Chapter Thirty-Two
“How does one rob the Butcher of Linden?”
Reddy looked up from where he had been taking a long sip of his coffee. “Easy. They don’t.”
The gloom-drenched morning room felt like a mirror to my mood. To my surprise, only Reddy and young Theo awaited me at the
breakfast table.
Reddy stood and gave a slightly ironic bow. Seeing Theo had remained seated, he hooked a foot around his chair and dragged
it back, then lifted the boy to his feet by the scruff. “We rise when ladies arrive and depart. You might also try a ‘Good
morning, my lady’ for good measure.”
“M’lady?” Theo interrupted, leveling me with a look of searing accusation. “Yer one of ’em now?”
“Temporarily,” I said, a bit too defensively given I was speaking to a child. “Don’t think I won’t give you a good basting
if it comes to it.”
The boy let out a harrumph. “But yer a lady.”
“A notorious one,” I reminded him. “Haven’t you heard? I poison kings and bewitch husbands. The home secretary himself threatened
to arrest me, you know.”
Theo seemed begrudgingly impressed.
Scrubbed up, with his brown hair trimmed, the boy looked almost healthy. He wore a miniature, nearly identical version of
Reddy’s attire—a maroon jacket, yellow patterned silk waistcoat, and pale breeches.
“He’s been promoted from hall boy to minion,” Reddy explained at my questioning look, reclaiming his seat. “Now what’s this
about robbing Greystone?”
Theo’s brows rose with interest, his cheeks stuffed with crumpets like a squirrel hoarding acorns as he looked between us.
I gave Reddy a speaking glance. By the innocence of his expression, he already knew everything.
“Here’s a quaint idea,” Reddy began, pouring himself more coffee. “Why don’t you try simply asking him for it back?”
“I think we both know that is not how Greystone operates,” I said. “He’s said to live at the gaming hell he owns. Is there a way to slip inside, perhaps posing as deliverymen, or—”
“He holds meetings in the study of his private apartments all day,” Reddy said. “If he has the nectar, it would be there.
Hypothetically, if I were to encourage your participation in this—which I am certainly not, if Fox asks—your best bet is to wait until the evening, when he leaves to walk the gaming floors. In fact, I heard he’s
intending to host a fete there in honor of midsummer tonight.”
“Oh?” I asked, pouring myself a cup of tea. “And, hypothetically, how would one secure entrance to it?”
Reddy glanced at his fob. “I suspect you’ll see for yourself, in just a few moments.”
“Foxcourt?” I guessed, glancing to his empty seat.
“No, he’s engaged in other sordid business this morning.” Reddy picked up the copy of The Linden Times, passing it to me. If I hadn’t already been seated, I would have fallen over. There was a single story on the front page.
Duke of Glenmoor to Wed Princess Eleanor
“No,” I whispered. God, poor Eleanor. She must have been terrified. “How is this even possible? Is the King even—?”
Theo looked up, intrigued, and I barely caught the word lucid in time to hold it back. It was the tenth day. If the hallucinations hadn’t begun, they likely would by evening. It no longer
felt safe to hope that the King’s Blend would grant us additional time. We had to maneuver with the assumption the King had two days left. At most.
“I don’t know how he did it,” Reddy said, sensing the direction of my thoughts. “Glenmoor gloated about securing consent yesterday,
but given the King’s condition, we were awaiting word from Vernon on the matter. Fox has gone to confirm that there’s been
a legal Instrument of Consent issued.”
“Binged out of ’ere the moment he saw the papers,” Theo supplied helpfully. “Was in a right terror of a mood.”
Reddy gave him a narrow look before continuing. “The document would have to have been witnessed by the Privy Council—but,
of course, the groom himself is a member.”
Of course he was. I buttered a piece of toast, fuming.
“You should have told me of this yesterday,” I chided.
“I thought Fox would,” Reddy said. “But knowing your views on marriage, he likely didn’t want to distress you—and, well, he’s
been rather distracted as of late.”
Anything I might have said was preempted by the slam of the front door and a hurried set of steps.
“Young William?” Reddy sang out. “Is that you?”
It was. He had forgone his footman’s livery, instead donning a simple suit of clothes. His eyes were overbright as he gave
me a pleased little bow. “My lady.”
“See?” Reddy told his protégé.
Theo, for his part, sat with his back as straight as a board, his eyes wide and his mouth opened. He looked as if he had met
God himself.
“Is your hall boy all right, Red?” Willie asked, noticing himself.
“Minion,” Reddy corrected. “And yes, give him a moment to allow his soul to return to his body. Did you procure the goods?”
Willie brandished a slim envelope, waving it victoriously.
“I never doubted you for a moment,” Reddy said. “You still have the slyest fingers in all of Linden.”
Theo made a noise of utter worship.
Willie beamed. “Is Tommy about? His lordship’s going to want—”
Tommy’s excited essence joined us as he did. When I saw the painter’s smock he wore, I understood the heavier-than-usual presence
of oil paints in it. “I was working in the attic and saw you through the window. Did you get it?”
Willie seized the opportunity to wave the envelope again. “Think you’ll be able to copy it quickly? I need to put it back
before the Dovers’ butler is wise to it vanishing.”
At least I now knew who was Slip and who was Sneak. I took a long, fortifying sip of tea and looked to Reddy. “Was it necessary
to steal it?”
“It’ll be returned before anyone notices it gone and reports it missing to Ardent’s,” Reddy explained. “Only members are invited
to Greystone’s soirees.”
“And neither you nor Foxcourt are?” I asked, surprised.
Reddy scowled. “The waiting list for membership is outrageous. Remarkable what the Patricians can overlook for a bit of high-stakes
play and the chance to pitch a crime lord on investments.”
Remarkable was one word for it. The gambling establishment was shrouded in an irresistible layer of mystery, but legends of it persisted across the Brickbats. Its dice had been the ruin of countless men and legacies.
“I’ll need to put it back before the butler and housekeeper return from their errands,” Willie warned. He held the invite
out to his brother. “What do you think?”
Tommy wiped his hands carefully before he handled the envelope, taking up a butter knife to slide beneath the wax. To my amazement,
he pulled it off without tearing the paper.
The midsummer celebration was a midnight masquerade. Aside from a flourished A at the top of the card, the time of arrival, and which entrance to use, there was nothing particularly scandalous or remarkable
about it.
“This is too simple,” Tommy said, lifting the card and slanting it toward the sunlight. “There must be a hidden mark on it
to verify its authenticity.”
If one was embedded in the weave of the fine cardstock, sunlight didn’t reveal it, nor did any hidden ink appear with a dab
of lemon juice or when it was held over a steaming cup of water.
The Longmount brothers looked to each other. Willie dashed out, only to return a few moments later, steering a flustered Felicity
into the room.
She gave Willie a narrow look. “Is there a reason you’re interrupting my writing hour?”
Willie gestured to the invitation. Clasping her hands behind her, Felicity leaned over it. After making a slow, careful study
of the front, she turned the card over.
“There’s a marking just here,” she said, pointing to the lower right corner. “A simple diamond outlined in blue ink, with
a red number twenty-one inside.”
“I knew it,” Willie said, smacking his fist in his other palm.
“But—there’s nothing there,” Theo protested, standing on his chair to see it.
I moved to stand beside Felicity, lifting my quizzing glass. I saw it now, though it was nearly too faint to make out. The
Treasury had used Rosebourne blood in its ink to ensure only the family could read it. I’d never thought I might be able to
read anything else written in regular fairy ink.
“The ink is invisible to the human eye,” I explained to him, “unless, of course, you’re impervious to magic.”
Fizzy leaned back. “If that’s all . . . ?”
“God, I hope it is,” Reddy said, then signed to Tommy, “Do we have fairy ink?”
“We do,” Tommy confirmed. “Should I copy it exactly, down to the number?”
Reddy mulled it over. “Yes. We don’t know how Ardent’s numbered the invites. The safest bet would be for Fox to pose as Dover
at the door. I’ll find a way to keep Dover occupied to buy him an hour or two.”
Tommy nodded, setting off to begin his work. And after finishing my last bite of toast and the rest of my tea, I helped the
others clear the breakfast table and began mine.
The next few hours were the most peaceful I’d known in some time. As my hands worked, my thoughts emptied, surrendering to
the simple pleasure of perfumery.
The makings of Immortal Rose sat in a brown apothecary bottle before me, releasing its golden flowering scent as I pulled
out its stopper and returned it to the vessel I was using to mix it. I added one drop of Rosebourne’s jasmine oil, then another.
Relishing the way the notes harmonized with one another, I wondered if this was how a composer felt, arranging symphonies
in their mind, layering notes only they could hear, the singular joy of it belonging solely to them for that short while.
The Treasury, open on the counter behind me, seemed to purr in shared appreciation.
I would add the perfumer’s alcohol once I had the nectar, and, of course, the magic once everything was blended. As frustrating
as it was, this was all I could do for now.
I drew in a deep breath, steeling myself against the thought. Having finished my primary distraction, I reached for the list
Felicity had assembled of Mama’s perfumes, skimming through it for any that were unfamiliar. Most were the perfumes that she