Page 37 of Immortal Rose

“Oliver always said you had a special gift,” Vernon said after a moment. “He—”

“Miss Lockwood,” Foxcourt interrupted, motioning toward the other end of Eleanor’s settee. “Please do sit. I’ve asked Vernon here so that you might ask him about the poisoning. I don’t anticipate this will take long.”

Not a question, but a command. I fought not to roll my eyes. A stubborn impulse to refuse burned in me, but I didn’t want to embarrass or distress Vernon by being rude.

With a harsh breath, I sat down, keeping my gaze on Vernon. The last five years had done little to change him. He’d always been a fascinating study in contrasts: he had the rich voice of a young man, but the lines of an elder who had already lived a long life. And while he possessed a stoat’s narrow, pinched face, his green eyes were like that of a rabbit: alert, a little frightened, and almost innocent.

“There we are,” Eleanor said. “Vernon is now my uncle’s senior valet and most trusted groom.”

“The Groom of the Stool,” Vernon said, proudly.

I smiled, nodding as if I had half a hope of knowing what that meant.

“He sees to the King’s most private, personal needs and more,” Foxcourt clarified. I felt his amused gaze on the back of my neck like he’d rested his gloved hand there, but even that sensation dissolved as the meaning of his words sunk in. Most private, personal needs.

Oh . . . oh, no.

Suddenly Oliver’s help no longer seemed like such a kindness. Not even lye and a hearty scrubbing would have been enough to dispel the cursed image of this poor man kneeling worshipfully before the King’s royal chamber pot.

“I am blessed by His Majesty’s favor, to be certain,” Vernon continued, all but vibrating with pride and pleasure.

“Yes,” I said through a rigid smile. “How wonderful.”

And, in a strange way, it was. I appreciated anyone who took pride in their work, especially while in the company of people who did little to no labor themselves. That pride was all over his essence, bringing a metallic tinge to otherwise pleasant notes.

There was the starch, warm wool, and shaving soap, of course, but also something green and floral—something I knew I had smelled before but that was difficult to name now with my mind fading into a haze of exhaustion. A sticky sweet pudding—no doubt a rare indulgence.

And . . . my brow furrowed. At its heart was a cold, wintry scent. If not some old pain, then perhaps a nod to having grown up in the north, where the sun set early and the wind whipped with lashes of ice.

“Vernon was one of two people present in the bedchamber the morning my uncle collapsed,” Eleanor continued.

The man’s expression fell like a curtain. “Yes. A terrible, terrible day. I am at your service, Miss Lockwood.”

The floor behind me squeaked as Foxcourt began to pace. The steps filled the silence like the tick of a looming clock.

While I knew what perfume had likely been used, my curiosity, as usual, got the best of me. “Could you tell me how you believe the King was poisoned? Does he apply his own perfume?”

Vernon’s face turned ashen. “No, that responsibility usually falls to his valets. The fragrance is applied to his clothing, rather than his skin, as he prefers.”

Responsibility. The divinely appointed ruler of Albion couldn’t even splash a bit of perfume on himself? How had the kingdom survived this long?

“The clothing is chosen and laid out the night before,” Vernon continued, glancing toward Eleanor and waiting for a nod before divulging more. “I always ensure it has been done before retiring for the evening. A valet named Milton was responsible for the task that evening.”

“And he’s innocent?” I asked.

“Yes,” Foxcourt said firmly. “Everyone with access to the King’s chamber was questioned with the use of one of your grandfather’s perfumes, Crown of Veracity.”

Vernon’s smile became a grimace.

Finally, I twisted around, leveling Foxcourt with a look of disbelief. “You actually used that god-awful perfume on them?”

Mama had written of her disgust for the perfume in her journal, horrified at witnessing the cruel way it forced the truth out of its scenters. When asked a direct question, if they dared to withhold the truth, or, worse, lied, the perfume made it feel as though a crown of burning thorns was piercing their scalp and lodging into their skull.

“Hugh!” Eleanor straightened, her eyes narrowing. “You said it wouldn’t harm them!”

“And it didn’t,” Foxcourt said unrepentantly, “because they told the truth.”

The princess blew out a hard breath. “I do not like to be lied to.”