Page 30 of Immortal Rose

Foxcourt traced his top lip with the edge of his thumbnail, and for a mortifying moment, I forgot that I was awaiting a response.

“Well?” I prompted.

“Close to the mark,” he said. “But not quite.”

“The princess?” I guessed. “One of the old nob’s jingle-brained advisers?”

“By ‘old nob’ I presume you are referring to our rightful and anointed King,” Foxcourt said dryly. “And on both counts, the answer is no.” After a moment, he shook his head, repeating softly to himself, “Jingle-brained.”

We descended back into the cold silence, the rain pounding at the windows. It seemed as good a time as any to begin working through my ever-increasing list of questions.

“Who are you, exactly?” I asked.

To my surprise, he answered drolly: “Hugh Thornton, the seventh Earl of Foxcourt.”

“Contrary to what you may believe, or what your army of governesses may have told you as a child, you are not in fact a witty man,” I informed him.

“I know a host of people who might disagree.”

“Are they all servants?” I asked, and was surprised when a corner of his mouth twitched. “You know what I meant by the question. How did you become involved in . . . this?”

“I have been asking myself that very question these last seven days, Miss Lockwood.”

Impossible man. “Are the rumors true about the last Earl of Foxcourt?”

He looked at me alertly then, straightening in his seat. “What rumors?”

There. That was better—I had his attention now. “There were countless rumors of the home secretary paying for information in the Brickbats, seeking stories of an embarrassing and scandalous nature about the Patricians these fine inhabitants may or may not have served.”

“Is ‘inhabitants’ what you call prostitutes in the Brickbats?” he countered lazily. “I’ll add the new term to my running list, after swad.”

“They said he was a—how did old Barnsford put it? A broker of information. A spymaster, in addition to his other responsibilities with the prisons and public order, of course.”

By now, I was learning to recognize when Foxcourt was intentionally guarding his expression, but God, that face was utterly impenetrable.

Before he could reply, the coach jerked, slowing suddenly. The cobblestones turned to gravel crunching beneath the wheels.

“Finally,” Foxcourt muttered, reaching up to straighten his cravat.

With a last wary look at him, I nudged the curtain aside.

Beyond the glass, a white stone figure glowered down at us from atop his massive marble plinth, one hand gripping his scepter, and the other, the sovereign’s orb, the symbol of the divine right of Albion’s kings.

Alarm trilled like a bell in my mind as the coach rounded the recently completed memorial to King Augustine and, rather than follow the curve of the road to the gloomy Queen’s Park, we took the path that veered left.

Directly toward the gates of Summerland Palace.

My horrified gaze darted to the man sitting across from me.

“A word of advice, Lockwood,” Foxcourt said, his mouth twisting into a cruel approximation of a smile. “I wouldn’t call him old nob to his face if you value your life.”

There was much that could be said about the King of Albion, though the rumor that every horse he attempted to ride threw him likely said enough.

A vain, proud man, King Alfred III had spent the better part of his reign doing little more than spoiling his beloved court with lavish balls, firework displays, and the privilege of magic. The scandal sheets fawned over “Dear HM,” but he was more commonly known in the Brickbats as Uncle Talbert, after the old fairy story about an uncle who’d gladly starved his wards to buy himself a new coat. That, too, probably said enough. If power were a currency, the King intended to spend it only on himself.

And, really, I should have known. Foxcourt’s enjoyment of the mystery, his insistence on going out at this hour . . . Who else but the King could compel him? He probably wanted a fresh supply of his own bespoke Rosebourne perfume, with whatever infernal magic William Rosebourne had imbued it with.

Hell’s tits. And I’d agreed to this.