Chapter Twenty-Six
The letter from Hornsby he had tucked himself into
the corner of the entry hall and had his gaze fixed on the door, as if debating whether to leave. In his hand was a small
bundle of white roses.
“Vernon?” I began. “Has something happened?”
At the sound of his name, the man straightened, his eyes widening like a child caught sneaking sweets.
“Oh, goodness, no—at least, not beyond what’s already happened,” he said, offering the roses to me. “I came to ask after you.”
He studied my face, lingering on the healing scratches I’d given myself. I took the roses, letting their familiar scent steady
me. My heart gave a little tremble. “Thank you. I’m . . . well.”
“I saw the vicious lies about you in The Linden Times and was appalled,” he said. “I wrote to the editor at once proclaiming your innocence. Lord Foxcourt arrived at the palace
to see Her Royal Highness just as I was departing, and he told me of the marriage and that you were safe. But something in
the way Glenmoor was acting yesterday, preening about—I feared something else had happened.”
I was touched by his fury on my behalf.
“It’s not right that you should be caught up in Glenmoor’s conspiracies,” he continued. “You are innocent of this.”
“I’m glad you, at least, believe so,” I told him. “It would be helpful if others knew the truth about his character.”
Vernon shook his head. “It is . . . it is frightening, isn’t it? That a monster can wear a smile and an orchid on his lapel
and walk among us, celebrated.”
Well, I couldn’t disagree with him. “Would you like to come in and sit for a moment? Or walk through the back garden? It’s
lovely.”
I needed to work, but he was so riled he was trembling. I wanted to find a way to steady his gentle spirit before sending
him back out into the world.
Vernon bit his lip. “I’m sure it is, but I really must be going . . . Tell me, though, is there still the statue of the fish
in the topper hat at the center of the pond?”
Before I could answer, Willie and Tommy came bounding down the stairs, carrying armloads of bedding to be laundered.
“. . . it’ll be quick work,” Tommy was saying. Seeing us, he and Willie stopped at the base of the stairs. “Good morning, my lady.”
I grimaced.
There was a sharp inhalation beside me, and I turned to find Vernon suddenly beside me, his eyes widening with a sparkling
delight. “My God, if it isn’t the Tremont Terrors—Willie Tremont, that can’t be you! It’s as if I’ve stepped back into the
Coffin!”
Silence settled over us like frost. The brothers wore nearly identical stony expressions, their bodies straining instinctively
for a fight.
Because in the Brickbats, there was a fight around every corner and at the end of every lane. You lived in a state of readiness, or you died.
“The Tremont Terrors?” I echoed. “But . . .”
Holy God in heaven above.
I would have made the sacred wheel over myself, if I could have compelled my body to move a single inch.
Bloody hell, I thought. Bloody, bloody hell. And hell’s tits for good measure.
The snake tattooed on Willie’s arm—that should have been clue enough, but I hadn’t been able to place it. He’d gotten it as
a boy to prove himself, never crying out once as the needle bit his skin. At least, that’s how the story went.
For a time, the Brickbats had been plagued by a gang of orphaned children ranging in age from ten to scarcely old enough to
have been cut from apron strings. Employed by a variety of colorful characters and thugs, the children had engaged in everything
from theft, beatings, riots, to—if the street legends were true—murders.
They’d been led by the so-called Tremont Terrors, two particularly bloodthirsty brothers who were widely believed to be hell-born
demons. They were the reason I’d worked so hard to move away from the tenement overlooking the Coffin, that strange intersection
of the old church’s ruins, a forgotten graveyard, and the remains of the gallows.
My gaze shifted between them again in disbelief. Tommy’s had fallen to the floor as he hugged the bedclothes to his chest.
It couldn’t be . . .
But it was.
“The name’s Longmount,” Willie said, his voice hard. “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir.”
Vernon gained a chalky pallor. “No . . . no. You’re right. I was mistaken. Of course.” He turned to me, his voice strained. “My eyes . . . they aren’t what they used to be.”
I waited until Willie and Tommy had vanished into the kitchen before putting a comforting hand on his arm. “I hadn’t realized
you lived in the Brickbats.”
“As a child—a century ago,” he said, shifting his weight between his feet. I smiled at his little self-deprecating joke. “I
was visiting an old friend, and we witnessed a rather spectacular theft of apples by the Tremont Terrors, and from that moment
on, I enjoyed keeping up with the reports of their mischief. Reading about them reminded me of what it was”—he seemed to choke
on his words for a moment—“what it was to be young.”
To be free and wild, he didn’t say.
“I really must be going,” Vernon said. “Please excuse me for interrupting your day.”
“You haven’t interrupted it at all,” I told him. “It’s lifted my spirits to see a friendly face, and I’m grateful Eleanor
has you to look after her.”
He nodded, releasing a shuddering breath. “She is a kind soul, and I fear the throne may come for her before she’s more certain
of herself. Glenmoor underestimates her will and intelligence because she is a young woman, but”—his smile softened as he
met my gaze—“as with you, my lady, he does so at his own peril.”
Rather than wait for Fleming, he opened the door himself and was brought up short by the sight of the young man standing there,
his hand still raised to knock. For a moment, they only stared at each other.
“Why, Oliver!” Vernon said, recovering first. “How wonderful to see you twice in two days!”
Oliver, of course, was immaculate in his blue brocade jacket and matching waistcoat. My own surprise gave way to equal parts
anticipation and dread. I wished I’d had at least a moment to prepare myself for this encounter—then again, I wasn’t sure
I would ever be ready.