Chapter Twenty-Two
In floriography, yellow jasmine—also called gelsemium—means elegance. In its concentrated form, yellow jasmine is a powerful paralytic, causing numbness, convulsions, and loss of muscular control.
The prince of England?” Mrs. Rose said. “Prince Oliver. Prince Oliver d’Orange-Plantagenet. Prince Oliver, as in the queen’s grandson Prince Oliver? That Prince Oliver?”
They sat in the drawing room of Devereux Place beneath the watchful eyes of Percival’s trophies.
Percival himself sat on the couch across from her, looking more tired than ever.
Kehinde sat in a chair near the hearth, deep in thought, whittling a small figurine of a lion out of dark wood.
And Mrs. Rose paced around them all, hands flying frantically as she spoke.
“Unless princes suddenly began growing on trees, I believe he is the only prince in London,” Elswyth said.
“But that cannot be,” Mrs. Rose said.
“Why not?”
“Well, because he is the prince. Princes do not abduct women. They go to balls and wear fine clothes and busy themselves with the business of being rich. What interest could he possibly have with your sister?”
“I believe Prince Oliver was Persephone’s secret lover.”
“Lover?” Percival asked. “What makes you say she had a lover?”
“There was a message in her room. A message hidden in a bouquet of flowers. It implied she had a lover. A lover who was threatening her.”
Percival’s face dropped slightly, as though he were confused.
“And there have been other things, too. Lady Forscythe called Persephone a harlot. Mr. Twigg tried to reach under my gown and said I know how you Elderwoods are. And Venus seemed so furious when I danced with Prince Oliver. She said I was like Persephone. Another provincial whore.”
Percival looked uncomfortable. “Elswyth, that language…”
“Damn the language. I am trying to tell you that all of these people thought something about Persephone. They all know something that we don’t.
Combined with the bouquet in her room, I believe that this all points to an affair with Prince Oliver.
And what he said to me on the dance floor almost confirms it.
Stop what you are doing. Or what happened to your sister will happen to you.
He knows that I am investigating. He knows what happened to her. ”
“Certainly you are not implying…” Percival began.
She kept going. “It’s a threat, Uncle. He killed Persephone. And he is threatening to kill me.”
Mrs. Rose stammered. “But—but—Prince Oliver… Plantagenet… d’Orange, even…”
Kehinde spoke, standing from his chair and setting down his whittling knife. “I’m afraid she is probably correct. He is powerful and wealthy—powerful enough to kill several women and make the constabulary look the other way. It fits with our previous theories quite nicely.”
Percival blinked, looking up at him. “Kehinde, what are you saying? Our theories? You’ve been helping her with this madness?”
Kehinde kept his expression firm. “I am sorry, Percival. I know you wanted Elswyth to stay away from all of this. But we will never be free of suspicion while Persephone’s killer walks free, and Elswyth is our best chance of finding him.”
Elswyth winced at the look of betrayal on Percival’s face. Then Mrs. Rose gasped. Percival, Elswyth, and Kehinde turned to her.
“What is it?” Kehinde asked.
“It’s only… I’ve asked myself why the queen was so dismissive of you upon your presentation. And now I wonder…”
“If she wasn’t doing it on purpose,” Elswyth said, coming to the same realization. “To make me an outcast, so that my investigation would lead nowhere. To protect her grandson.”
“Are we sure this is not more conjecture…” Percival started.
“And Miss Forscythe,” Mrs. Rose said, “is apparently going to be Prince Oliver’s betrothed.
If she wanted to curry favor with the queen, perhaps making a fool of you would help.
That could explain why she framed you at Syon House.
Not to mention, if Persephone did steal the prince away from her…
Well, then she’d have twice the reason to hate you. ”
“The murdered man, Captain Burr. He was a friend of Prince Oliver, yes?” Kehinde said.
“You mentioned that he and Persephone were seen alone together. Perhaps the captain was some kind of liaison between Persephone and the prince, so that they could keep their affair a secret. Perhaps he was killed so that it would remain that way.”
Elswyth closed her eyes. She gripped at the fabric of her gown until it hurt her hands. “Then they all knew. They all knew that Prince Oliver murdered her and helped him cover it up.”
“We cannot get ahead of ourselves,” Percival said. “Think for just a moment, please. Prince Oliver only just returned from his tour in India. Persephone disappeared in November. He would have already been far away from London on a ship. There’s no way he could be responsible.”
Elswyth frowned. She hadn’t considered that.
“Nor does it explain that little monster you found in your rooms…” Mrs. Rose said, shivering. “I doubt Prince Oliver could have made that. By all accounts, he’s not very academic.”
Elswyth tapped her foot. No, it didn’t explain the mandrake, either. “But he’s royalty. He could—”
Mrs. Rose interrupted her. “No. Percival’s right. We don’t know that Prince Oliver is truly involved in this. And what would we do if he was? It’s not as though we can call the police and tell them to arrest the crown prince.”
Elswyth thought for a moment. She shook her head. “I will not abandon her. Not now. I need to see this through. I need justice.”
“Elswyth… he is the crown prince. The heir of empire,” Percival said gently. “Perhaps he was involved. But he has all the power of Britain behind him. There is no justice, not for a man like him.”
Elswyth turned on her heel to face him. Her scar burned as blood ran to her face. “Then what, Uncle? I am just to return home and let this man get away with murdering my sister? Marry some man and let the prince live out his days, all the while knowing what he did? While they all knew what he did?”
“You mean to kill him, then? Because that is the only justice I can think of.”
Elswyth paused. “He would deserve it.”
Percival looked strangely at Elswyth. “Perhaps he would. But is that what you deserve, Elswyth? To become a murderer?”
She turned to Kehinde. “And what of you? Why train me to kill if I cannot avenge my sister?”
Percival looked to Kehinde again, the betrayal in his eyes becoming anger. “You’ve been training her? We decided you would protect her, not turn her into an assassin.”
Kehinde’s face was grim. “And teaching her how to protect herself was the only way to ensure she was never without protection.” He met Percival’s eyes, and something charged passed between them.
Then he turned back to her. “But, Elswyth, your uncle is right. Even if killing the prince is just, there are far too many risks. What if you are caught? There would be grave consequences for all of us.”
“This is madness. I will hear nothing more of it,” Percival said.
Elswyth lowered her voice and stared at him.
“Look me in the eye, Uncle, and tell me that the great hunter Percival Devereux has never killed a man,” she said.
His eyes widened, and she could tell that she had wounded him. He slumped a little lower in his seat, closing his eyes. “If I am a hypocrite, Elswyth, it is only because I have seen where killing takes you. Violence is not a cure for violence. It is more of the disease.”
The room was silent. The only sounds came from the clock on the wall and the rustle of leaves outside. All around them, the glass eyes of Percival’s trophies stared down, judging, waiting.
Mrs. Rose took this moment to step in. “Perhaps it is time to retire, Miss Elderwood. It is getting late.”
Elswyth nodded. “In a moment, Mrs. Rose. I would speak with my uncle.”
“I shall draw you a bath, then,” she said. She moved warily to the door and then slipped out of the room and into the hall. Kehinde, chin high despite Percival’s withering gaze, followed her.
Elswyth sat alone with Percival. “I am not giving up,” she said.
“The season is almost over. Mrs. Rose is right. If you cannot find a husband here, then you will return and wed Mr. Ficus,” he said.
“This is the first real progress I’ve made in months—”
“And it is a dead end. If you are right, then the Crown will stop at nothing to cover it up. They will erase the Elderwood name from history to ensure this never sees the light of day. You are in danger, Elswyth. The sooner you leave this city, the safer you shall be.”
“But Uncle—”
“There is nothing we can do. You will return home at once. Marry Cousin Ficus or do not, I do not care. I do not care if you continue on the bloodline or if you mope in your bedroom for the next fifty years. I only want you to be safe, Elswyth. Safe, far away from here.”
Her uncle stood slowly, rising from his chair with a pained expression. “I am sorry, my dear. I would remove this from your mind. Soon, this will all be but a distant memory.”
With that, Percival left the room, and she was alone.
Elswyth woke with a start, the sheets tangled between her legs, the fabric of her nightgown soaked through with sweat.
She’d been dreaming again—horrible dreams, as always, but this one felt more real than the rest. She dreamed of Persephone, reaching out to her from the darkness, screaming her name.
Of asphodel eyes, and mushrooms growing from an open mouth.
Of a shadow giant wearing a crown of branches, blown away into ten thousand leaves.
She breathed heavily for a moment, trying to calm herself. The room around her was bathed in moonlight, like it was underwater. White curtains billowed around the balcony doors, which were open to the night air.
She could have sworn they were closed when she went to sleep. Yes—it had been raining, and she’d latched them so as not to let the water in. They must have blown open during the storm.