Chapter Thirty-Seven
I slammed into the ground in a mass of silk and rose petals as a second shot tore through the silence. My breathing was harsh
in my ears, my jewelry clattering horribly as tremors racked my body. Bile rose in my throat, tasting of terror. I pressed
my hand to my mouth. Then, over the pounding in my ears, I heard a soft voice.
“My lady? Are you all right?”
When I forced my eyes up, they met Willie’s worried gaze. His stolen police uniform sagged on his frame as he crouched in
front of me, offering a hand. Somehow, I managed to swallow and, with his help, rose back onto my feet.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” I said, my nerves trilling wildly. The world hadn’t quite settled around me; it felt as though
I was still moving through a nightmare.
The kingdom will come to understand my plans. They will be grateful for the elegant world I have created for them.
God, this had to work. It had to.
“Good,” Willie said, giving my arm a comforting pat. “Sorry to have given you a fright, though. You’re certain you’re all
right?”
I gave him a shaky nod. “Just determined to finish this.”
“That may have been my most dramatic entrance yet,” came Reddy’s voice from across the room. He ripped off his police hat
and threw it onto the body sprawled at his feet. “I must say, you played the part of terrified murder victim exceedingly well.”
“At this point I’ve had more practice at it than I’d like,” I said. I tried not to look down at the bodies of the two policemen.
The scent of gunpowder and blood was turning my stomach violently. “Did you get it?”
“Did he get it?” Reddy scoffed.
Willie held up a small silver pin. “Slyest fingers in all of Linden.”
I took the fairy charm from him, shaking my head in amazement. Out of the corner of my eye, Reddy was shucking off the heavy
police overcoat and trousers, revealing his evening attire.
“D’you think anyone heard?” Willie asked. “The gunshots, I mean?”
Given that we could hear the music and laughter pouring from the party even at this distance, it was hard to say.
“Let’s hope they mistake it for popping corks,” Reddy said, offering me his arm. “Shall we? Fox’s bound to be driving himself
mad with worry.”
“I’ll return to the coach,” Willie told me, toying with the door handle to lock it from the outside. “We’ll leave at the moment
you’re ready.”
Reddy’s composure fortified mine as we made our way down the empty corridor, retracing the path the policeman had dragged
me through only minutes before.
“What did he say to you?” Reddy murmured, covering the hand I’d placed on his arm with his own. “Until this moment, I wasn’t
aware you were capable of being shaken. I’ve half the mind to find you a quiet place to lie down.”
I slowed, swallowing to ease the painful knot in my throat. “His plans go far beyond tormenting Hugh—far beyond claiming the
throne.”
He listened intently, his expression darkening as I outlined the duke’s plans for his monstrous perfumes and the lives he’d
take to claim them. Hearing it all again had a transformative effect on my fear, blossoming it to rage. It nearly overwhelmed
me by the time we reached the exterior door. A few of the servants gave us curious looks as they returned with their empty
trays but said nothing.
“Last chance, Lockwood,” Reddy said softly. “I can get you far away from here, if that’s what you really desire. You’ve already
risked enough.”
I shook my head. “And miss the opportunity to boil this bastard alive? Never.”
The call of trumpets sounded, heralding nothing good.
“Then,” Reddy said, his smile betrayed by the sadness in his eyes, “I believe that’s our cue.”
Something about the landing of the lovely, age-old stairs down into the palace gardens had turned sinister, making it look,
even from a distance, like an executioner’s stand.
Eleanor was visibly struggling to maintain her usual poise as the Duke of Glenmoor returned to her side. A line of royal guards
and police fell in place behind them, a looming shadow.
The Patricians gathered at the base of the stairs, their excitement peppering the air.
Reddy held us back, just beyond the light of the firepots and torches.
It was a moment more before I saw Hugh’s dark figure in the middle of the throng.
The only sign of his worry was how very, very still he was, only giving a curt nod in response to something the man beside him said.
Glenmoor held up his hands, seeming to relish the immediate hush that fell over the Patricians.
“It is with great pleasure,” he began, his voice clear and carrying, “that I welcome you, esteemed guests, to Summerland Palace
on behalf of His Majesty, who is not well enough to join us this evening . . .”
He paused here, and a shared, murmured prayer rose as the Patricians dutifully made the sign of the holy wheel.
“. . . and on behalf of Her Royal Highness, Princess Eleanor,” Glenmoor said. His smile as he lifted his mask made my skin
crawl. “Who I am blessed to call my future wife.”
I carefully wove through the frothy dresses and riveted faces, spying Oliver standing with his brothers, all watching the
scene with rapt attention. At the last moment he caught my eye, his brows raised in question. But I had no answers for him,
not yet.
If it were possible, Hugh seemed to sense I was nearing. His posture relaxed, even before I came up beside him, slipping my
hand around his arm.
A celebratory cheer went up around us, as grating as it was terrible. Eleanor flinched, but Glenmoor only smiled at the assembled
peers, ever benefic. Ever superior.
Until his gaze landed on me.
The moment of shocked silence was absolutely delicious. It took him far longer than I might have expected to recover. He cleared
his throat.
“I am honored by His Majesty’s faith in my ability to protect our beloved princess,” Glenmoor said, carefully looking anywhere
but at us. “And I look forward to serving the realm for as long as there is breath in my body.”
He turned, reaching a hand back for Eleanor.
My heart hammered painfully in the silent lull that passed.
Eleanor’s hand rose from her side, descending toward his upturned palm—only to lift away, just before his fingers could close
over hers.
Instead, she used that hand to rip away her mask, revealing the dark bruise he’d left on her to horrified gasps from the crowd.
“Your Grace,” she said, her flawless elocution carrying the words across the length of the gardens. “I must ask: Did you, or did you not, poison His Majesty the King?”
A curtain of shocked silence swept down, so heavy that no one escaped it. Not the guests. Not the guards. Not even Glenmoor
himself.
His throat worked visibly, his pale face flooding with red. The veins in his forehead bulged. He had the look of a man being
boiled alive, of one who knew that all those carefully spun layers of protection and planning he’d covered himself in were
on the verge of being unraveled.
Glenmoor spun toward Hugh, his nostrils flaring as he trembled. But Hugh was still looking down at me, a soft smile on his
face as he stroked my hand.
It had worked.
“I would advise you not to lie,” Eleanor said, spreading her hands out before her. “I have been wearing the Crown of Veracity
all evening. The longer you resist the truth, the more agonizing it will become.”
Glenmoor’s eyes widened as he reached up to touch the fairy charm that was no longer there. I saw the moment he realized what
had happened—the trap he had sprung in believing that Hugh’s final, desperate play would be for me to bring Immortal Rose
to the King tonight. In allowing himself to think of Eleanor as nothing more than a pet he controlled.
And now he stood in front of the whole of society, including the prime minister. Everyone he had expected to bow and simper
to him.
“Did you poison the King?” Eleanor asked again.
Glenmoor strained, his face tormented as the magic raked over him, clawing into his skull like a crown of thorns.
Finally, he gasped out, “No.”
This time, I was the one shocked. My grip on Hugh tightened. He looked to Eleanor, communicating something to her in the silence.
The princess nodded.
“So you did not poison the King directly,” she said, “but allow me to be more specific: Did you play a role in the conspiracy
to poison him, so that you could become regent?”
“I—” Glenmoor choked out, his face reddening. “I—”
“Are you responsible for the deaths of the late Duchess of Glenmoor and Lord Foxcourt?” Eleanor continued, advancing a step
toward him.
“That’s—” Glenmoor’s voice quivered. He shot a murderous look toward Hugh, who ignored him.
“Answer me,” Eleanor continued, her voice imperious. “Are you a traitor to Albion?”
Glenmoor clutched at his head. Around us, several of the gentlemen had begun to push forward, their anger clouding the air
like a battlefield clearing of smoke.
The prime minister, clearly shocked, was at the base of the stairs. “Answer Her Royal Highness’s questions, Glenmoor. If you
are innocent, defend yourself.”
“I—” the duke choked out. “I—”
His gaze drifted one last time to Hugh. To the assembled crowd of shocked and titillated Patricians. To Eleanor.
He uttered a single, whispered word. “Yes.”
And fled.