Page 200 of Immortal Rose
Lifting his uninjured arm, I slid into the bed beside him, resting my head against his shoulder. His chest rose and fell beneath my hand as I slid it over his clean shirt, searching for his heartbeat. There was a rustle as he instinctively turned his face toward me, his cheek settling against my hair. My heart swelled until I feared it would shatter.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I was aware of was a soft knock at the door. I bolted upright, twisting around to look at Hugh. The fear that ripped at my heart lessened with the next steady, deeper breath he drew in.
Bewildered from the brief sleep, I rose, straightening my hopelessly ruined dress. The light in the room was a touch brighter; it had likely been only a few minutes.
Fleming waited in the hall, his expression grave. He held out a slim note. “This has just come for you, my lady. From the palace.”
Desperation pierced me as I took it from him and broke the seal. I already knew what it would say. Come at once. It is his final hour.
“My lady?” Fleming prompted. “How may I assist you?”
“I’ll . . .” God, could I really do this? “I’ll need the coach brought round.”
He nodded, looking relieved to have something to do. “At once.”
There was no going back now.
Quickly, I changed into a simple brown dress and grabbed one of the dark cloaks. Felicity had sewn a pocket into it at my request, and it would be just big enough to hold the other flacon.
I lingered at the bed, leaning over Hugh to brush my lips against his. Rising, I pulled myself together, trying to settle my mounting nausea with a deep breath. God, it was awful leaving him before I knew for certain if Immortal Rose had worked. Tearing myself away felt like ripping my heart in two and leaving half of it with him.
But step by step, I forced myself out of the room. Down the hall. Down the stairs. Down the servants’ corridor into the kitchen. Down the garden path.
Down, down, down to the hell of seeing this terrible business through.
I stared out the coach’s window, watching the procession of coaches reentering Summerland Palace’s forecourt to convey their lords and ladies home. Of course. Dawn had arrived, and now they would amble home to their beds, sleep away the day, and when they rose again, their world would be the same as it ever was. Serene, gilded, easy.
My resentment festered.
The weight of the perfume flacon tugged at my cloak, until that slight pressure pulled its collar like a noose.
Rather than return to the inner courtyard where they had found Hugh, Cartwell brought the coach around to the wing that overlooked Queen’s Park—the royal family’s private apartments. Even in the low light, I could just make out the shadowed impression of Briarwood Palace through the screen of oaks.
The entry was protected by two guards. Clearly, they’d been expecting us, opening the gate at once to reveal another, smaller porte cochere.
My pulse heightened to a painful degree as Cartwell brought the coach to a halt beneath it and climbed down to assist me. Both Willie and Tommy had gone out to help Reddy track down Glenmoor, and just then, I missed their reassuring presence.
“Would you like me to accompany you?” Cartwell asked gently.
I nearly said yes. When had I become such a coward?
“I’ll be all right,” I assured him, clasping his arm as I stepped down.
“I’ll be just here, waiting for you,” he promised. “And—”
“Viola!”
A familiar voice made me wheel around toward the gate.
“Oliver?” I called, half in disbelief. But there he was, restrained by one of the guards, even as he gripped the gate’s bars.
“It’s all right,” I told the soldier. “You can let him through.”
They did, reluctantly. Oliver hurried toward me, looking far more rumpled than he had earlier in the night. His essence was drenched in wine and ratafia, but he seemed sober enough as he looked me over.
“My God, I thought that was your coach—I was just heading to Foxcourt House—” Oliver paused to catch his breath. “I heard about what happened to the earl—is he—?”
I drew him into the palace, where another guard was posted.
