Page 85 of Immortal Rose

“Foxcourt House,” the earl said. “Hand deliver it yourself.”

“Or meet with Vernon,” I told Oliver. “Whichever you feel is most discreet. He’ll get word safely to us.”

Oliver’s shocked delight deepened the leather in his essence. “Vernon! Truly? I’ve been meaning to visit with him.”

The coach came to a final, halting stop.

“Look at that, we’ve returned to your father’s shop,” Foxcourt said. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Radcliffe. Should anything else be required, I’ll send word. If you care for Miss Lockwood, you’ll not speak of this meeting to anyone.”

“What does that mean?” Oliver asked me, alarmed. “I was afraid for your reputation if you were staying in a bachelor’s home—are you telling me that your life is in danger?”

“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “Thank you again for this—and really, any haste you can give to finding the fairy flower oils—”

“I’ll do everything in my power to find them.” He clasped my hand again, and my stomach turned at the wet fur scent of his fear. The door opened behind him, allowing a blinding flood of heat and light to invade the darkness.

“I’ll come for you, at any time, anywhere,” Oliver told me in an ardent voice. “My offer still stands. Remember that.”

“Good day, Mr. Radcliffe,” Foxcourt said coldly.

And then, like a fading dream, Oliver was gone.

“You were unbelievably rude,” I managed to get out. “You didn’t have to treat him in such a high-handed manner when he was trying to help us.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, we are on a rather tight schedule.” He pulled the coach’s curtains shut, sealing us in darkness. His voice was infuriatingly cool. “You may wax poetic about perfume with Oliver when we’ve found the nectar and Immortal Rose is complete.”

“Do you always sneer at other people’s pleasure?” I asked him. “Perfume is the meeting of art and science, the sacred and the profane, and the self and the world. It’s not something frivolous.”

“I never said it was,” he said, in that same remote tone.

He didn’t have to, but it was abundantly clear he didn’t understand that without beauty, without love, without the poetry of the soul, life was meaningless survival. There was a reason babies were anointed with sacred oil, the scent of which was so powerful, so beautiful, it drew the eyes of God. And that was to say nothing of holy incense—frankincense, myrrh, oud—all of which expressed a language so holy it couldn’t be spoken.

“You exist as a man in this world and you have countless ways to define yourself,” I said. “For many young women, whose lives are restrained and ordered from the moment they are born, perfume is more than a rare choice offered to them—it is a declaration of how they wish to be perceived. It’s a small measure of control they take back.”

“Is that so?” Foxcourt said as he gathered the stack of correspondence in his lap.

“Scent is the most important sense,” I pressed on. “It keeps us from eating food that has gone off and adds to the enjoyment of dining. It stirs memory. It locates us in the world. Isn’t there a scent that means something to you? One that you love?”

“Yes,” Foxcourt said. “I long to smell Immortal Rose.”

I sat back in my seat, my head throbbing like hammer strikes. “You’ll have your bloody perfume. Believe me, I want nothing more than to be finished with you—”

He looked up at that, his gaze quicksilver. “With me, or with the perfume?”

I clenched my jaw, unable to speak with the sharp stabbing behind my eye. I pressed a hand to my face, willing it to fade.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, leaning toward me. “You’ve gone as gray as cod.”

“Being made to speak with someone as loathsome as you will have that affect,” I snapped.

There was a beat of silence. “Ah.”

That single sound was enough to stir a flicker of guilt. I shoved it down ruthlessly. He’d been terrible. He was terrible.

Foxcourt knocked against the coach. I lowered my hand as Cartwell slowed us to a stop.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Removing the irritant,” he said, reaching for the door. “Cartwell will see you home safely.”