Chapter Eleven #3
Fleming looked flustered but pleased. “You really should use the front door so that I have the privilege of announcing you.”
“And ruin the fun of surprising you?” Reddy scoffed. “Never.”
“Use the front door,” Foxcourt ordered without looking up from his letter.
“Do you ever let anyone make their own decisions?” I asked, amazed.
Foxcourt’s gaze was piercing. “And risk them making the wrong choice? Is that also the behavior of a nib?”
Oh, that arrow had struck true, hadn’t it? And now he was slyly trying to figure out what it meant.
“Why don’t you tell me?” I said, smiling at his obvious irritation.
Reddy shook his head as he rose. “Well, thank you for the day’s amusements, Fox. I’ll cherish the happy memory as I go over
my deadly dull reports.” He gave me a bow and another fond smile. “Lockwood, it’s been a pleasure.”
“I hope to see you again soon,” I told him, wondering if that was too forward for the new, more ladylike Viola Lockwood. “Even
prisoners are allowed the occasional visitation, after all.”
Foxcourt lowered his letter, exasperation pouring from him.
Reddy winked. “You may count on it. This one does need the occasional help from his charming friend, whether he wishes to
concede to the fact or not.”
“Who said I even think of you as a friend?” Foxcourt muttered.
“Eleanor, your only other friend, and I have outvoted you on it,” Reddy informed him.
Foxcourt stared at him. “I believe you were taking your leave of us. Don’t allow us to delay you a moment more.”
I took the opportunity to edge the afternoon broadsheet toward me, searching for the report of what they’d been discussing
before I’d come in. The paper still felt warm and had a slight sandy cast of pounce, as if it had only just arrived from the
printer.
Forgetting my self-consciousness, I closed my left eye to better scan down the columns of reports and advertisements. Seeing
nothing of note, I unfolded it and would have continued reading, if Foxcourt hadn’t interrupted me.
“Page three,” he said. “You’ll enjoy it. My idiocy is thoroughly excoriated for leaving a bottle of gin too close to a lantern
in my curricle, disturbing the peace of the morning.”
I frowned. It was cunning to play the fool so others wouldn’t suspect you of pulling strings behind that curtain, but it also
took a remarkable lack of pride to suffer the indignity. Something I would never have expected of him.
“It is often better to be underestimated than admired,” he said in answer to my questioning look.
“Is that why Reddy places those ridiculous stories about you?” I asked, enjoying his look of surprise that I’d pieced as much together. “I must say, I’m rather disappointed you never squared off against a dastardly lord in Royal Park.”
“I try to leave dueling to the idiots,” Foxcourt said. “I find it helps cull their numbers.”
“Shame.” Realizing I was smiling, I pressed my napkin to my mouth. “I suppose I should be grateful we won’t have to waste
time fending off your lovers.”
“On the contrary.” Foxcourt tilted his head, regarding me with a smirk. “I never said all of those stories were untrue.”
I tried not to shift in my seat, my cheeks warming uncomfortably. Bothersome man—but one surprisingly willing to engage in
a bit of coarse banter. That he could provoke such a reaction, that he had to have that face and a forelock that curled cavalierly over his brow.
I willed the rebuke to my mind, letting it flood my body like ice. Not him.
Not ever him.
“Are you still intending to pay a visit to Briarwood Palace?” he asked. “Though I would strongly advise against announcing
yourself as its future heir.”
“I have no intention to.”
At least not until I had the funds to pay for my own protection. Moreover, I needed to be in control of whatever stories would
be fed to the newsmen, rewriting as necessary. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe it wouldn’t be a scandal of the highest
order that Mama hadn’t died, as Rosebourne had claimed, but by measuring out the details as I would drips of oil into perfume,
I might be able to evoke sympathy rather than scorn.
“Am I allowed to know what it is you need there?” Foxcourt asked. “It may help decide how we arrive.”
It would be now or later, I supposed. “I am looking for a very old book—the Treasury, as the family calls it. It contains
all the formulations for the known magical perfumes. If your theory is correct, Immortal Rose will be among them.”
Mama had spoken of it repeatedly. She’d begun her journal as a new Treasury, for my benefit.
Rather than a record of her days, it served to catalog what formulations she could recall, as well as other instructions.
The only thing she had been careful not to include were the bargains—those she taught to me directly or I had to intuit on my own.
“And you know where they might keep such a book?” Foxcourt asked.
“Yes,” I said. If Rosebourne had truly been as set in his ways as Mama believed.
“Excellent, then I have one final question for you,” Foxcourt said. “How do you feel about breeches?”