Page 93 of Immortal Rose

I couldn’t argue with him . . . but neither could I seem to catch my breath. There had been nothing innocent about that look. That confident excitement that blazed from him, irresistible, as if designed by God for the sole purpose of igniting mine.

My heart gave one of those terrible, portentous flutters as the coach staggered forward and we left him. If he was caught by one of the quayside laborers, or even one of the Sloggers keeping watch . . .

Not him. Never him.

Horror wound through me, trailing the realization. That voice, that warning, that reminder—it had changed. No longer tinged with the acid of hatred, it had softened with something that sounded, alarmingly, like fear. I licked at my dry lips, thoughts unraveling at dizzying speed. When had it happened? How had I let it happen?

I did not need him to protect me, and certainly didn’t want him standing over me as I worked, and yet—

And yet.

I was afraid for him. I could diminish it, call it worry, but the truth was as sharp as a hyacinth note. Somehow, in such a short amount of time, I had grown accustomed to him and his presence; it had ceased to be infuriating and become a reassurance, a touchstone as my life reordered itself in rapid, chaotic strokes. As if, after years of flying through life’s winter winds, he had offered me a safe place to land.

In a cage, I reminded myself.

And that was entirely it, wasn’t it? My hands bunched the soft fabric of the cloak. The cloak he had purchased in the days between him personally seeing to my arrest and manipulating my time spent at Fairgate. It was unforgivable.

But this was the same person who had saved an orphan from being flogged, sung a fairy ballad to a petulant dog to encourage her to eat, and taken Mama’s portrait for me.

It was maddening. Confusing. All of it.

All of him.

I glared past my reflection in the cool glass, searching the darkness for an answer it couldn’t give me.

“Your father was a captain, wasn’t he?” Reddy asked into the silence, saving me from the dangerous path my mind was courting.

“The man who raised me, yes.” Thank God this hatred was easy—a simple, snarling thing. “He was, until rigging struck him and he could no longer work, let alone lead a crew. Then he was reduced to a mean drunk.”

How different our lives would have been had he never woken up from the blow. We had passed his favorite haunt on our way in, the Sea Serpent, and my memory had been callously quick to fill my nose with a phantom of its vomit-ridden stench.

“I’m sorry” was Reddy’s only reply. It came as an immense relief when my bitter words merely settled between us again like disturbed dust.

He pushed his curtain aside as his coachman made excruciatingly slow progress down the wharves. As the flash of distant lanterns moved over a ship’s deck like fireflies, a belated question occurred to me.

“Won’t Glenmoor be suspicious that you’re making inquiries with one of his ship’s captains?” I asked. “Your friendship with Foxcourt is hardly a private one.”

“The only surprise would be if Glenmoor didn’t already know and have eyes on the meeting,” Reddy said. “We have some deniability with your presence, however, so keep your hood up and wits about you. Don’t let anyone get a good look at you.”

“He wouldn’t try to intervene or alter the plans for his cargo?” I asked. That seemed entirely foolish to me, and the Duke of Glenmoor did not strike me as a foolish person.

“We’ll find out momentarily, though I suspect Fox wanted him to agonize over the possible reasons for the meeting,” Reddy said, letting the powder-blue satin fall back into place. “The turmoil of uncertainty is a fine distraction, and something His Grace bitterly despises.”

“That seems to be a family trait then,” I said, and noticed Reddy did not dispute this.

Instead, his eyes met mine, surprisingly serious. “A word of advice, Lockwood—don’t allow yourself to be drawn too deeply into this cruel game. They are the only ones who seem to know the rules.”

Too late for that. “The rules seem to be revenge. I can’t say I blame Foxcourt for it.”

Reddy looked truly shocked. “He told you.”

“About his great-uncle and mother?” I clarified. “Yes. What I don’t understand is Glenmoor’s ire for Foxcourt, and why he poisoned his mother.”

“It’s rooted in what it nearly always is—entitlement and inheritance,” Reddy said. “Glenmoor has a pathological need to be perceived as superior to others and a cruel streak as wide as the Narrow Sea. Fox’s mother came into the marriage with a large dowry, which allowed them to make investments to save the failing estate. When the late duke died, Glenmoor was incandescent with rage to discover that the money, and those investments, weren’t entailed to the estate. He felt they were his by right of primogeniture.”

A drip of cold horror moved along my spine. “And he believed killing the duchess would allow all of it to remain with the estate?”

Reddy stared at me a moment, then shook his head. “I see Fox is still being a bit economical with the truth. Glenmoor didn’t merely want to kill her—he tried to kill Fox, too. Hasn’t stopped trying since.”