Immortal Rose

Prologue

Days from now, when his mind dredged up the moment for the hundredth time in excruciating detail, he’d realize he’d failed

before ever stepping foot in Fenwick’s gleaming marble hall. Certainly before he’d clapped eyes on the old man in his leather

chair beside the grand fireplace, besieged by lordlings who had flocked to him like cosseted lambs in search of a shepherd.

Before, even, the man had downed his final gulp of whisky.

And damn it all if Hugh wasn’t desperate for the smooth embrace of Fenwick’s best after the day he’d had, stalking William

Rosebourne’s gleaming atrocity of a coach—the white lacquer speckled with enough carved roses to look poxed—all over town.

Hugh lifted his tumbler once more, resisting the gnawing urge to throw the drink back and be done with it. He’d been wetting

his top lip with the same two fingers of whisky for the better part of an hour, each kiss of burning liquor a temptation.

But he never drank while working. That had been Uncle Giles’s most sacred rule, the first of a thousand gleaming bits of wisdom

dropped like polished coins into Hugh’s palm: a clear mind for a clear end.

A thorned feeling swelled in his chest before he ruthlessly shoved it back down.

He leaned a shoulder against the emerald silk paper covering the walls, comfortably at home in the shadows fraying the edges

of the cardroom. Boisterous laughter erupted from a nearby game of whist, the men deep in their play. Through the swirl of

cheroot and pipe smoke, cards fluttered between hands like plumed birds, inviting memories best forgotten.

None of it felt real to him. Not anymore. Not the games without real stakes, not the shallow discussions of politics, not

the smirking portrait of the current home secretary gloating from the mantel in a room he’d paid lavishly to restore.

It had been an age since Hugh had been back here, and now he remembered why. Fenwick’s had the misfortune of being infested with Albion’s most prized idiots.

The lot of them, it seemed, had decided to while away their evening groveling before the old perfumer. As if being blessed

with a bespoke scent from the man might grant them some importance or assign greater meaning to their useless, privileged

lives.

Take young Lord Freeham, newly sent down from Rexford University for paying a man from the nearby village to attend classes

in his stead. The boneheaded scheme had lasted all of one lesson, so blatant that not even a bribe could shield him from the

blade of the school’s honor code. Now the boy—decades yet from inheriting his father’s ducal title—was nearly prostrate at

Rosebourne’s feet, embarrassing himself once more.

“Won’t you consider it?” he wheedled. “Just the one bottle . . .”

The din of conversation hushed, eager to lap up the reply. In the corner of the room, someone opened the wager book where

hopeful bets had been placed on who’d be the next lucky soul to receive a bespoke perfume—magic or otherwise—from the master

perfumer.

“No,” came Rosebourne’s terse reply. “You wouldn’t be willing to pay the price for it.”

And with that, conversation spun up again. The wager book was quietly shut and restored to its shelf.

Hugh ran the edge of his thumbnail over his top lip, exasperated.

In a rather elegant display of pettiness, Rosebourne, of the renowned House of Rosebourne Perfumery, had decided to make it

as difficult for the Patricians to obtain a bespoke perfume as it had been for him to obtain membership at Fenwick’s. The

old curmudgeon had learned the simple axis upon which a peer’s mind teetered: deny them what they desire, and they’ll desire

it all the more.

And here was the cold triumph of years of blending frivolous perfumes for lords and ladies, hosting glittering balls, and

throwing his vast, ever-increasing affluence at charities: to have the privilege of paying the club’s outrageous fee so that

he might be harassed by those who had inherited their own right to membership along with their fortunes.

Such was the misery of having an old name, but not a noble-blooded one. Of having money, but not the right, ancestral sort.

To have been forced to make his way in the world, while others merely fell into the well-worn grooves of their families’ legacies.

The difference, as the society patronesses put it, between money and Quality.

If not for the traces of fairy magic in the House of Rosebourne perfumes, William Rosebourne’s mortal remains would have withered to dust before he ever made it off the club’s hallowed waiting list.

There was a movement at his left. Hugh tensed inwardly. Not now, damn it.

“Say, Foxcourt, do you mean to stand around and glower, or can I interest you in a game?”

“No cards for me tonight.” Hugh gave the slurring lord a lazy grin. “A man needs to brood alone in the shadows now and then

to cultivate an air of mystery.”

Lord Menzies chuckled, the flush beneath his prodigious whiskers speaking to just how foxed he already was. “Right, yes, of

course. Better if you don’t play, in fact. My wife still hasn’t forgiven me for losing the curricle to you, ha ha!”

Hugh’s smile sharpened to a smirk. Conversation with Patricians was an exercise in patience, and as ruthlessly choreographed

as any ballroom dance. Which, Hugh suspected, was why so many of them inevitably led back to horses.

As the man beside him droned on, extolling his fair daughter’s virtues with the unsettling enthusiasm of a matchmaking mama,

Hugh cut a quick glance toward Rosebourne, who had risen suddenly from his seat and summoned his hat, gloves, and cloak.

Finally, Hugh thought. Blessed mercy.

“. . . we’d hoped that she might catch the eye of someone such as yourself, ha ha!”

“Don’t let me keep you from your game, Menzies,” Hugh interrupted, pushing away from the wall. “The hour’s late, and I’m for

home.”

Menzies blinked, his soused mind slow to process that the conversation had ended and that he’d been dismissed in short order.

Rosebourne was nearly to the door, his head lowered like a bull poised to charge, by the time Hugh followed. The perfumer

limped, favoring his left leg as always, his walking stick serving its actual function rather than as an ornament to trumpet

his riches.

Hugh stopped only to retrieve his own belongings. He might have abandoned them in his haste to keep the man in his sight,

but it would have drawn the wrong sort of attention. That was the real trick of this line of work: controlling when you wanted

to be noticed.

His quick footfall echoed as he hurried down the marble steps.

He spared a wary glance to the shadows caressing the columns lining the stairs—the last, crumbling remnants of the ancient palace that had once stood on the site.

Settling his topper back on his head, he nodded to the behemoth who served as the club’s porter and waited for him to drag the door open.

The dark street beckoned, as drowsy and alluring as a well-sated lover. The cool summer air bit at his senses, and he was

grateful for the way it cleared the lingering smoke from his chest.

A blanket of damp clung to the city, a gift from a fleet-footed storm. For a single, precious hour, the rain had driven away

Linden’s notorious reek. Now the familiar blend of excrement, sweat, and other assorted filth reasserted its rightful place.

Rosebourne stood off from the small crowd of gentlemen waiting for their coaches to be brought round, a no doubt perfumed

handkerchief pressed to his nose. The light of the nearby lamps drew out the few remaining sparks of red in Rosebourne’s white

hair. Strange, Hugh hadn’t ever noticed it before. Well, the man had the bad luck of having his full attention now.

Hugh was the portrait of insouciance as he sidled up to Rosebourne, joining him in the shallow pool of lamplight. Palpable

distaste poured from the old perfumer as he eyed Lord Feathersby blissfully swaying with his eyes screwed shut, seemingly

unaware he was humming “The Black Needle” for all those gathered to enjoy.

Rosebourne noticed Hugh then and sucked a tooth in displeasure. “I should have known you’d be slithering about.”

“Of course,” Hugh said pleasantly. “I count slithering among my many varied talents.”

The perfumer snorted beneath his handkerchief. “Out with it then.”

There was much Hugh enjoyed about Rosebourne, his ruthless annihilation of his competition chief among them. His bluntness

was no exception. It was rather refreshing to skip the dance and get to the point for once.

“As surprised as you are to see me this evening, Mr. Rosebourne, I’m equally wondering at your own appearance here,” Hugh

said, in that same agreeable tone. “Was I not clear when I told you that my order took precedence over all else, including

creature comforts?”

“And was I not clear,” Rosebourne countered, “that I would make no attempt to fulfill your order until you acquired what I asked of

you? Or do these many supposed talents of yours not extend to procurement?”

Hugh’s smile tightened. Procurement? The man may as well have asked him to locate a teardrop in a lake. “My task is proceeding at pace. It’s yours that has a deadline.”

“Hmm, yes,” Rosebourne said. “A rather pressing one, wouldn’t you say?”

“And yet,” Hugh said, spreading his hands between them, “here you are. I hadn’t realized you were so eager to discover the

endlessly creative ways I have of burning your world to the ground.”

The rose-tipped cane creaked under the force of the perfumer’s grip. “Were you aware, my lord,” Rosebourne began, “that deceit

smells sour, like spoilt milk?”

It took every ounce of Hugh’s force of will to school his expression as the old man’s words sank in. But he remembered now.

Uncle Giles had told him of this years ago—the strange second thread of the family’s unnatural fairyborn gift.

“Better than some of your more recent offerings, I’m afraid,” Hugh said. “Half the sitting rooms in this city stink of candied

violets and some infernal cousin to lavender.”

“And fear,” Rosebourne continued, ignoring this. “It reeks of wet fur.”