Chapter Twenty-Five #2
at our wounds. Glenmoor might have bribed him for the bloodied cloth and passed it on to the DeForests. That was a bit more
far-fetched, but not beyond possibility.
Hugh looked exhausted again, pale and shadowed.
“I didn’t see my uncle end his life, but after witnessing its effects on you, I understand it. My God, your screams . . .”
he whispered, his eyes going remote. “It was as if your very soul was on fire. You kept asking me to . . .”
Kill me. Had I really said it aloud?
The desolate look on his face gave me my answer.
My hand rose, toying with the ribbon edging my night rail, the thought slow to rise through my exhaustion.
“What is it?” he asked softly. “Are you well? Do you need something?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I’m . . . I’m all right. It’s only . . . you said Glenmoor used the same perfume on your uncle as he
did on your mother.”
His expression was carefully blank. “Yes.”
“But it’s not the same perfume as the one used on the King,” I said. “They have similar base notes, with that licorice scent, but they’re not the same.”
“I’d wondered about that myself,” Hugh said, rubbing at the stubble on his jaw. “I believe Glenmoor needed the King to have
a longer decline than this poison would allow, which can only mean he still hasn’t gotten everything he needs from His Majesty.”
“I’ll look at the Treasury to see if there’s anything I may have missed about the Gravekeeper,” I whispered, feeling myself
start to slip back into exhaustion. I eased down, resting my head on the pillow and breathing in the scent of him again. “I
can work today, if you give me . . . just a few moments . . .”
“It’s a quarter past midnight,” he said sternly. “You’ll be doing nothing but resting. The King is not in immediate danger.”
“Tyrant,” I murmured. “Can’t . . . smell you. Why?”
“A fairy charm,” he admitted.
I forced my eyes open, forced my mind to pull away from the sleep it craved. “Why?”
“I can’t . . .” He turned his face toward the ceiling. “I can’t give you everything.”
“Why?” I hated the plaintive note in my voice, but I couldn’t understand this, couldn’t understand why he always held a piece of
himself back.
“Because you make me forget,” he murmured. “And I cannot forget.”
Forget what, exactly? Himself? His need to control his life? His purpose?
“Glenmoor,” I began. “He has one, too. He wears it as a pin.”
There was a pause. “I thought that might be the case. More reason to wear mine.”
My legs stirred against the soft sheets until they bumped against his. I angled, trying to kick his shin.
“God, your feet are like ice. Why didn’t you say?” He started to rise, but I stubbornly hooked my ankle over his, as if I
could pin him there.
“I’m going to get a brick and flannel for you,” he told me. “I’ll return in just a moment.”
Whether it was a moment or more, I wasn’t sure. I woke again to the feeling of a glowing heat near my feet and sighed, contented,
as my toes began to thaw against the warm, wrapped brick.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“My pleasure.” To my disappointment, I heard the chair creak as he sat in it.
“What are you reading?” I asked, forcing my eyes open again.
He held up a small bundle of opened correspondence. “A letter from Vernon, tucked inside a short note from Oliver Radcliffe.
Radcliffe says he’s still investigating on our behalf, but Vernon’s letter is altogether more concerning. He hasn’t seen Eleanor
for several days. Glenmoor claims she’s unwell and has sent regrets to all the invitations she’s received.”
“You must look in on her,” I told him. “As soon as you can.”
“Tomorrow, once Glenmoor has left the palace,” he promised. “There’s also another letter for you downstairs, from Hornsby
& Featherson.”
The Rosebourne solicitors. “Have they discovered our ruse?”
“I don’t know,” Foxcourt said. “It was addressed to you.”
I gave him a speaking glance.
“All right, yes, I may have held it up to the light,” he said. “It’s something to do with a bequest from William Rosebourne.
Hornsby is asking for you to meet him at Briarwood Palace tomorrow. If you’d like to go, I’ll send Tommy, Willie, and Felicity
to accompany you.”
A pathetic flare of panic ignited in my chest. “But not you?”
He set the missives aside, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. “After I see to Eleanor, I intend to find Glenmoor.”
Somehow, I suspected his plans went far beyond merely finding the man.
“He’ll anticipate you reacting to the poisoning.” I studied his face as I added, “Wouldn’t it be more disarming to do nothing
at all?”
His jaw set in that hard, mulish line. “It must be answered.”
“And he will have an answer to your answer,” I rasped out. “If you are determined to finish this, don’t make it so easy on
him . . . find a way to make him think you’re after his wallet when you’re really after his shiny fob.”
Foxcourt’s lips twisted as he fought a smile. “Hard-won wisdom from the Brickbats?”
“A helpful lesson from a retired prostitute,” I corrected, my nerves twisting at not knowing what Foxcourt intended to do
next. “At least don’t let him convince you that you have to see this through alone—”
My plea was lost to the terror of a bloodcurdling scream.
Felicity.
The world spun violently around me as I lurched upright. Foxcourt was already on his feet and at the door, throwing a stern finger in my direction. “Stay here.”
Ignoring him, I staggered out of bed. My spirit was willing, my body less so. It was a struggle to fight my way down the hall,
alternating between bracing my shoulder and arm against the wall.
“—there was a knock at the door, but when I opened it, there was only the parcel,” Felicity was saying, her face bone white.
“I shouldn’t have opened it, but . . .”
An overwhelming relief washed over me at the sight of her, safe and whole, so much so that I sagged against the banister.
Tommy and Willie were braced on either side of her, Tommy stroking a comforting hand down her back, Willie murmuring to her.
The boys were as grim-faced as I’d ever seen them.
“Nothing good comes of answering the door after midnight,” Mrs. Keyes declared. Both she and Foxcourt stood with their backs
to me, blocking my sight of the table near the door.
“What is it?” Fleming asked, looking slightly disoriented as he emerged from the kitchen. His long nightcap trailed behind
him, his hands fluttering in frantic patterns. “What’s happened? Oh—Felicity, thank goodness.”
Felicity sent him a watery smile. “Sorry for giving you a fright, Fleming.”
Mrs. Keyes and Mrs. Silver exchanged a glance, the latter peeling off from the back of the group.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Silver said soothingly as she steered the butler back in the direction of the kitchen. “The whole house is
awake now. Shall we make everyone some tea? Yes, let’s do that.”
Brigadier paced in circles at Foxcourt’s bare feet, whining and panting. She stopped as I came toward them unsteadily.
At my soft gasp, Foxcourt turned, his icy expression thawing as he steadied me. “Do you ever do as you’re told?”
“There was no obey in those vows,” I reminded him. “You made him skip over that part.”
I felt the others’ eyes on me, curious and worried, but my own were solely on the white box on the table. A fine satin ribbon,
as silver as Hugh’s eyes, lay draped around it. My stomach crimped at the stench of blood and lavender.
“It’s good to see you up and about,” Mrs. Keyes said, giving my arm a gentle pat. “I do think a spot of tea is in order. Shall we gather ourselves in the kitchen?”
The others followed without protest. Even Brigadier, her tail slumped and her head lowered.
Foxcourt smoothed a loose curl away from my shoulder. “You don’t need to see this.”
My stomach was in agreement, roiling at the familiar stench of lavender. A step forward. Another. The gruesome sight edged
into view, a slow-dawning horror.
Inside the box, on a velvet cushion, was a pair of women’s hands, severed at the wrist. Dressmaker’s scissors had been placed
beneath the left, and the right bore a large silver ring with an intricately engraved A.
I spun away, pressing a hand to my mouth, unsure if I would vomit or scream. Foxcourt was at my side in an instant. I sagged
into him, closing my eyes.
I didn’t need to ask whom the hands belonged to. “Who would have . . . ?”
Foxcourt reached for something on the table—a crisp white card—handing it to me wordlessly.
My felicitations on the happy occasion of your marriage.
—G
An old terror rose in me then, its fangs only sharpened by the years. My knees bobbed.
“This is why,” he murmured. “This is why I must handle it alone.”
He bent, sweeping me into his arms and starting toward the stairs. My arms clasped around his neck, feeling the silky glide
of muscles beneath his linen shirt.
I didn’t fight it. I didn’t argue.
And I didn’t tell him that the Duke of Glenmoor hadn’t been the one to send that message.