Chapter Twenty-Three
I stared at him, a silent scream clawing its way up my throat.
“Please,” he began, his gaze beseeching. “Please, before you say anything, hear me out—there is logic to this. Terrible logic,
to be certain, but this is the best way . . . the only way I can keep them from taking you. The privilege of the peerage protects any peer, his wedded partner, and his issue from
facing arrest for most charges, especially if it is their first offense.”
Oh, yes, I was quite familiar with that particularly outrageous inequality, one of a thousand blessings granted to the powerful and denied to the
rest of us. As if their noble blood somehow absolved them of their crimes—if they were ever investigated and brought to light
at all.
“No.”
Foxcourt released a shuddering breath, sweeping out of his chair in frustration. “Of all the times to be stubborn—”
“No,” I repeated, hearing the word crack with anger.
“It would be a marriage in name only,” Foxcourt continued. “It would never be consummated, and therefore there would be no
impediment to it eventually being annulled.”
My blood heated to a boil. He’d thought of it all, hadn’t he? “No.”
His scowl twisted into something that was altogether more bitter. Almost as though I’d hurt him. “Am I to receive any sort
of explanation as to why?”
“You know why,” I bit out. “I will never consent to be a man’s property. If it’s to be one prison or another—”
“What a charming assessment of marriage,” he cut in, now edging toward anger himself. Foxcourt began to pace, only to stop
to throw back the whisky Mrs. Silver had left for him.
I wondered then if he felt it, too—the way we had somehow circled back to a more crushing version of his original offer: him
or Fairgate.
God. As feeling returned to my body, so, too, did the burn of the welt the shackle had left around my ankle. Every breath pulled at the healing bruises across my back. It had felt like a lifetime ago, but it had been only days. Three? Four?
I cannot do this. The room swirled around me once more, darkness seeping into the edges of my vision. I cannot go back there. I cannot go forward.
I had only ever felt this powerless once in my life, as I watched Mama draw her last breath, her body and soul broken.
There had been no line thrown to save her from her marriage’s daily pain and terror. Not the priest at church, who had encouraged
her to obey her husband with the meekness and virtue demanded of her by the holy book. Not the law, which allowed only for
a husband to petition for divorce. To destroy the bond of holy matrimony, she’d had to destroy herself.
I couldn’t stop the tremors that worked through me, and I no longer cared that Foxcourt bore witness to them. Let him see.
Let him understand. Let him have this key.
“Would it truly be so awful,” he asked quietly, “to be married to me? Have I done nothing to earn your trust?”
I pressed a hand to my eyes, drawing a ragged breath. No. Of all the men I’d known, save Oliver, only Foxcourt had ever given
me a feeling of safety. He had upheld his word and never sought to use mine against me. He had never raised a hand to me,
but he had protected me with his body.
“Even if I were to agree, it would not work,” I said, grasping at that miserable fact as my other arguments threatened to
unravel. “The privilege of the peerage does not protect peers from charges of murder, let alone high treason. I cannot see
how attempted poisoning of a king would be deemed anything less.”
Foxcourt slid back into the chair, trying desperately to master the hope in his expression. “Contrary to what the papers would
portray, Glenmoor does not have the legally required evidence to bring such charges against you,” Foxcourt explained. “He
needs two witnesses to attest to you making and applying the poison to the King’s garments, and Vernon, as well as the only
other valet present, are too loyal to His Majesty to do so, even with threats of retribution from the duke.”
“He can manufacture witnesses,” I pointed out. “Many men will do and say anything for a few coins.”
Foxcourt shook his head. “I have a written statement from the man who delivered the King’s Blend, stating that the flacon came directly from Briarwood Palace, and it was brought directly to the King’s chambers, where you would have no way of reaching it.
Your former employer at the flower stall has also submitted a statement that you were there at the time of the poisoning. ”
I stared at him. “You accomplished all that in a single morning?”
Foxcourt waved an impatient hand.
“If he cannot prove high treason or attempted murder,” I began, “then what charge would Glenmoor bring against me?”
Foxcourt swallowed harshly, looking miserable.
“Selling my perfumes,” I guessed, “at the Midnight Market.”
“I’m sorry, Viola. I cannot say it enough.” His expression was agonized. “I removed all the records of your arrest from Fairgate,
but Glenmoor found the original witnesses who claimed you sold them perfumes containing fairyborn magic.”
“But what about the King’s pardon?” I pressed. “Can’t he issue it now?”
“All pardons are supposed to pass through the Office of the home secretary,” Foxcourt said, looking as frustrated as I felt.
“He’s to advise the King on their merits. The King can circumvent him—especially if it means his own salvation—but it will take time to formalize the royal prerogative of mercy,
and Glenmoor would be able to hold you in the interim.”
Stalling all progress on Immortal Rose. By the time I was released, the King could be dead—just as Glenmoor intended.
“And this time,” Foxcourt continued quietly, “Glenmoor would know exactly where you are. With his power over the prisons as
home secretary, you would be at his complete mercy.”
My thoughts raced, overwhelmed. Every second I thought I’d had to complete the perfume was slipping through my clenched fingers.
“What is the King’s present condition? Is he experiencing any hallucinations or confusion?”
The poison would ensure his mind would be the last piece of him to fail. He would be horrifyingly aware of his pain and withering
body to the end.
“His Majesty is weak, but he has his wits,” Foxcourt said. “For once, his intractable personality has proven useful—he still
believes Gallia, and the DeForests, to be responsible for the poison, not you. He told the prime minister as much, when I
brought him and several other members of Parliament to see his condition for themselves.”
“He will be lucky to have five more days,” I told him. “Once he slips into unconsciousness, it will be only hours.”
“Then we will have the nectar within five days,” Foxcourt persisted.
The full weight of his attention was breathtaking, bringing its own gravity. It carved away the rest of the world, leaving
only us.
“Foxcourt . . .” I shook my head. “Hugh. You said it would need to be my first offense for the privilege to apply, and we both know it wasn’t. Glenmoor can find others
to claim I sold them perfume as well.”
“Yes, but peers are exempt from laws forbidding the sale, trade, or holding of fairyborn goods,” Foxcourt reminded me gently.
“It will not matter that you sold them before you became a member of the peerage. He would not be able to arrest or imprison
you—not for that offense or any other false ones he invents.”
Of course. The lower classes were forced to relinquish their fairy goods they had inherited or found. Only the upper class
could be “trusted” with the magic inherent in their families’ fairy relics. Just as they were the only ones allowed access
to, and knowledge of, the fairyborn magic in the House of Rosebourne perfumes.
How hideously ironic for that inequality to be the thing to save me now.
“Please,” Foxcourt said, and in that desperation, I saw a hint of the boy he had been, the need to protect others that had
been born from everything he’d lost. He was frantic with it. “I have to help you. I need . . . What else can I do to convince
you? If you cannot bear the thought of this . . . I can find a way to hide you. We can slip out of the city if we go now.”
Even exhausted, his mind was working tirelessly, tracing out each possibility.
“They would think to search Reddy’s house,” he murmured, bracing his hands against his knees and hunching over them. “Glenmoor
would tell them to. But there’s a cottage—no, news of this will spread quickly from town. It won’t be far enough. But if I
send you with Keyes . . .”
He was trying. God help the man, he was. It meant something, didn’t it, that he respected my wishes—that he was no longer
imposing his domineering will on me? That he had hoped, rather than presumed or demanded, I’d agree to his absurd plan?
Fairgate or Foxcourt.
Foxcourt or Fairgate.
My pulse beat like a hummingbird’s wings.
If I stayed, I could finish the perfume as soon as we found the nectar. A ruined name wouldn’t prevent me from inheriting
the Rosebourne fortune, but being imprisoned meant being unable to create the perfume, heralding certain death for the King.
I would lose in the court of public opinion before ever being allowed to defend myself on trial.
And his proposed third way, running . . . Exhaustion stole over me like the first snow of winter. I’d been running nearly
my whole life. I was sick to death of it.
The thought of letting men drive me back into the shadows was utterly provoking. I was too prideful to give them the satisfaction of my fear. Besides,
running would make me look guiltier, and I would never get to make Glenmoor pay for forcing me into this corner.
It wasn’t acceptance that settled in me then, but resolve. Remarkable how much agony was bound up in the making of a decision,
and how quickly it eased once the course was set.
“I’ll ask Cartwell to prepare a team,” Foxcourt said. “Tell Fizzy what you’ll need—”
I drew in a deep breath. “I need assurances.”
“—and we’ll—” I saw the moment my meaning finally took root in him. He fell silent, not even daring to draw a breath. The
chair creaked as he leaned back against it. “You . . . that is . . .”