Chapter Four #2
dead. The second wife and second son of the Duke of Glenmoor, missing. The new Duke of Glenmoor, the elder son, ascending
to his place at the head of the family and his seat in Parliament, publicly mourning all three members of his family, content
to let their memory fade.
More mysterious yet: The second son’s return to society alone two years later, a ward of the Earl of Foxcourt, his mother’s
uncle, the home secretary, and one of the King’s principal advisers. And, finally, his inheriting of his great-uncle’s title
through his matrilineal line the year past, despite the protests of his elder half brother, after the previous Earl of Foxcourt
had ended his own life upon falling out of favor with the King.
I remembered it all because I, too, had wondered. For years, the mystery had haunted me: Where had the little lord gone, and
why had he come back? Some of the more superstitious souls in the Brickbats had sworn he’d been spirited away by fairies and
raised in their hidden world beneath the isle’s ancient mounds, or that the young boy who returned was a changeling.
I allowed myself a stolen glance at the man, unsurprised to find him scowling even in his sleep.
Maybe he was a changeling. He was certainly as beautiful as one, in a way that only seemed to confirm that God had favorites. It would
explain that heartless quality of his and could also be the reason I couldn’t pick up on any sort of essence.
Linden’s diabolical stench grew stronger as we neared the city’s center, and still, I watched him. Studied him. He’d schooled
his breathing, keeping it slow and even, but something in the way his head inclined toward me made me think he was awake.
That he was allowing my slow perusal for reasons that were entirely his own.
As if to prove my theory, he said, eyes still shut, “What were you looking for in the prison records? Or should I ask whom?”
I said nothing, letting the curtain fall back into place.
“You strike me as a solitary creature,” he continued. “It was one of the reasons I had a devil of a time finding you until
I heard whispers of a perfumer at the Midnight Market. Someone from there? Perhaps a customer or . . . a sweetheart?”
“The woman I share a table with.” As reluctant as I was to reveal another piece of my life, the arrogance of his expression,
that aristocratic indifference, made me bite out, “Given that Patricians have the means to pay others to care for them, it
falls upon the rest of us to look out for each other, as no one else will.”
And certainly, no one else had looked out for Arabella. We weren’t friends—that would have meant taking her into my confidence,
letting down the first of the gates to my heart. And you mustn’t, not ever, Mama had said over and over. You cannot trust another soul with who you truly are. But she mattered to me all the same.
If Foxcourt smiled then, I would have kicked him hard enough to scuff those glossy boots. Instead, he only watched me, his
expression remote. “A rather damning assessment of life, isn’t it?”
“An accurate one,” I said, lifting the curtain again to watch the city pass. “Some of us do not have the privilege of living
our life, my lord. We survive it.”
Foxcourt House wore the night like the finest sapphire velvet, its candlelit windows watching our approach with an eager glow.
Handsome and well-appointed, the detached four-story home overlooked the famous wooded park at the center of Feygrove Square.
The romantic, whimsical style of the home was of the Oswaldian era, when public imagination, desperate to escape the horrors of the latest war with Gallia, had demanded a return to the time of towering castles, dragons, and fairies—without, of course, the pervasive damp and cramped quarters of their inspiration.
The house must have predated the newer, more symmetrical terraced homes across the square by at least a century. It was defiantly
original.
A tangle of white and pink roses climbed over its gray stone walls, arcing into an abundant bower over the entry. I eyed the
pale green door with its lion-head knocker before shifting my gaze upward, to where the rather enchanting Foxcourt crest was
carved into the old stone—a fox with two crossed keys above it, the shield wreathed with oak leaves.
It was as pretty a prison as any I’d seen, which was thankfully just the one. I steeled myself all the same. In such a place,
it would be all too easy to forget my reason for being there—and that I would be leaving just as abruptly as I’d arrived.
“I suppose now is the time to impart the rules you’ll observe as a guest—” Foxcourt began.
“Prisoner,” I corrected tartly.
“—in my household,” he finished with a warning look. “While you are in my custody, you are not to leave the property unless
you are escorted by myself or one of the staff. You will treat them with respect, and they will treat you in kind.”
After a long stretch of silence, I said, “That’s it? Two rules? Nothing about keeping my mouth shut or calling you ‘my lord’
and ‘master’?”
“If you insist,” he said dryly.
I glowered at him, and damn him, he enjoyed it.
“One hopes it goes without saying you’ll do nothing to endanger your own life or the lives of anyone in this house until you
have seen your task through,” Foxcourt finished, tugging at his gloves to straighten them. “After which you will have your
pardon and be free to do whatever it is you fill your days with, twirling flowers or harassing soldiers or threatening gentlemen
with pipes. Which reminds me . . .”
He held out his hand. With great reluctance, I slid Sweetie out from the hole in my dress and deposited it into his waiting
palm.