Page 158 of Immortal Rose

“Tell Fleming . . .” I tried clearing my throat, but it didn’t strengthen my voice the way I’d hoped. “Tell him that it was only a bad dream.”

There was no need to distress him until morning, when he saw the carpet carried out.

Hugh sat back, his expression softening as he helped me up from the ground, guiding me away from the body toward the chairs arranged in front of the hearth. He tried to lower me into the nearest one, but I resisted. It was damn near impossible to get blood fully out of silk, and I wasn’t about to ruin the cushion.

“I’m fine,” I told him again, pulling out of his reach to sit instead on the wood bench at the end of the bed. Hugh hovered beside me a moment longer, as if not yet convinced. His eyes seemed to darken with his thoughts, and I knew he was torturing himself over this, too.

Finally, he tore himself away and strode toward the body, crouching. After a moment, he began a thorough search of it—for tattoos, scars, anything he might have been carrying on him that could have identified him.

“We could have questioned the man,” he said. Rather bravely, I thought. It came exceedingly close to scolding Mrs. Keyes, who still held the vicious needle in her hand.

“There’s no need,” she said simply, cleaning its length with a handkerchief before slipping it back into her braid. “Lady Foxcourt knows who sent him.”

I stilled, pinned to the side of the bed by their expectant gazes. “I . . . well . . .”

“I expect you’ll have questions for me as well,” Mrs. Keyes said to me.

“Actually,” I told her, “you’ve answered the most pressing one. You’re . . .” I trailed off. She didn’t need me to tell her who she was. The deadliest assassin in all of Albion’s history, and the sole person responsible for ending the Gallian Revolutionary Wars. “. . . a hero. How did you know he was here?”

“I heard him creep past my window and thought this might be his destination.” She arched a brow. “How fortunate you were not here for him to find.”

“Who is this man?” Hugh demanded, not letting me squirm away from the most pressing question.

“Goodness, can the poor child not be removed from this terrible scene?” came Mrs. Silver’s voice from the doorway.

She carried a can of steaming hot water in, closing the door behind her. Careful to avoid dragging the hem of her wrapper in the various pools of blood, she made a large arc around the room to empty the can into the washbasin, only stopping to peer down at the man. She clucked her tongue. “Really, Marina. The carotid?”

“Everyone’s a critic until they’re holding the needle,” Mrs. Keyes huffed as she moved around the room, lighting more candles. “He dropped something, my love. I wasn’t sure if it was poison.”

“It was perfume,” I told them. “One meant for sleeping. I recognized the notes.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Silver said, bringing me a towel and the basin of hot water. I tried to take both from her, but she merely sat and began to clean the man’s blood from me. There was a distant, almost dreamy look on her face.

“Nights like this make me reminisce,” she said, sensing my confusion. “I fell in love with Marina the first time she tried to jab one of her needles through my eye, and she with me, after the third time I tried dosing her with cyanide.”

“It was really after the second time. You nearly had me with the wine,” Mrs. Keyes said with utter adoration. “Even after the intense palpitations wore off, my heart still fluttered every time I thought of your face. It was as good as any reason to stay alive during that war, knowing you were coming to try to finish me off.”

I looked between them with a pained smile, feeling a touch lightheaded. Not one but two assassins in the house. Surely that had to be some record. Still, harrowing details aside, it was rather romantic, in its own mildly deranged sort of way.

“You were an assassin for Gallia?” I clarified.

Mrs. Silver nodded. “You seem—oh, what is the word?” It came to her quickly. “Quite sanguine about the fact.”

“Surprisingly so,” Hugh said in disbelief. “When did you suspect?”

“That everyone in the house wasn’t who they claimed to be?” I said as Mrs. Silver cleaned around my nose. “From the very first night.”

Mrs. Keyes’s startling essence took on new meaning. God, how many lives did you have to claim before their blood stained your soul to that degree?

“For one thing, there’s nightshade in the kitchen cupboard,” I said.

Hugh shot an accusatory look toward Mrs. Silver.

She lifted a shoulder in a perfectly Gallian shrug. “One simply does not know when a little deadly nightshade might be required.” She turned to me, stroking a knuckle down my cheek as she marveled, “How clever your nose is.”

“Thank you,” I told her, resisting the urge to bask in that praise. To Mrs. Keyes, I said, “I don’t know that I ever would have guessed that you were the . . .” It was strangely difficult to make myself say it. “. . . the Black Needle.”

Mrs. Keyes smoothed a wisp of loose hair back. “In truth, I sometimes forget myself.”