Page 116 of Immortal Rose

“There is not a word in our language,” he said in a low, hoarse voice, “that can begin to express how deeply sorry I am that this has happened.” His fingers tightened around mine. His voice took on a deeper quality, as if unearthing all the words he’d taken pains to bury. “I am sorry for all of it. Your arrest. The choice that was put to you. That I couldn’t protect you and your reputation from this, as I promised I would.”

The apology was nearly as shocking as the agony in his gaze.

“The perfume in the journal—the poison.” I took in an unsteady breath. “It is the same one that was used on the King, but I swear to you—”

“I know,” he said ardently, drawing our joined hands to press to his chest. “I know, Viola.”

The sound of my name on his lips sent a disorienting spiral of heat through my center. His brows lowered, and I felt his own heartbeat begin to climb.

“Glenmoor has spent the better part of the last few days whispering of you to the House of Lords, spreading his suspicions and news of the King’s ill health,” Foxcourt said bitterly. “I’d anticipated he might try, and had bribed, harassed, and outright threatened the editors and scandal sheets accordingly. But when Glenmoor’s man brought The Times your mother’s diary and a report on the King . . .”

“Profit prevailed over common courtesy,” I finished flatly. Scandal sold, as it always did. It was the master newspapermen bowed to, the King of all kings.

The earl’s gaze was chilling in its intensity, utterly unrepentant now. “The editor will never print, let alone breathe, another word about you.”

“And my mother’s journal?”

He looked away, his anger palpable. “It was already gone by the time I arrived at the office. I’ll find it. That, I can assure you.”

Foxcourt’s hand was the only thing keeping me tethered as the kitchen began to spin again.

“I risked telling the prime minister the truth of what’s happened before I had solid evidence, but it didn’t matter. Glenmoor has used the home secretary’s Office to gain intelligence on him,” he explained. “Whatever the blackmail is, it’s powerful enough that he didn’t dare to stand in the way of Glenmoor being named regent. The same is true for all the party leaders.”

Of course. I let out a bitter laugh. Morality was easier to preach than uphold, especially when called to make a sacrifice.

“The very levers of influence my uncle had pulled to deny Glenmoor’s earlier attempts to gain power are now at Glenmoor’s command, allowing him to disguise his moves as he’s put this plan in play,” Hugh continued bitterly. “I couldn’t see any of it until it was too late.”

“Will it happen today?” I whispered through numb lips. “The arrest?”

I saw the truth in his eyes.

“It will never come to pass,” he said fiercely. “I can protect you, you need only let me.”

“How?” I whispered. The hollowness opened in me again. It only intensified as he released my hand, reaching for a folded sheaf of parchment he’d slipped into the waistband of his trousers.

The paper smelled of fresh ink, cedar, and myrrh. And . . .

I looked up at Foxcourt. And wet fur.

“What have you done?” I asked him.

He didn’t answer. He only watched as I unfolded the document, bringing my quizzing glass to my eye.

Scanning through the elegantly penned lines, the signatures, I felt my soul slip free from my body.

“But . . . this is a special license for marriage,” I managed to get out.

“Yes,” he said grimly. “It is.”

Part Three

Heart Notes

Chapter Twenty-Three

I stared at him, a silent scream clawing its way up my throat.

“Please,” he began, his gaze beseeching. “Please, before you say anything, hear me out—there is logic to this. Terrible logic, to be certain, but this is the best way . . . the only way I can keep them from taking you. The privilege of the peerage protects any peer, his wedded partner, and his issue from facing arrest for most charges, especially if it is their first offense.”