come use my talents for him,” I said tonelessly, “or waste away in Fairgate.”
I knew how deep his exhaustion ran then; he seemed entirely unaware of how far his usual mask had slipped. His expression
opened to me like a book, emotion fluttering like pages: guilt, fury, regret, desolation.
I picked up my whisky, letting it burn my throat before setting it down hard in front of me. The bottom of the glass distorted
the broadsheet beneath it, rendering the words King Poisoned in monstrous proportions.
Nerveless, my fingers slipped off the table, but Foxcourt seized my hand before it could fall into my lap. His skin was shockingly
warm against the cold that had overtaken my soul.
“There is not a word in our language,” he said in a low, hoarse voice, “that can begin to express how deeply sorry I am that
this has happened.” His fingers tightened around mine. His voice took on a deeper quality, as if unearthing all the words
he’d taken pains to bury. “I am sorry for all of it. Your arrest. The choice that was put to you. That I couldn’t protect
you and your reputation from this, as I promised I would.”
The apology was nearly as shocking as the agony in his gaze.
“The perfume in the journal—the poison.” I took in an unsteady breath. “It is the same one that was used on the King, but
I swear to you—”
“I know,” he said ardently, drawing our joined hands to press to his chest. “I know, Viola.”
The sound of my name on his lips sent a disorienting spiral of heat through my center. His brows lowered, and I felt his own
heartbeat begin to climb.
“Glenmoor has spent the better part of the last few days whispering of you to the House of Lords, spreading his suspicions and news of the King’s ill health,” Foxcourt said bitterly.
“I’d anticipated he might try, and had bribed, harassed, and outright threatened the editors and scandal sheets accordingly.
But when Glenmoor’s man brought The Times your mother’s diary and a report on the King . . .”
“Profit prevailed over common courtesy,” I finished flatly. Scandal sold, as it always did. It was the master newspapermen
bowed to, the King of all kings.
The earl’s gaze was chilling in its intensity, utterly unrepentant now. “The editor will never print, let alone breathe, another
word about you.”
“And my mother’s journal?”
He looked away, his anger palpable. “It was already gone by the time I arrived at the office. I’ll find it. That, I can assure
you.”
Foxcourt’s hand was the only thing keeping me tethered as the kitchen began to spin again.
“I risked telling the prime minister the truth of what’s happened before I had solid evidence, but it didn’t matter. Glenmoor
has used the home secretary’s Office to gain intelligence on him,” he explained. “Whatever the blackmail is, it’s powerful
enough that he didn’t dare to stand in the way of Glenmoor being named regent. The same is true for all the party leaders.”
Of course. I let out a bitter laugh. Morality was easier to preach than uphold, especially when called to make a sacrifice.
“The very levers of influence my uncle had pulled to deny Glenmoor’s earlier attempts to gain power are now at Glenmoor’s
command, allowing him to disguise his moves as he’s put this plan in play,” Hugh continued bitterly. “I couldn’t see any of
it until it was too late.”
“Will it happen today?” I whispered through numb lips. “The arrest?”
I saw the truth in his eyes.
“It will never come to pass,” he said fiercely. “I can protect you, you need only let me.”
“How?” I whispered. The hollowness opened in me again. It only intensified as he released my hand, reaching for a folded sheaf
of parchment he’d slipped into the waistband of his trousers.
The paper smelled of fresh ink, cedar, and myrrh. And . . .
I looked up at Foxcourt. And wet fur.
“What have you done?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer. He only watched as I unfolded the document, bringing my quizzing glass to my eye.
Scanning through the elegantly penned lines, the signatures, I felt my soul slip free from my body.
“But . . . this is a special license for marriage,” I managed to get out.
“Yes,” he said grimly. “It is.”