Page 36 of Immortal Rose

What a handsome pair the two of them made, with their well-honed elegance and long, graceful lines. An ode to centuries of unearned privilege and careful breeding, even. If Eleanor had been a few years older, or at least at her age of majority . . .

I stomped out the thought like I would a roach. If they were to be a pair one day, what did it matter to me? Let them make each other miserable for as long as they both should live. It was only that it was . . . vexing.

Vexing to see her obvious, openhearted adoration of him and the reassurance he seemed to provide to her. Vexing to see him treat her with gentle courtesy when he’d barely mustered anything beyond amused contempt for me.

I strained my ears, quickening my pace to catch the tail of their quiet conversation.

“If they bother you so much,” Eleanor was saying gently, “simply tell ready to stop.”

There was that word again—or not a word, but a name? If not ready, then perhaps . . . My brows rose sharply as the realization finally pieced itself together.

To society, there was only one Reddy of note: Samir Reddy, the young, infamous owner of the Aruval Group, which imported everything from spices to lumber.

“—uncle was right to encourage it,” Foxcourt murmured. “It’s better to have the Patricians assume they know my character. It makes my work easier in that regard.”

Well, well. It was gratifying to know that anything likable about Foxcourt was fiction, a character dreamt up by the scandal sheets in need of a lovable rake—or perhaps by Reddy as a tool to humiliate him.

But Foxcourt had only taken advantage of it, as he took advantage of everything and everyone else. Again, vexing.

The rain had let up by the time we reached the first level of the servants’ wing. Yet, rather than find that shadowed hall back out into the courtyard, Foxcourt and Eleanor veered through a set of open doors beside it, into a sparsely decorated parlor.

A lonely, white-haired figure waited by a leaking window, painting shapes into the pooled rainwater on the sill with childlike abandon. The diminutive man stood no taller than my shoulder and was dressed in the royal household’s violet livery, which, on a clearer day, would have been a near match to the sky as it lightened with the first hint of dawn.

I glanced toward the earl, brows raised in silent question. His rose in return. Patience.

“Excellent, you received my message,” Foxcourt said as he shut the door behind us. “I apologize for the hour, Vernon, but I’m sure you can appreciate the need for discretion.”

The man was all gangly limbs as he whirled around, green eyes wide, face flushed with embarrassment. He’d gathered his equanimity again by the time he’d executed his perfunctory bow. “Your Royal Highness, my lord. It is an honor—why, is that Miss Viola Lockwood? It is!”

My exhausted mind caught up to the moment. “Vernon!”

It was difficult to say who among us was the most astonished, though I might have put a coin on the unflappable Foxcourt. He pivoted between us like a weathervane, his jaw clenched. Eleanor, for her part, only looked charmed.

“You’re already acquainted then,” she said, smiling. “Linden grows smaller by the day.”

“Indeed,” Foxcourt ground out. “Perhaps an explanation is in order?”

I wasn’t inclined to give him one, but Vernon had always been so pleased to be of assistance.

“Before finding employment at the palace, I worked in the Durand household, you see,” he said, taking my hand to bow over it. “Following Mr. Durand’s death, I then moved with Mrs. Durand into their daughter’s household, but the Radcliffes already employed a stable of valets. The youngest son, Mr. Oliver Radcliffe, kindly recommended me for a position here.”

Vernon smiled knowingly at me, and I returned it. For all that life had tried to break Oliver’s spirit, it had never managed to harden his heart.

“Oliver Radcliffe is a friend of mine,” I explained, solely for Eleanor’s benefit. “I became acquainted with him through Vernon, who frequented the florist stall I worked at to make purchases for the Radcliffe household. He realized Oliver and I might share an interest in fragrance.” I turned back to him, squeezing his hand before releasing it. “I’m ashamed to say I’d forgotten you were employed here, but it is lovely to see you again.”

Vernon beamed. “And you as well!”

“Splendid,” Foxcourt said flatly. “Then with the pleasantries over, we’ll move on to the matter at hand.”

“Please, Vernon, Miss Lockwood, sit,” Eleanor said, ushering us toward one of the ruthlessly stiff settees. “We will not take up too much of your time, Vernon. I know you have duties to attend to with His Majesty.”

Vernon did as the princess bade him to, occupying the seat across from her. Foxcourt remained standing behind Eleanor, his hands clasped behind his back like a loyal guard.

“Miss Lockwood will be assisting us in the restoration of the King’s health,” Eleanor explained. “She is a descendant of the Rosebourne line.”

Vernon’s eyes widened with astonishment, his face white—a typical reaction to discovering a fairyborn. “Are you truly?”

My lips set in a grim line. “Unfortunately.”