Chapter Twenty-Five
Consciousness brushed my forehead like a kiss, rousing me gently.
Something medicinal and sticky coated my face, my arms—ointment?
What I wanted was past that scent, past the stiffness of my limbs and the agony of swallowing in my ravaged throat. That essence . . .
leather, honey, blades . . . the warm musk of skin . . . I turned my face against the pillow, seeking it, only to find it
already surrounded me.
A hand stroked down my braid, knuckles trailing lightly over the peaks and valleys of my spine. It was soothing enough that
I almost drifted away again. The warm, steady presence at my back, the soft sound of his breathing and the rustle of parchment,
made me feel safe enough to open my eyes.
The room was shadowed, save for the scattered candles. It was small and cozy, tucked into a pocket of the house like a secret,
with barely room for a desk, washstand, and large wardrobe—all fine, handsome pieces, if not simple in design. It made the
large, moody painting above the washstand rather stand out.
I squinted at it. The image seemed almost familiar, though I knew I’d never seen it before. A finely dressed gentleman stood
at the center of what appeared to be a workhouse of some kind, striking an arrogant pose. One booted foot was propped up against
a small back, while another set of little hands polished it.
“Is that man . . . using a child as a footstool?” I croaked out with great consternation.
The longer I looked at it, the worse the image became. Haunting figures of filthy, too-thin women and children lined the tables
picking oakum. Some had fallen to the ground, wasted away. Others were dead.
The hand stroking my braid stopped and would have pulled away, had I not shamelessly arched back into the touch, seeking it.
After an uncertain moment, the gentle stroking continued.
“He is indeed,” Hugh said from behind me, his voice low.
I was too exhausted to question why he was sitting next to me on the bed, rather than in the wood chair next to the bedside table. The latter looked uncomfortable, and the bed was large, wasn’t it? And so very comfortable.
And smelled entirely of him.
His bed, my traitorous mind whispered in delight, his room . . .
“Your bedchamber,” he began, sensing my thoughts the way he always did, “is still being . . . aired. And I was . . .” He sounded
so self-conscious then, I almost turned to look at him. Somehow, it was easier to be beside him without feeling the pull of
his gaze, and I sensed the same might be true for him as well. “I was rather fixed on the task at hand,” he finished carefully.
“I can bring you to one of the guest bedrooms now, if you feel strong enough. I hadn’t wanted to jostle you before, as moving
seemed to cause some distress . . .”
He was speaking at a quick clip, as if trying to convince himself as well. Leaving was the last thing I wanted to do; it felt
as though I’d found a crack in his armor and slipped inside. Now I’d get to discover what he’d hidden there. And the scent . . .
His essence.
I’d been right; he’d done something to mask it. And, damn him, he’d done it again. As I breathed in, I found only traces of
it clinging to the bedclothes. The realization left me agitated, bereft.
“Why that piece?” My voice was a raw scrape.
He stopped stroking my hair again, chuckling at my faint noise of protest. A moment later, a cool, round glass pressed against
my shoulder. Someone—someone I desperately hoped was not him—had dressed me in a clean night rail, at least.
Reluctantly, I turned onto my back and, with an embarrassing amount of effort and Foxcourt’s gentle assistance, managed to
sit up. I was exhausted by the time I leaned against the headboard. It was the only reason I allowed him to bring the glass
to my lips. My arms were simply too heavy to lift.
I drank as much water as I could, but it did nothing to stop the clawing pain in my throat. As he withdrew the glass, I looked
at him again, brows raised.
“Because it brings me great satisfaction,” he said, his lips curling in a smug smile, “to remember the look on Devening’s
face when it was revealed.”
He’d managed to astonish me again. “This is the Devening portrait? By Shallowbrook?”
I and the rest of Linden had read all about it in the papers as the drama had spilled on and on over the weeks, eagerly lapping up the details of its scandalous reveal at the National Gallery.
Lord Devening, a rising star in Parliament who had made his name with impassioned speeches against child labor, had commissioned
his Rexford school chum and dearest friend, the Earl of Shallowbrook, to paint his first portrait. Shallowbrook himself was
becoming renowned for his realistic renderings of his subjects. The project was intended to elevate both in the esteem of
the Patricians.
But as the drape was pulled from the piece, it revealed something rather more sinister: the secret workhouse in Riverside
Devening owned, unbeknownst to all of society. The hypocrisy had ruined Devening’s political career, but the betrayal of revealing
it had destroyed Shallowbrook. The ensuing duel had left Devening without an ear and Shallowbrook without an arm to paint
with.
Foxcourt held up a finger, looking utterly pleased with himself. “By Tommy, in the direct style of Shallowbrook. Even Shallowbrook
doubted his own mind when he saw it.”
“You did this?” I managed to get out, only to startle again. “Tommy?”
He paused, letting his head fall back against the headboard. “My uncle . . . nurtured an artistic talent into something quite
practical and useful.”
“As a forger?” I correctly interpreted. A damn good one, apparently.
Foxcourt nodded. “His skills are quite useful in this line of work, as I’m sure you can imagine.” He paused, looking a bit
guilty then. “He signed your name on the marriage register—I hope you don’t mind. It was necessary to ensure it was legal.”
An illegal act in the service of a legal one. That sounded about right. “Useful indeed.” I paused. “I can understand being
repulsed by Devening’s hypocrisy, but what did poor, lamentable Shallowbrook ever do?” Oh, but as soon as I asked, I knew.
The man had taken pettiness to an art form. “What did they do to you at school?”
His smile turned severe. “They should have left me alone, and they certainly should not have brought my mother’s memory into
their games.”
“Well,” I said after a moment, “consider my censure revoked. Why not go to the papers with the information about the workhouse?”
“Because Devening could have bribed the editors to keep the information out of them,” Foxcourt said.
“I should know. I do it often enough.” He glanced at me, as if still expecting some indictment.
“If nearly all of society saw it, someone with a grudge against Devening was bound to investigate. And because I saw the irresistible opportunity to strike two names from my list at once.”
He had a list. Of course he did. I quickly did the calculation. “You waited six years for your retribution?”
“I would have waited even longer, had it come to it,” he said, sounding so very pleased and wistful. “Revenge, like hard cheese,
only improves with time.”
“Spoken like a cheesemonger,” I said with a soft laugh. I mirrored his pose against the headboard, turning toward him. “How
many more names do you have left?”
“Three,” he said, his eyes taking soft inventory of my face. “Though after this afternoon, I’ve added more.”
I was grateful, then, that the only mirror in the room was hanging above the washstand, well out of my view. I looked down
at my hands, my gaze snagging again on the ring, its pale blue stone and pearls glittering in the candlelight.
How . . . strange it looked there. The design was so similar to that of my mother’s lost pendant, it was breathtaking; the
only difference was that the pendant had a larger pearl at its center.
Foxcourt watched me, and his look, torn between relief and fury, made my chest swell painfully again.
“Glenmoor,” I said, my throat aching. “He warned me I would regret refusing him.”
“Yes,” Foxcourt said. “It was him. He is the more patient and methodical between us. There are lines I will not cross that
simply do not exist in his mind. Every plan he makes has contingencies.”
“When I refused him . . .” I began.
“When you refused him,” Foxcourt said, bitterness seeping from his words, “he accepted it, knowing I had only one choice to
help you.”
He stared at the end of the bed, his breath shuddering. He was lashing himself over this, not just for what had happened to
me, but for falling into the duke’s trap.
“Madame Audette?” I asked.
“Missing.”
I knew what he meant: dead.
“Audette was one of my informants and was loyal, owing to a bargain she made with my great-uncle,” he continued.
“I cannot say if she or one of her dressmakers applied the poisoned perfume, or if the parcel was intercepted on the way to the house. If Fizzy hadn’t thought to air the dresses out and weaken the scent . . .”
He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.
“Is Fleming all right?” I asked.
“Fleming is fine,” Foxcourt said. “He has a nervous complaint that causes him to swoon when distressed. We generally try to
avoid aggravating his nerves whenever possible. And everyone else is well, just upset at what happened.”
“He wasn’t affected by the perfume?” I asked, surprised. Felicity would be invulnerable to the perfume’s magic, and thank
God for that, but the others . . .
Hugh shook his head. “No one else was affected. Only you.”
I mulled that over, dread slipping along my skin like cold silk. “So either it was made specifically for me, using my blood,
or it had faded enough that only I could detect the scent. I think it must be the latter. Unless . . .”
“Unless your blood was taken at Fairgate,” Hugh finished in a wooden tone. “When they struck you.”
Ah. Right. One of the beatings had broken the skin, and some excuse for a prison physician had come to half-heartedly dab