Page 77 of Immortal Rose

His stomach knotted, twisting as the classical face of the club came into view. He hadn’t been back since Rosebourne’s death, but he’d heard it had opened its doors again after three paltry days of “respectful” mourning.

The familiar hackney coach had stopped just short of the black scar the blast had left in its wake. With a deep sigh, Hugh began his approach.

The driver had tilted his gaze up, marking the constellations just visible through the hazy cover of clouds. Hearing Hugh’s steps, he straightened, putting on an exaggerated east city drawl as he turned: “Where to, guv?”

The question withered on Reddy’s lips.

“Straight to hell,” Hugh said dryly, prying open the door and climbing inside before the other man could stop him. Reaching forward, he slid the window open between Reddy’s seat and the passenger compartment.

“Get out,” Reddy ordered, strangling the ribbons in his fists. “I’m working.”

“I thought you’d finished with this,” Hugh said.

“As you’ve finished with Glenmoor?” Reddy hissed back. “I’ve the right to use the hackney as I see fit, don’t I? I store it at my mews.”

His tone dared Hugh to say something more of it. But there were certain lines they both knew not to cross; what barbs would scar, rather than merely cut. The ghost was with them, hovering like a shimmer of moonlight, waiting for an acknowledgment that would never come.

Reddy had sworn he was done with it, that he’d accepted the viscount’s story.

“God forbid a man indulge in a bit of espionage to break up his boredom,” Reddy muttered.

It was a terrible lie, but it wasn’t worth the damage of unraveling it simply to be proven right.

“Boredom?” Hugh echoed incredulously. “You’re bored of running a global shipping empire? You have people you can pay to collect whispers for you now.”

Reddy scoffed, the unusual tautness of his expression easing. “They wouldn’t know what to listen for.”

The hackney coach had been one of his great-uncle’s prized tools for collecting information, whether it was business plans or useful rumors. He’d sent both young men out time and time again, until they knew the lay of the city’s streets and they’d learned the way to be so invisible Patricians would speak as though they weren’t there.

He and Reddy had made a competition out of who could collect the most useful morsels of intelligence—then again, they’d made a competition out of most things.

“Who tattled on me?” Reddy twisted around to glare at him through the window. “It was the Roach, wasn’t it? I thought I saw him skittering about.”

Hugh snorted. “We questioned the asset tonight.”

Quickly, concisely, he filled Reddy in on the relevant details.

Reddy’s eyes strayed to the blood-damp sleeve of Hugh’s coat, marking it with a purse of the lips. He also knew better than to ask.

“A DeForest and the Gallian National Archives, eh?” Reddy shook his head. “What sort of records would they be looking for?”

“I don’t know yet, but I need to see what—or who—is on that ship,” Hugh said. “I still think there’s something to the silks.”

“You know I think Glenmoor’s a hell-born fiend,” Reddy began, “but is it truly so hard to believe that his factories would be able to produce such high-quality silk? All the informants you’ve sent in have confirmed as much, haven’t they?”

It was a point of pride among the Patricians that they never be expected to sully their hands with any form of labor or trade. Most stubbornly insisted on deriving their wealth from tenants and landholdings alone, refusing to confront an ever-changing world with even basic investments in industry for fear of being seen as uncouth and grasping by their peers.

And within a generation, they would find themselves in dire straits—many already were, Hugh knew. He’d used it to his advantage; it was the most reliable form of leverage over a man’s soul.

Hugh’s father, however, had been forced to evolve. The Glenmoor estate was situated on a darkly picturesque but defiant stretch of land that had refused all attempts to cultivate it into farm- and pastureland. Sensing the shifting winds of modernity, Hugh’s parents had invested in several factories and mines.

To the surprise of all, the present—and notoriously rank-conscious—Glenmoor had recently developed a deeper interest in the struggling silk mills in that portfolio.

“Mrs. Silver still hasn’t heard back from her sister, I take it?” Reddy said.

Mrs. Silver had written to her sister on the day of the King’s poisoning in that coded way they had of communicating with each other. The vicomtesse was a dependable source of information within the Gallian King’s court and could be relied upon to sniff out any connection Gallia had to Glenmoor or the poisoning.

“Nothing yet,” Hugh said. “It’s only been a week, but we can’t wait for her response before making a move.”