Page 45 of Immortal Rose

But, of course, I hadn’t fallen. I’d been pushed.

From a rapidly moving curricle.

Which had then unceremoniously exploded.

After I had somehow negotiated a new life for myself with a dying King.

And before that, there had been Fairgate and a haughty stranger with a bargain I couldn’t refuse. Somewhere in the mix, there had been not one, not two, but three baths.

Rather eventful, the prior evening. Or had it been morning? God, what time was it?

The sunlight was warm and golden, signaling late morning. I sat straight up, letting the bedclothes pool in my lap. While most Patricians woke near luncheon after a night of soirees or operas or whatever frivolity the Season offered, I hadn’t slept past sunrise in . . . well, ever.

The bedchamber around me was somehow even grander in the daylight, its colors darling and softer than a young lady’s dreams, every surface all but glittering with remembered delight of the pile of coins that had been spent on it.

And then my gaze fell to the other side of the bed, where it met the suspicious regard of the tiny creature draped over the pillow beside my own. As the sun danced through the waving branches of a nearby tree, I could have sworn its enormous watery brown eyes gleamed with a hint of red.

“Good morning?” I tried, swallowing against the dryness of my throat.

The dog—a spaniel—huffed, crossing one thin leg over the other before lowering its head onto it. Barely larger than a loaf of bread, its white-and-chestnut coat had been brushed to glossy perfection, with a pink bow tied on each long ear. I reached out to stroke the soft curve of her head, only to rear back as the fiend snapped her teeth at me.

“I bite back,” I warned. The dog returned to her comfortable repose with a huff. “Well, aren’t you just a prime article?”

She didn’t even smell like a dog to me; the rose-sweetened scent of the house clung to her, along with the lather of the honey soap used for her most recent bath. The very soap favored by the humans of the household. But there was also something else there, too—jagged and musty, like old bones—that must have been her adorable personality shining through.

I shifted, stretching my legs out beneath the cool linen sheets and coverlet. A fresh twinge of discomfort accompanied the odd feeling of bandages tightening across my back.

Right. The dratted ointment.

I reached down, brushing the bandage around my ankle. Felicity had insisted on changing it last night after I’d gotten yet another scrubbing and wide-eyed questioning about why the earl and I were covered in soot and mud.

The thought of Foxcourt seemed to dim even the daylight pouring through the windowpanes. A memory of his pallid face as he’d thrown himself over me flashed in my mind.

I had gladly handed him off to Mrs. Keyes and the footmen for their care and cooing, though he’d seemed hardly worse for wear. And here I’d thought all the soft-soled aristocrats had the constitutions of newborn hedgehogs.

My hand rose, reaching for the familiar weight of Mama’s pearl pendant, only finding bed-warmed skin and the soft lawn of my night rail. I closed my eyes and sighed. At least I hadn’t had it at Fairgate. It would have been ripped from my neck in an instant. If I could just return to my lodging and retrieve it, I’d feel better. But there was no way of going without bringing Foxcourt there, too. I knew that now.

I forced my eyes back open.

Unless . . . I looked to the window, surprised to find that it had swung open at some point in the night. I gauged the distance between the sill and the nearest tree branch.

The dog growled.

“I was only considering it,” I informed her. It made me feel better, somehow, to know that I could. Foxcourt would never have to know until the necklace appeared. And it would mean being able to bring Mama’s journal here as well. While I had committed most of her notes to memory, I had a feeling I’d have need of it eventually.

The dog swiveled her head toward the door, and a moment later, there was a knock and Felicity’s head, frilly cap and all, poked inside. Her cheeks were flushed a lovely rose, and her green eyes shone brightly—until her gaze landed on the dog.

“Brigadier, you goblin! How did you get in here?” she said, setting a pitcher of water down beside the basin on the dresser.

Brigadier? I blinked. Well, she did have a commanding presence, I supposed.

“It’s all right,” I began, but Felicity had already crossed the room, fearlessly snatching the snarling, beribboned demon off the pillow and setting her down outside the door. She shut it firmly, but not before giving the creature an admonishing shake of the finger.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Lockwood,” Felicity continued, flapping her hands in helpless irritation. “I fear Slip and Sneak have been teaching her all sorts of unhelpful tricks, including how to open doors. She’s a right terror.”

I swung my legs around, planting my feet on the plush carpet. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I asked, “Slip and Sneak?”

Felicity straightened like she’d touched a hot fireplace poker. “Oh—I mean, that is—it’s what we call, erm, called Tommy and Willie. They’ve always been imps, see.”