Chapter Thirty-Three #4
“No, they do not,” he told her. “I purchased all that remained of the DeForests’ stock. I was told that it would lower one’s
inhibitions, as you have demonstrated. It allows some men to play deep and others . . . to play in a different sort of way.”
Even Hugh felt daunted by the unusual coldness of Viola’s expression as she swept a single, dispassionate gaze over the man.
“Take off your mask,” Greystone ordered. “I want to have a look at you.”
Viola resisted, as Hugh knew she would. “That’s a privilege you’ve yet to earn.”
Greystone let out a low, throaty chuckle. “Had I known a masquerade was all it would take to bring you to me, I would have
hosted one days ago.”
“We’re here on a matter of business,” she told him.
“Ah,” Greystone said, his voice heavy with irony. “Then, my lady, I suggest you follow me.”
Viola kept her feet planted. “Where?”
“You asked to discuss a business matter,” Greystone said, “and such negotiations take place in my study—no, Foxcourt, I won’t
force you back out into the hall. I don’t need to see you slobbering over her.”
Greystone pressed one corner of a painting’s gold frame, releasing a door in the wall paneling that was so well disguised,
it had even passed Hugh’s notice.
Viola met his gaze quickly, to confirm that this was, indeed, what they were doing. At Hugh’s nod, she retrieved her reticule
and his gloves, smiling faintly as she passed them back to him. Hugh despaired at the realization he’d shed her cloak somewhere
in the hall, and wrapped her instead in his own.
They followed Greystone through a dark corridor Hugh suspected ringed the whole of the floor, taking note of what appeared to be peepholes.
Finally, the hidden passage opened to a set of stairs at the edge of the hazard room, alive and gleaming like some fairy palace in the throes of a dissolute revel.
It was luxurious, all mahogany and black velvet.
The game tables were as pristinely maintained as the glittering chandeliers above.
The latter had been draped with garlands of flowers, to celebrate the coming of midsummer, and it gave the usually refined splendor a primitive edge.
Servers spun through the masked crowds, unfazed by the blatant lust and greed on display around them as women and men draped
themselves over the gamblers playing deep. Many had left a second, untouched glass of liquor beside their own to invite Fortuna
to their side as they flung the dice.
The music plucked at Hugh’s every nerve, scoring the rhythmic movements of the lovers tucked behind statues and into alcoves.
Greystone carried himself like a king through it all; the few servants they encountered vanished back into the shadows once
they saw his long, confident strides toward them. But he did not speak again until they met two men guarding the second-floor
gallery.
“Search him,” Greystone said to one of the burly porters.
Hugh allowed himself to be submitted to a rough patting down that saw him lose both knives.
“Now what did you plan to use those for, I wonder?” Greystone asked ironically, opening the door to his study. “He stays out
here.”
Protest surged in Hugh, but it was Viola who said, “No. He joins us.”
Greystone let the silence stretch uncomfortably, as if testing Viola’s ability to withstand its chill. Finally, he said, “As
you wish. But if he speaks, I will take the utmost pleasure in tearing his tongue out at the root.”
Viola looked to Hugh, waiting for his assent. Her eyes were bright, but she didn’t seem afraid. Gritting his teeth, and going
against his better judgment, Hugh nodded.
The study gleamed like an emerald in firelight, finer than any in Summerland Palace. Every wall, including the bookshelves,
had been painted a shade of green so dark, it was nearly black. Crystals, polished and raw, were scattered among the books
and trinkets—fairy relics, no doubt.
Hugh nearly rolled his eyes as the stones seemed to flicker with inner light as Greystone passed them, only to stop when he realized they had done the same as Viola had crossed before them on her way to the massive oak desk.
Greystone slid into his high-backed chair, its frame studded with yet more crystals. When Hugh was certain they were alone,
and no other danger was present, he pulled out one of the seats before the desk for Viola and remained standing behind her.
“I’ll come straight to the point,” Viola said with a calmness Hugh most certainly did not feel. “I’m here for the fairy nectar
William Rosebourne gave to you.”
“I see,” Greystone said, clearly humoring her. He felt Viola tense at the man’s tone and stroked a soothing finger along her
shoulder. “Unfortunately, you see, that was part of a down payment for services rendered. I’m under no obligation to return
it just because the man was finally blown to hell.”
“Payment to find me, was it?” Viola said.
“Yes, but for something else as well.” Greystone’s expression darkened. “He needed help procuring what he called sweetfeather.”
Hugh racked his memory for why the name sounded familiar, landing on his and Reddy’s trip to the Rosebourne archive. Sweetfeather
had been one of the missing oils—but if it hadn’t been given to Greystone, whom had it gone to?
Viola breathed in, glancing back at Hugh as she confirmed, “True.”
Greystone shook his head. “I’d forgotten that infernal talent of Lily’s.”
“Seeing as you did not, in fact, locate me,” Viola continued, “I am here to reclaim it.”
Something happened to Greystone’s mouth that, on anyone else, might have been a smile. Now, it only gave the impression of
a wolf licking its teeth. “You have no ownership of the company, daughter, and cannot act on its behalf. Consider it a blessing.”
Hugh’s attention perked at that. A blessing in what way?
“It will be mine soon enough,” Viola told him.
“Ah,” Greystone continued. “Once you have cleared your name in the small matter of the King’s poisoning? How disappointing
you didn’t use something stronger.”
“As I assume you already know, I did not poison him at all.”
“And yet, you resisted all of my attempts to bring you here,” he said, “to bring you under my protection.”
Hugh’s eyes narrowed.
“Is that what it was?” Viola shot back. “I might have called it kidnapping.”
“I offered you the life of the woman who dared to poison you, didn’t I?” Greystone said.
“You offered a gruesome token of your own power,” she said.
“I’m glad you saw it as such,” Greystone continued. “From the moment I knew you existed, I have only desired to protect you,
to keep you away from Rosebourne and his darkness. You wish to believe I am the villain, but you have impugned the wrong man.”
“Actually, I’ve hated you both quite equally, and not without good reason,” Viola said. “I have never needed or wanted whatever
passes for your idea of ‘protection.’”
“And yet, here you are.” Greystone waved a dismissive hand. “Am I to take it that you need the nectar of the flowering Afallach
to save the King and claim that inheritance? Do I have the right of it?”
“You do,” Viola said. “And as I have never, and will never, ask anything else from you, I expect that this should not be too
much of a hardship.”
“On the contrary,” Greystone said with a tsk. “I’ve spent years hunting down the nectar. I could not possibly let it go as a mere favor.”
Viola straightened at that, and Hugh knew her temper was very close to catching. Bloody hell. Hugh’s thoughts raced, trying
to summon what else they might barter with. A piece of information, a promise to look the other way on importations . . .
“Why?” Viola asked. “Because you need it yourself?”
The words seemed to cleave the room in two. The man went very, very still. Hugh stepped closer to Viola’s chair, subtly eyeing
the desk for anything he might be able to lunge for.
“Your scent is strange,” Viola told him. “It’s not like anything I’ve ever encountered. Not poison, not illness . . . something
else.”
Hugh’s brows rose. What else could it possibly be?
“Is that the reason for all of this?” She gestured to the fairy relics displayed on the shelves around them. “Is it something
to do with fairy magic?”
The man said nothing. A single brow arched, curtailing any further line of inquiry.
“You called this a matter of business,” Greystone said. “Make me an offer.”
“Certainly,” Viola said, and there was a faint metallic click. “How is this for an opening bid? You give us the nectar and allow us to leave unharmed, and I don’t shoot you in the heart.”
Hugh looked down to find that Viola had, seemingly out of thin air, procured a pistol. She braced her elbow on her chair’s
armrest, leveling the barrel at her father with a pleasant smile, as if it were merely a thing Greystones did to each other.
A customary greeting.
Because this—her sharper edges that had always beckoned to his love of danger—this was all Greystone, not Rosebourne, as he’d
assumed.
“It’s rather expected to store a pistol beneath your desk,” she said sweetly. “Next time, you might pay more mind to whether
or not your guest is within reach.”
Greystone let out a laugh of astonishment and delight—a true laugh, which made it even more unsettling. “I could swat that
gun’s bullet away like a fly.”
“Shall we try?” Viola asked brightly, and if it were possible, Hugh was more aroused than he’d been downstairs.
Greystone leaned back against his chair, openly appraising Viola as one might study a piece of art he wished to purchase.
Hugh’s hackles rose.
“I must say,” Greystone began, “I never expected to have a child marry into the aristocracy. You’ve done quite well for yourself,
haven’t you?”
“I might have done better still, had my mother chosen a man with a soul to be my father,” she said flatly.
Hugh’s hands tightened around the back of Viola’s chair, nudging her shoulder with a warning finger. As far as negotiations
went, Hugh had experienced worse, but not by much.