Page 127 of Immortal Rose

But as the drape was pulled from the piece, it revealed something rather more sinister: the secret workhouse in Riverside Devening owned, unbeknownst to all of society. The hypocrisy had ruined Devening’s political career, but the betrayal of revealing it had destroyed Shallowbrook. The ensuing duel had left Devening without an ear and Shallowbrook without an arm to paint with.

Foxcourt held up a finger, looking utterly pleased with himself. “By Tommy, in the direct style of Shallowbrook. Even Shallowbrook doubted his own mind when he saw it.”

“You did this?” I managed to get out, only to startle again. “Tommy?”

He paused, letting his head fall back against the headboard. “My uncle . . . nurtured an artistic talent into something quite practical and useful.”

“As a forger?” I correctly interpreted. A damn good one, apparently.

Foxcourt nodded. “His skills are quite useful in this line of work, as I’m sure you can imagine.” He paused, looking a bit guilty then. “He signed your name on the marriage register—I hope you don’t mind. It was necessary to ensure it was legal.”

An illegal act in the service of a legal one. That sounded about right. “Useful indeed.” I paused. “I can understand being repulsed by Devening’s hypocrisy, but what did poor, lamentable Shallowbrook ever do?” Oh, but as soon as I asked, I knew. The man had taken pettiness to an art form. “What did they do to you at school?”

His smile turned severe. “They should have left me alone, and they certainly should not have brought my mother’s memory into their games.”

“Well,” I said after a moment, “consider my censure revoked. Why not go to the papers with the information about the workhouse?”

“Because Devening could have bribed the editors to keep the information out of them,” Foxcourt said. “I should know. I do it often enough.” He glanced at me, as if still expecting some indictment. “If nearly all of society saw it, someone with a grudge against Devening was bound to investigate. And because I saw the irresistible opportunity to strike two names from my list at once.”

He had a list. Of course he did. I quickly did the calculation. “You waited six years for your retribution?”

“I would have waited even longer, had it come to it,” he said, sounding so very pleased and wistful. “Revenge, like hard cheese, only improves with time.”

“Spoken like a cheesemonger,” I said with a soft laugh. I mirrored his pose against the headboard, turning toward him. “How many more names do you have left?”

“Three,” he said, his eyes taking soft inventory of my face. “Though after this afternoon, I’ve added more.”

I was grateful, then, that the only mirror in the room was hanging above the washstand, well out of my view. I looked down at my hands, my gaze snagging again on the ring, its pale blue stone and pearls glittering in the candlelight.

How . . . strange it looked there. The design was so similar to that of my mother’s lost pendant, it was breathtaking; the only difference was that the pendant had a larger pearl at its center.

Foxcourt watched me, and his look, torn between relief and fury, made my chest swell painfully again.

“Glenmoor,” I said, my throat aching. “He warned me I would regret refusing him.”

“Yes,” Foxcourt said. “It was him. He is the more patient and methodical between us. There are lines I will not cross that simply do not exist in his mind. Every plan he makes has contingencies.”

“When I refused him . . .” I began.

“When you refused him,” Foxcourt said, bitterness seeping from his words, “he accepted it, knowing I had only one choice to help you.”

He stared at the end of the bed, his breath shuddering. He was lashing himself over this, not just for what had happened to me, but for falling into the duke’s trap.

“Madame Audette?” I asked.

“Missing.”

I knew what he meant: dead.

“Audette was one of my informants and was loyal, owing to a bargain she made with my great-uncle,” he continued. “I cannot say if she or one of her dressmakers applied the poisoned perfume, or if the parcel was intercepted on the way to the house. If Fizzy hadn’t thought to air the dresses out and weaken the scent . . .”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.

“Is Fleming all right?” I asked.

“Fleming is fine,” Foxcourt said. “He has a nervous complaint that causes him to swoon when distressed. We generally try to avoid aggravating his nerves whenever possible. And everyone else is well, just upset at what happened.”

“He wasn’t affected by the perfume?” I asked, surprised. Felicity would be invulnerable to the perfume’s magic, and thank God for that, but the others . . .