Chapter Six
Because the night hadn’t been enough of a misery, at some point in the two hours between our arrival and departure from Foxcourt
House, it had begun to rain. Not the lovely sort of summer shower that came and went in a blink and left every surface of
the city glittering with a fine coat of dewdrops. The torrential, deep-winter sort that slashed at you like an icy blade.
“It’ll clear up within minutes, to be certain,” Cartwell had told us as we’d hurried toward the coach at the front gate. The
poor man was barely recognizable beneath his wilted hat and heavy cloak. “You can tell by the peculiar slant of moonlight.”
In fact, it did not, and soon, even that brief glimmer of warm comfort I’d received began to feel like a distant memory. By
the time the coach had begun to snake south through the empty Linden streets, I was too exhausted to be anything other than
direct.
“If you won’t tell me where we’re going, you might at least have the decency to tell me who it is we’re meant to see,” I snapped.
The coach rocked as it hit a rough patch of road, but Foxcourt’s large body absorbed the movement with ease. I had to grip
the edge of the seat cushion to keep from being bounced onto the shuddering floor between us.
“All in due time,” Foxcourt said, staring out a gap in the curtains. “You need only to demonstrate a bit of patience—a foreign
concept to you, I know.”
The volley of rain against the roof drowned out my huff. I leaned back against the seat with care, inwardly relishing the
feeling of the short corset supporting my spine as I tried not to wrinkle my fine dress. The fabric was like a cool mist against
my skin, not woven to last the way my coarse linen gowns were, but to live a butterfly’s brief, beautiful life.
My fingers curled, testing the limits of the impossibly soft white kid gloves Felicity had handed me. Handed me, as if they were nothing at all.
It was the sort of attire I’d once dreamt of wearing as a little girl.
I hadn’t had someone to help me dress since my mother passed, and only Felicity’s undaunted cheerfulness had gotten us both through the awkwardness of it.
I’d barely recognized myself in the vanity mirror as she set about pinning my hair and finding a bonnet suitable for the outing.
Foxcourt, on the other hand, looked very much himself in the shadows of the coach. With a will of their own, my eyes traced
the bold line of his jaw down his neck, my gaze snagging on his cravat. Or rather, the small dark blotch on the fabric just
to the right of the knot.
At first glimpse, I’d assumed he was wearing the same attire as earlier in the evening, but his shirt looked laundered and
pressed, and the pattern of his waistcoat was subtly different—the silver vines had leaves on this one. His having gone to
the trouble of changing made the drop of blood on the otherwise pristine white fabric all the stranger.
He must have cut himself shaving, I thought, trying not to imagine the very same jaw shadowed with the first hint of a night beard. I immediately amended the
assumption, remembering whom I was dealing with. His valet must have nicked him.
A shame the blade hadn’t slipped over his throat.
“We’re passing the orchid trees of Royal Park,” I said, recognizing the scent. “Are we going to an ambassador’s residence?”
That might explain why the King had agreed to issue a pardon.
Foxcourt traced his top lip with the edge of his thumbnail, and for a mortifying moment, I forgot that I was awaiting a response.
“Well?” I prompted.
“Close to the mark,” he said. “But not quite.”
“The princess?” I guessed. “One of the old nob’s jingle-brained advisers?”
“By ‘old nob’ I presume you are referring to our rightful and anointed King,” Foxcourt said dryly. “And on both counts, the
answer is no.” After a moment, he shook his head, repeating softly to himself, “Jingle-brained.”
We descended back into the cold silence, the rain pounding at the windows. It seemed as good a time as any to begin working
through my ever-increasing list of questions.
“Who are you, exactly?” I asked.
To my surprise, he answered drolly: “Hugh Thornton, the seventh Earl of Foxcourt.”
“Contrary to what you may believe, or what your army of governesses may have told you as a child, you are not in fact a witty man,” I informed him.
“I know a host of people who might disagree.”
“Are they all servants?” I asked, and was surprised when a corner of his mouth twitched. “You know what I meant by the question.
How did you become involved in . . . this?”
“I have been asking myself that very question these last seven days, Miss Lockwood.”
Impossible man. “Are the rumors true about the last Earl of Foxcourt?”
He looked at me alertly then, straightening in his seat. “What rumors?”
There. That was better—I had his attention now. “There were countless rumors of the home secretary paying for information
in the Brickbats, seeking stories of an embarrassing and scandalous nature about the Patricians these fine inhabitants may
or may not have served.”
“Is ‘inhabitants’ what you call prostitutes in the Brickbats?” he countered lazily. “I’ll add the new term to my running list,
after swad.”
“They said he was a—how did old Barnsford put it? A broker of information. A spymaster, in addition to his other responsibilities with the prisons and public order, of course.”
By now, I was learning to recognize when Foxcourt was intentionally guarding his expression, but God, that face was utterly
impenetrable.
Before he could reply, the coach jerked, slowing suddenly. The cobblestones turned to gravel crunching beneath the wheels.
“Finally,” Foxcourt muttered, reaching up to straighten his cravat.
With a last wary look at him, I nudged the curtain aside.
Beyond the glass, a white stone figure glowered down at us from atop his massive marble plinth, one hand gripping his scepter,
and the other, the sovereign’s orb, the symbol of the divine right of Albion’s kings.
Alarm trilled like a bell in my mind as the coach rounded the recently completed memorial to King Augustine and, rather than
follow the curve of the road to the gloomy Queen’s Park, we took the path that veered left.
Directly toward the gates of Summerland Palace.
My horrified gaze darted to the man sitting across from me.
“A word of advice, Lockwood,” Foxcourt said, his mouth twisting into a cruel approximation of a smile. “I wouldn’t call him old nob to his face if you value your life.”
There was much that could be said about the King of Albion, though the rumor that every horse he attempted to ride threw him
likely said enough.
A vain, proud man, King Alfred III had spent the better part of his reign doing little more than spoiling his beloved court
with lavish balls, firework displays, and the privilege of magic. The scandal sheets fawned over “Dear HM,” but he was more
commonly known in the Brickbats as Uncle Talbert, after the old fairy story about an uncle who’d gladly starved his wards
to buy himself a new coat. That, too, probably said enough. If power were a currency, the King intended to spend it only on
himself.
And, really, I should have known. Foxcourt’s enjoyment of the mystery, his insistence on going out at this hour . . . Who
else but the King could compel him? He probably wanted a fresh supply of his own bespoke Rosebourne perfume, with whatever
infernal magic William Rosebourne had imbued it with.
Hell’s tits. And I’d agreed to this.
I glared past the brass-finial-capped fence that stood between the coach and the looming palace. Shaped like a horseshoe around
the grand courtyard, each wing was supported by ancient columns, said to have been taken from the temple of the ancient fairy
sun god Solarius.
Rather than approach the central gate and the emerald-green-uniformed soldiers posted there, the coach continued along the
road, turning when it came upon the one running along the northern face of the palace.
Only two of the King’s men were at the discreet entrance, and both rushed out from the cover of their sentry boxes to drag
it open. The long white plumes of their hats drooped, slapping against their faces with the force of the rain.
The gate clanged shut behind us, speeding my pulse.
Foxcourt pulled a fob from his jacket and checked the time as the coach eased through an archway into a short arcade overlooking
a series of pale fountains and a garden. Ivy climbed the walls, giving the passage a feeling of being half forgotten.
Eventually, after another turn, we found our way into a smaller courtyard, this one shielded from the outside world’s view. The coach slowed to a stop near a nondescript door.
“Here we are,” Foxcourt said.
He stepped out first and, apparently enjoying how much it aggravated me, insisted on handing me down.
I hurried to the cover of the walkway surrounding the courtyard, breathing in the competing scents of heavy rain, wet animal,
and the ivy’s earthy green.
“Return to the house at your leisure,” Foxcourt advised the coachman, his topper doing little to shield his face from the
slanting rain. “We’ll take one of the palace curricles back.”
Cartwell doffed his own hat and was off.
We entered through a deserted servants’ corridor, a fact that I didn’t think to find strange until I saw how easily the earl
was navigating the maze of nondescript hallways. As if he had come this way, rather than the grand entry, hundreds of times.
I stubbornly quickened my pace, but I couldn’t match Foxcourt’s long, powerful strides as we made our way up a flight of stairs,
then another. My understanding of the situation was upended again, this time by the realization we were staying in this wing
of the palace rather than going to one of its receiving rooms.
“Where,” I panted when we’d turned down the fourth successive hallway, “are we going?”
At my breathless question, Foxcourt finally slowed his determined march. I almost laughed when he abruptly turned to the door
at his left. Of course it hadn’t been for my benefit. We’d finally arrived at our destination.
Foxcourt glanced up and down the hall one last time before he raised a fist to rap lightly against the door.
Unexpectedly, a soft, feminine voice called out, “Come in.”
With one last attempt to smooth a few rogue curls that had already escaped the confines of the bonnet, I followed Foxcourt
inside.
A bedroom, one hardly bigger than my rented room, unfurled around me, and I recoiled at the heat that infused the air and
the wretched odor it carried.
Sickness—desperate, lingering. The smoke from the lit hearth was a relief from the musk of unwashed hair and skin, but it only antagonized the pervasive stink of floral decay, as if a fine bouquet had been left weeks too long in old water.
And there, looming like a half-forgotten nightmare, a note of yarrow and angelica.
My stomach turned over itself. I might have stayed in that doorway, caught in that breathless moment of the past colliding
with the present, had Foxcourt not placed a firm hand on my back and ushered me forward.
The room was crowded further by an overly large four-poster bed. Heavy tapestry curtains hung from the oak frame, concealing
all but a fleeting glimpse of the frail body beneath the mountain of bedsheets. A young woman sat stiff-backed in a chair
at the foot of the bed.
At the sound of the door opening, she rose and turned, smoothing her gloved hands against the wrinkles in her ivory dress.
The gold woven through it caught the firelight and gave her light brown skin an almost unearthly glow.
Her essence murmured across my awareness: perfumed silk, wax seals, bergamot tea, an intriguing hint of leather, the glitter
of cold diamonds, and the penetrating woodiness, like ancient trees, of a steely will.
I stared at her, my disbelief growing with each soft tick of the mantel clock, cataloging her features the way so many papers
and scandal sheets had. I hadn’t realized how very young sixteen was until that moment, seeing the softness of her face and
her unjaded gaze—all radiant hope and untarnished potential.
She had the promise of a proud, handsome beauty bestowed upon her by her mother, a minor princess from Vitalia, her face defined
by her dark brows, her high cheekbones, and the strong point of her chin. Dark springs of hair had been artfully piled high
on her head and tamed by ivory silk ribbons. Around her neck, a gold key gleamed from its simple chain.
I knew who she was even before Foxcourt said, “Your Royal Highness,” and bowed.
After a moment, Foxcourt took my arm in a loose grip and tugged down on it, a silent, unwelcome reminder of protocol. I dropped
into a feeble attempt at a curtsy.
“I was beginning to worry,” Princess Eleanor said. Her voice had a natural husky quality to it, only enhancing her beautiful
elocution.
She swept one of the heavy bed curtains aside, revealing a gaunt man half hidden beneath a pile of heavy bedding. Bringing
a delicate hand to his shoulder, she gave it a firm shake. “Uncle? They’ve arrived.”
Uncle? But that meant . . .
I took an unconscious step back, colliding with Foxcourt.
Straggly wisps of white hair draped over the pillow, and a long, braided beard stretched down over the prone man’s chest,
resting in the concave hollow of his belly. Despite the skeletal quality of his hands, a large signet ring stubbornly drooped
toward the mattress on his right little finger. The yellow diamond, nearly the size of a grape, winked at me in the flickering
light. Kingmaker. The mark of his bloodline’s birthright to rule, worn by every king to follow in his stead.
I jumped as the man cracked open a rheumy, contemptuous eye.
“Well, come in, girl, and shut the fucking door behind you,” the King of Albion croaked. “You’re letting all the warm air
out.”