Chapter Sixteen #4
irresistible blend of money and intrigue and tragedy. Hugh didn’t doubt for a moment she’d find a way, though whether she’d
be willing to play society’s skull-numbing games was a different question.
He was beginning to suspect—indeed, hope—that she had inherited some of her grandfather’s ruthless edge. That willingness
to do whatever was necessary and navigate outside of society’s rules—how very, very rare that was. Hugh wouldn’t have known
what to do with a petal, but he’d been playing with knives since he was a child.
“You could cultivate her as an asset,” Reddy said, though his tone suggested something else entirely by asset.
No, that was—no. Lockwood would never make for a truly good informant, let alone a spy. In his line of work, being forgettable was the height
of success, the most supreme of compliments. There was simply nothing forgettable about her.
And that hair. That fire-kissed hair shot through with bolts of pure snow white. It caught the eye in an instant. Worse still, there was
a menacing little curl that seemed prone to escaping her coiffures, resting against the soft nape of her neck. It had become
an unwelcome fixation, something to ponder as he lay in bed glaring up at the ceiling.
“She can’t follow orders, which immediately rules out any use I might have of her,” Hugh said, before tossing a pointed look
over his shoulder. “And she seems decidedly against marriage as a concept. I doubt she’ll risk relinquishing control of the
House of Rosebourne to any husband.”
“Shame,” Reddy said. “Though I still think there’s a chance of convincing her—I can be very persuasive.”
Finally, Hugh located the bloody keyhole and jammed the key in, giving it a twist until he heard the hidden door’s inner lock release.
Reddy let out a happy sigh. “I adore a hidden doorway.”
“If you are quite done making calf eyes at it . . . ?” Hugh groused, struggling with its immense weight.
“You have it in hand, as always,” Reddy said, though he deigned to lower the doorstop and take the candle.
Hugh had little need of it as his eyes adjusted to the shadows of the stairwell, though he kept a hand to the wall all the
same, remembering how Lockwood, out of sheer bloody stubbornness, had done the same rather than ask for more light.
The cold, still air brought with it hints of greenery and herbs, smelling more like an apothecary to him than a perfume archive.
Lockwood would no doubt be able to use her clever nose to distinguish each thread of the muddled mass of them.
And that thought stirred another—of the list, in careful penmanship, Lockwood had written of the oils she claimed to still
need.
“It’s rather dungeon-like, isn’t it?” Reddy said as they stepped down into the crowded chamber.
“What do you know about the Radcliffe family?” Hugh asked instead of answering.
“The bell maker Radcliffes or the apothecary Radcliffes?” Reddy asked, inspecting one of the tulip-shaped flacons.
“Apothecary,” Hugh answered, quickly scanning the shelves for any sign of the nectar. “Lockwood is insisting one of the sons
fetch the supplies she needs. I’m to send a note to him in the morning.”
“Which one?” Reddy asked curiously. “That family has an overabundance of strapping boys, all trying to prove themselves to
dear Papa.”
“Oliver,” Hugh said. “The youngest, I think.”
“Hmm, he’s the one I haven’t met,” Reddy said. “Seemed a bit sickly, from what his brothers said. I’ve worked with them to
source a few products they carry: medicines, teas, and the like. They indulge in a little sly importation fraud from time
to time like the rest of us, but nothing that would be a cause for concern. Unless you harbor a violent dislike of Gallian
bonbons and sweetmeats.”
Hugh’s mouth set in a hard line. So, nothing useful then.
“You seem, dare I say, disappointed to have to send a missive to this Oliver Radcliffe,” came his companion’s sly observation.
Bloody Reddy.
Hugh’s jaw set. “I only care about the sort of people I invite to my home, and the less people who know of her work, the better.”
“Could we not just take what she needs from here?” Reddy asked as they reached the shelves of raw oils.
“She claims only he knows ‘the particular balance of perfumer’s alcohol I need,’ among other things,” Hugh said. “I suppose
I’ve no argument if it hurries the perfume along.”
Reddy paused beside the shelf to his left, clucking his tongue. “No chance of that now.”
Hugh’s lungs seized as he circled around to Reddy, exasperation writhing in him as he spotted the label Nectar of the Afallach Tree and the empty space above it. “Damn it all . . .”
Reddy drew the candle closer. “Yes, agreed, but look—look at the dust.”
The shelf was caked with a thick layer of it, save for a perfect, small circle where the bottle had sat. It had been there. Very recently.
“Maybe he moved it to a workshop to make the perfume?” Reddy suggested.
There was a chance of that, of course, however unlikely. The image of the thief flashed in Hugh’s mind, only for him to dismiss
that in short order, too. Now, as he gazed around the chamber, he looked past what was there and sought what wasn’t.
“A number of oil bottles are missing,” Hugh said, taking quick stock of them. “Heatherbore, moonflower, silverbranch, and
sweetfeather . . .” All fairy flowers or herbs. “They might have been used up, or . . .”
“Traded or sold?” Reddy suggested, catching the drift of his thoughts. “But why?”
Why, indeed? Hugh could think of only one thing that might convince the old man to part with such valuable oils, and recently.
“Rosebourne was looking for her.”
“Who?” Reddy asked, blinking. “Lockwood?”
Hugh nodded. “That’s what he wanted in exchange for making Immortal Rose—for me to find her. He might have asked someone else
first, before he knew he needed the nectar for the King.”
And so, the question became: Who had it now? And what would it take to get it back?
They returned up the steps into the study.
It was more of a relief than he cared to admit, working alongside Reddy again.
His uncle had trained them both well enough that Hugh didn’t need to ask the other man to search the desk for records or recent correspondence they might have missed earlier.
Reddy simply did, humming to himself as he leisurely gathered a pile.
“Reddy,” he said suddenly.
His friend glanced up from his work. “Yes?”
God, he would live to regret this. He knew he would. And yet, he couldn’t help himself. It had been bothering him all day,
like an itch he couldn’t reach. He knew a great deal of cant—well, a passable amount. Enough for disguises. He couldn’t have
a gap in his knowledge.
“What,” Hugh began, “is the difference between a nib and a nob?”
Reddy stared at him a moment, then it dawned on him. His lips compressed as he smothered a laugh. “You know, Fox, I think
it’ll be good for you to live with a bit of mystery.”
“I’ll find out,” Hugh groused. “Eventually.”
Reddy only hummed an annoying little hum, and Hugh regretted not foisting a second orphan on his conscience and household.
But on the subject of orphans . . .
“There’s another matter I’ve been meaning to ask you about,” Hugh began.
“I do think all that black makes you look more sallow than mysterious, yes,” Reddy said.
Hugh was tempted to point out the scandal sheets Reddy adored would beg to differ. “Have you heard anything about so-called
snatchers in the Brickbats?”
Reddy canted his head to the side. “No, but I absolutely do not like the sound of that. Did you ask Slip and Sneak?”
“They claim it’s more of an old wives’ tale to scare children from straying too far from home,” Foxcourt said, “but that children
did go missing from time to time.”
“For reasons I’m sure I don’t want to know,” Reddy said. “Should I make some discreet inquiries?”
That was the advantage Reddy had existing at the edge of the Patricians’ world. He moved between the levels of society with
far more freedom and, outside of the Patricians, with significantly less scrutiny.
“Yes,” Hugh said, grateful. “You might start with your new hall boy. He’s the one who brought the matter to my attention.”
“Yes, about that,” Reddy said, glaring at him. “Take him back. Now.”
“I already have a full staff,” Hugh told him. “Half of whom are rather livid with me just now. Felicity of all people gave me a scolding—I haven’t been dressed down like that since Nanny Agatha found me rummaging around her trunk for sweets.”
Reddy clucked his tongue, sympathetic. “Don’t let them guilt you. You did what you had to—what Foxcourt would have done. There
wasn’t time to work out the details.”
Hugh nodded, relieved to hear someone agree with him. But still, that cold stone of memory sat heavy in the pit of his stomach.
His mind prickled with the beginnings of a notion.
You must make it right with her.
Reddy had returned to the window. Seeing Hugh had lingered near the study door, he asked, “Was there something else?”
It was a terrible idea, of course, but lately those seemed to be the only sort he had. She had looked upon it with such longing
. . . That seemed like permission enough.
Damn it all.
“Yes,” Hugh said at last. “There’s one more thing.”