Page 29 of Immortal Rose

I glanced at Mrs. Keyes, confused by the question, only to realize that she hadn’t been speaking to me at all.

“Yes, I’ll take some of the others in tonight,” Felicity answered from beside the wardrobe. My gaze landed on the sky-blue dress she held up, and my confusion only deepened. “The shoes may be a touch tight, however.”

She and Mrs. Keyes exchanged a silent, unhappy look.

“Wait,” I began, rising unsteadily to my feet. “That’s . . . for me?”

“Of course,” Felicity said. Her smile strained somewhat as she added, “It may be some days yet before I’m able to, ah, repair the dress you arrived in. In the meantime, we have a few for you to choose from. I realize it’s not the right hour for a walking dress, but it will have to do.”

She was speaking plainly, in our shared language, but my mind couldn’t grasp the words, couldn’t assign them meaning.

My pulse skipped at the sight of the ivory ribbon trimming the open neck and beneath the bust. It was perfectly in line with the day’s fashion, so often modeled by the ladies promenading in Royal Park or visiting the shops, with a high waist and sleeves puffed at the shoulder. The fabric looked delicate enough to be torn by my clumsy hands.

As Felicity shook it out, I nearly fell to the ground in raptures when I saw that there were azaleas embroidered along the bottom of the skirt.

How could I wear this? No—that wasn’t the right question.

I straightened, my exhausted mind finally sharpening. “It’s hours past midnight. Why do I need to dress at all?”

“Because, Miss Lockwood,” came a cool voice from the doorway, “your presence has been requested by your new customer.”

My heart sank at the sight of Foxcourt leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. As his pale eyes met mine, the urge to clutch the opening of my wrapper together was overwhelming.

One side of his mouth curled up as he pushed away from the doorframe. But when he spoke again, his expression was the only warning I required.

“Dress warmly,” he said. “We leave in ten minutes.”

Chapter Six

Because the night hadn’t been enough of a misery, at some point in the two hours between our arrival and departure from Foxcourt House, it had begun to rain. Not the lovely sort of summer shower that came and went in a blink and left every surface of the city glittering with a fine coat of dewdrops. The torrential, deep-winter sort that slashed at you like an icy blade.

“It’ll clear up within minutes, to be certain,” Cartwell had told us as we’d hurried toward the coach at the front gate. The poor man was barely recognizable beneath his wilted hat and heavy cloak. “You can tell by the peculiar slant of moonlight.”

In fact, it did not, and soon, even that brief glimmer of warm comfort I’d received began to feel like a distant memory. By the time the coach had begun to snake south through the empty Linden streets, I was too exhausted to be anything other than direct.

“If you won’t tell me where we’re going, you might at least have the decency to tell me who it is we’re meant to see,” I snapped.

The coach rocked as it hit a rough patch of road, but Foxcourt’s large body absorbed the movement with ease. I had to grip the edge of the seat cushion to keep from being bounced onto the shuddering floor between us.

“All in due time,” Foxcourt said, staring out a gap in the curtains. “You need only to demonstrate a bit of patience—a foreign concept to you, I know.”

The volley of rain against the roof drowned out my huff. I leaned back against the seat with care, inwardly relishing the feeling of the short corset supporting my spine as I tried not to wrinkle my fine dress. The fabric was like a cool mist against my skin, not woven to last the way my coarse linen gowns were, but to live a butterfly’s brief, beautiful life.

My fingers curled, testing the limits of the impossibly soft white kid gloves Felicity had handed me. Handed me, as if they were nothing at all.

It was the sort of attire I’d once dreamt of wearing as a little girl. I hadn’t had someone to help me dress since my mother passed, and only Felicity’s undaunted cheerfulness had gotten us both through the awkwardness of it. I’d barely recognized myself in the vanity mirror as she set about pinning my hair and finding a bonnet suitable for the outing.

Foxcourt, on the other hand, looked very much himself in the shadows of the coach. With a will of their own, my eyes traced the bold line of his jaw down his neck, my gaze snagging on his cravat. Or rather, the small dark blotch on the fabric just to the right of the knot.

At first glimpse, I’d assumed he was wearing the same attire as earlier in the evening, but his shirt looked laundered and pressed, and the pattern of his waistcoat was subtly different—the silver vines had leaves on this one. His having gone to the trouble of changing made the drop of blood on the otherwise pristine white fabric all the stranger.

He must have cut himself shaving, I thought, trying not to imagine the very same jaw shadowed with the first hint of a night beard. I immediately amended the assumption, remembering whom I was dealing with. His valet must have nicked him.

A shame the blade hadn’t slipped over his throat.

“We’re passing the orchid trees of Royal Park,” I said, recognizing the scent. “Are we going to an ambassador’s residence?”

That might explain why the King had agreed to issue a pardon.