Chapter Eight
After the stifling misery of the King’s sickroom, the palace’s servants’ corridor felt like cold satin against my flushed
skin, but it did little to slow my galloping heart.
He had agreed.
Impossibly, that wild, unthinking urge—that shameless ask I had never once dared to even entertain before—had paid off. Or would, just as soon as I upheld my end of the deal. A formality soon dealt with, because I would
be as dead and damned as William Rosebourne before I let the opportunity slip away.
A warm smugness curled like a contented cat in my chest. Rosebourne must be writhing in the flames of hell at the mere possibility of his legacy falling into the hands of an unwanted sideslip.
The inheritance would change my life. I could pay for my own protection, against not just the past, but anyone who might harm
me. It would allow me to change the lives of countless others for that matter. All the vast Rosebourne resources would be at my disposal; the notion that it was for a gutless king hardly
seemed to signify. I would hold my nose, offer what the magic would demand, and I would be free.
Immortal Rose. A perfume of legend that would begin my own.
As my mind dreamily sorted through the faded notes that had clung to the flacon, the stench of the King’s poisoned body dissipated
like his foul breath in the air. Still, it trailed after me like a second shadow as I followed the earl and princess down
the hall.
My effervescent joy must have registered like a fly buzzing at his ear. His pale gaze flicked back over his shoulder, meeting
mine for the briefest moment. It was a look that vowed, We shall speak of it later.
I smiled serenely in return, which appeared to be far more effective at harassing him than even an east city greeting.
Now you know what it feels like, I thought, being hemmed into a decision you might not have otherwise made.
Like a child, it would be good for him to not get his way for once. And far better, it had given me a sense of power after he had gone to such lengths to strip that autonomy from me.
Foxcourt’s attention returned to Eleanor with a snort at something she’d said, winning a laugh from the willowy girl. My smile
hardened, stiffening as my teeth set against one another.
What a handsome pair the two of them made, with their well-honed elegance and long, graceful lines. An ode to centuries of
unearned privilege and careful breeding, even. If Eleanor had been a few years older, or at least at her age of majority . . .
I stomped out the thought like I would a roach. If they were to be a pair one day, what did it matter to me? Let them make each other miserable for as long as they both should live. It
was only that it was . . . vexing.
Vexing to see her obvious, openhearted adoration of him and the reassurance he seemed to provide to her. Vexing to see him
treat her with gentle courtesy when he’d barely mustered anything beyond amused contempt for me.
I strained my ears, quickening my pace to catch the tail of their quiet conversation.
“If they bother you so much,” Eleanor was saying gently, “simply tell ready to stop.”
There was that word again—or not a word, but a name? If not ready, then perhaps . . . My brows rose sharply as the realization finally pieced itself together.
To society, there was only one Reddy of note: Samir Reddy, the young, infamous owner of the Aruval Group, which imported everything
from spices to lumber.
“—uncle was right to encourage it,” Foxcourt murmured. “It’s better to have the Patricians assume they know my character.
It makes my work easier in that regard.”
Well, well. It was gratifying to know that anything likable about Foxcourt was fiction, a character dreamt up by the scandal
sheets in need of a lovable rake—or perhaps by Reddy as a tool to humiliate him.
But Foxcourt had only taken advantage of it, as he took advantage of everything and everyone else. Again, vexing.
The rain had let up by the time we reached the first level of the servants’ wing. Yet, rather than find that shadowed hall
back out into the courtyard, Foxcourt and Eleanor veered through a set of open doors beside it, into a sparsely decorated
parlor.
A lonely, white-haired figure waited by a leaking window, painting shapes into the pooled rainwater on the sill with childlike abandon.
The diminutive man stood no taller than my shoulder and was dressed in the royal household’s violet livery, which, on a clearer day, would have been a near match to the sky as it lightened with the first hint of dawn.
I glanced toward the earl, brows raised in silent question. His rose in return. Patience.
“Excellent, you received my message,” Foxcourt said as he shut the door behind us. “I apologize for the hour, Vernon, but
I’m sure you can appreciate the need for discretion.”
The man was all gangly limbs as he whirled around, green eyes wide, face flushed with embarrassment. He’d gathered his equanimity
again by the time he’d executed his perfunctory bow. “Your Royal Highness, my lord. It is an honor—why, is that Miss Viola
Lockwood? It is!”
My exhausted mind caught up to the moment. “Vernon!”
It was difficult to say who among us was the most astonished, though I might have put a coin on the unflappable Foxcourt.
He pivoted between us like a weathervane, his jaw clenched. Eleanor, for her part, only looked charmed.
“You’re already acquainted then,” she said, smiling. “Linden grows smaller by the day.”
“Indeed,” Foxcourt ground out. “Perhaps an explanation is in order?”
I wasn’t inclined to give him one, but Vernon had always been so pleased to be of assistance.
“Before finding employment at the palace, I worked in the Durand household, you see,” he said, taking my hand to bow over
it. “Following Mr. Durand’s death, I then moved with Mrs. Durand into their daughter’s household, but the Radcliffes already
employed a stable of valets. The youngest son, Mr. Oliver Radcliffe, kindly recommended me for a position here.”
Vernon smiled knowingly at me, and I returned it. For all that life had tried to break Oliver’s spirit, it had never managed
to harden his heart.
“Oliver Radcliffe is a friend of mine,” I explained, solely for Eleanor’s benefit.
“I became acquainted with him through Vernon, who frequented the florist stall I worked at to make purchases for the Radcliffe household. He realized Oliver and I might share an interest in fragrance.” I turned back to him, squeezing his hand before releasing it.
“I’m ashamed to say I’d forgotten you were employed here, but it is lovely to see you again. ”
Vernon beamed. “And you as well!”
“Splendid,” Foxcourt said flatly. “Then with the pleasantries over, we’ll move on to the matter at hand.”
“Please, Vernon, Miss Lockwood, sit,” Eleanor said, ushering us toward one of the ruthlessly stiff settees. “We will not take
up too much of your time, Vernon. I know you have duties to attend to with His Majesty.”
Vernon did as the princess bade him to, occupying the seat across from her. Foxcourt remained standing behind Eleanor, his
hands clasped behind his back like a loyal guard.
“Miss Lockwood will be assisting us in the restoration of the King’s health,” Eleanor explained. “She is a descendant of the
Rosebourne line.”
Vernon’s eyes widened with astonishment, his face white—a typical reaction to discovering a fairyborn. “Are you truly?”
My lips set in a grim line. “Unfortunately.”
“Oliver always said you had a special gift,” Vernon said after a moment. “He—”
“Miss Lockwood,” Foxcourt interrupted, motioning toward the other end of Eleanor’s settee. “Please do sit. I’ve asked Vernon
here so that you might ask him about the poisoning. I don’t anticipate this will take long.”
Not a question, but a command. I fought not to roll my eyes. A stubborn impulse to refuse burned in me, but I didn’t want
to embarrass or distress Vernon by being rude.
With a harsh breath, I sat down, keeping my gaze on Vernon. The last five years had done little to change him. He’d always
been a fascinating study in contrasts: he had the rich voice of a young man, but the lines of an elder who had already lived
a long life. And while he possessed a stoat’s narrow, pinched face, his green eyes were like that of a rabbit: alert, a little
frightened, and almost innocent.
“There we are,” Eleanor said. “Vernon is now my uncle’s senior valet and most trusted groom.”
“The Groom of the Stool,” Vernon said, proudly.
I smiled, nodding as if I had half a hope of knowing what that meant.
“He sees to the King’s most private, personal needs and more,” Foxcourt clarified. I felt his amused gaze on the back of my neck like he’d rested his gloved hand there, but even that sensation dissolved as the meaning of his words sunk in. Most private, personal needs.
Oh . . . oh, no.
Suddenly Oliver’s help no longer seemed like such a kindness. Not even lye and a hearty scrubbing would have been enough to
dispel the cursed image of this poor man kneeling worshipfully before the King’s royal chamber pot.
“I am blessed by His Majesty’s favor, to be certain,” Vernon continued, all but vibrating with pride and pleasure.
“Yes,” I said through a rigid smile. “How wonderful.”
And, in a strange way, it was. I appreciated anyone who took pride in their work, especially while in the company of people
who did little to no labor themselves. That pride was all over his essence, bringing a metallic tinge to otherwise pleasant
notes.
There was the starch, warm wool, and shaving soap, of course, but also something green and floral—something I knew I had smelled
before but that was difficult to name now with my mind fading into a haze of exhaustion. A sticky sweet pudding—no doubt a
rare indulgence.
And . . . my brow furrowed. At its heart was a cold, wintry scent. If not some old pain, then perhaps a nod to having grown
up in the north, where the sun set early and the wind whipped with lashes of ice.
“Vernon was one of two people present in the bedchamber the morning my uncle collapsed,” Eleanor continued.