Page 143 of Immortal Rose

“How good of you to come,” Hornsby said in a voice that implied anything but.

As I lifted my face toward him, I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes. A tart curiosity and leathery shock curled through his otherwise staid essence like the stroke of a quill feather.

“My God, you’ve the look of your grandfather,” he blurted out.

I was tempted to take offense to that.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hornsby,” I told him, with my best elocution. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” Noticing he still hadn’t torn his gaze from my face, I added, “Are you quite all right, sir?”

Hornsby gathered himself at once, as a piece of foolscap remembered the shape it had been folded into. He was a tall, well-groomed man in the sunset years of his life. His shoulders were slightly stooped, as if bearing the full weight of this meeting’s burden.

“Quite,” he answered stiffly. “If you’ll follow me to Mr. Rosebourne’s study.”

How very helpful of Mr. Hornsby—that was the exact room I’d hoped to find myself in. The only question was whether I’d be able to filch the jasmine grandiflorum oil from the cabinet without him noticing. That suddenly seemed debatable; as we made our way through the silent house, his gaze returned to me again and again. His wife or husband would no doubt be hearing this entire sordid tale the moment he returned home for dinner.

Mrs. Keyes and Mrs. Silver had been correct. There was a power to infamy. It demanded attention, for better or worse.

“Cor,” I heard Willie whisper, his own essence now flooded with shock as he and the others took in Briarwood Palace. Better that, I supposed, than the sharp mint of their worry.

Our steps echoed through the empty house. The uneasiness I’d felt on my first visit had given away to curiosity as I looked in on each room we passed. Rather than a repelling sheet of ice, the pristine white marble halls felt suddenly enveloping, as if reluctant to let me go again now that I’d returned.

Upstairs, Hornsby’s eyes skated along the wall of portraits, lingering a moment longer than necessary on William Rosebourne’s before balking at the empty space beside it.

“I was sure there was a portrait of . . .” He glanced at me, as if unwilling to say it.

“My mother?” I finished innocently. “Perhaps someone’s made off with it.”

The study was exactly as Hugh and I had left it only a few days before, disheveled in a gentlemanly fashion after being hastily put to rights. Felicity gasped in delight at the sight of the crammed shelves, all but flying to the nearest one. Tommy remained in the doorway, keeping watch of the hall, and Willie went to one of the windows.

A proprietary feeling swelled in me as my nose picked up on other, unfamiliar essences, and again as Hornsby moved to stand behind the desk, where documents had been laid out.

“Have you issued other bequests today?” I asked.

Hornsby looked up, as startled as if I had asked him if I might eat his heart. “Er—yes, at the reading of the will.”

“To which she was not invited?” Felicity asked sharply, tearing herself away from the bookshelves.

Hornsby cleared his throat. “I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupted. “I’m interested in what these other bequests were.”

“Small allowances to longtime servants, personal articles to friends, and such. Here is the relevant passage of the will that concerns you: ‘To my daughter, Lily, or her child should she not be living, I bequeath my commonplace book’”—Hornsby held up a thick black leather-bound journal, then continued reading—“‘as well as the collection of perfumes in the crate bearing the letter L to use as they may. Should no other direct heir be living, they may lay claim to the family’s Treasury.’” Hornsby looked at me over the rims of his silver spectacles. “I fear I do not know what that is, though I suspect you do.”

“Yes,” I told him, and left it at that. “What is the crate the will spoke of?”

Hornsby crossed the room, coming close enough to the hidden archive for my breath to catch. Instead, he tapped a foot against a cloth-covered object.

Willie went to it at once, Felicity a step behind him. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled the cloth free, revealing the crate. As indicated, the letter L had been branded into the lid.

Strange, I hadn’t smelled it at all.

“What the devil is this made of?” Willie asked, crouching in front of it. As he knocked on it, it gave a hollow, metallic sound.

Felicity and I exchanged a sharp glance.

“Iron,” I said. Which meant only one thing.

“Perhaps you ought to let me open it and have a look,” Felicity said carefully. Willie fell back, holding his hands up as he put more distance between himself and the crate.