Page 113 of Immortal Rose

What was going on? What had happened?

The duke stared at me a moment more, his brow arched in expectation. As if to say, Here is your last chance.

“You’d best be off then,” I told him.

He made the barest attempt to doff his hat to me. “A pleasure, Miss Lockwood. I hope you’ll remember, as you rot away in your dank cell, this very moment . . . though I suspect you may come to regret your decision sooner. Most who refuse me do.”

He strode away, seizing the last word for himself. His steps were light and his bearing refined as he approached the back gate. Mrs. Keyes held it open for him, saying nothing.

“Ah, Keyes,” he said, loud enough for his voice to carry back to the rest of us. “I look forward to the day I am no longer a guest here but your employer.”

“How I long to have you in my keeping, Your Grace,” she told him. “The day cannot come soon enough.”

Somehow, I held myself together until he was out of sight. Then, with that crack in my resolve, it all burst forth: the trembling, my sobbing breaths, the terror. Brigadier licked my cheek, and I pressed my face to her soft fur.

It came together then, with a slow certainty that made me feel utterly cold and sick. Foxcourt’s absence. The odd mood Felicity had been in. The lack of broadsheets at the breakfast table.

“Here now, ma chère,” Mrs. Silver said, stroking a hand down my back. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”

“I . . .” The garden spiraled around me, dark spangles blotting out the pastel sweetness. Where was Foxcourt? “It’s . . . I’m all right . . .”

“Yes, chère, we can see that,” Mrs. Silver said soothingly. The others circled around me, their essences enveloping.

“Did he harm you?” Fleming asked urgently, lifting Brigadier from my arms. He must have seen the welt Glenmoor had left then, because he gasped. “And he claims to be a gentleman! I’ll—why I’ll—”

“I’m so sorry,” Felicity said breathlessly, gripping one of my icy hands. “I should have been watching.”

I swayed, momentarily overcome by the force and scent of their fear.

“Let us give her some space,” Mrs. Keyes said, seizing control of the situation. “Willie, Tommy, if you would be so good as to find his lordship? I believe he went to Parliament.”

Looking grateful to have something to do, the young men took off. I sought the older woman’s face then, knowing she wouldn’t soften or hide the truth. “What’s happened?”

“Marina,” Mrs. Silver began uncertainly, “perhaps . . .”

“She has a right to know,” Mrs. Keyes protested, taking my arm in hers. “Come with me, Miss Lockwood.”

Fleming and Felicity remained in the garden as I followed her and Mrs. Silver into the kitchen, as hollow as a reed. Mrs. Keyes pulled out one of the chairs at the staff table and gestured to it. “You’ll want to sit.”

So I did. My hands folded in my lap as she disappeared into the staff hall, and by the time she emerged, clutching a newspaper, my fingers had turned to strangling knots around one another.

Mrs. Keyes set the broadsheet down in front of me. There was no need to locate the article inside. The news had usurped the usual advertisements, notices, and columns.

King Poisoned by Lost Rosebourne Heir

Seven days ago, His Majesty was cruelly subjected to the effects of a deadly poison disguised as a perfume, rendering him ill and unable to conduct his duties. Through diligent investigations by the home secretary and the police, a suspect has now been identified: one Viola Lockwood, lately of Crescent Street, who asserts that she is the natural-born daughter of the late Lily Rosebourne, who did not die of fever as was reported, but who was cast out by her father upon the revelation of her illicit affair.

The text swam. I lifted one numb hand, not to reach for Mama’s missing necklace, but to ensure there wasn’t a knife in my heart. My face felt too hot, too tight, and the rest of me stripped bare. Exposed.

Her story has been proven through a journal of perfume formulations kept by Lily Rosebourne, which includes the very perfume said to have sickened the King. The journal was recovered from Viola Lockwood’s boardinghouse by City Police, who have been congratulated and thanked by the palace.

Oh, God. They had Mama’s journal.

“Keep reading,” Mrs. Keyes urged.

I forced myself to look down at the paper again. The softness of her voice had filled me with a new, deeper trepidation.

The Duke of Glenmoor, recently named as regent by the power of the Regency Act, will assume that role in addition to his duties as home secretary, supporting Princess Eleanor until His Majesty has recovered.