Page 3 of Immortal Rose

Rosebourne barked out a laugh. “And deny himself his own yearly order? Risk the ire of his Patricians, who have grown so very fond of their scents? Perhaps he should concern himself more with what might happen should the rest of his subjects find out what they’ve been denied. My business would survive, boy. Would his reign?”

Hugh let his top lip curl. For a man who dabbled with oils, Rosebourne certainly enjoyed courting fire.

“The social order must be preserved,” Rosebourne mocked. “And so, by law, the Patricians may keep their fairy relics and do with them as they please. They may purchase perfumes their lessers are not even permitted to know exist, as these noble, godly men”—he gestured to the throng of drunk lords—“can be trusted, having bred the tainted pagan fairy blood from their glorious lines. And all the while, fairy relics are ripped away from commonfolk, who can be sent to Fairgate Prison on the mere suspicion of using fairyborn magic.”

“Where they serve at the King’s pleasure,” Hugh reminded him. “And now, so do you.”

Rosebourne sniffed at the double entendre, dabbing at his nose with his handkerchief. Mint, Hugh noted. Had it been anyone else, he might have spared him a small measure of pity—or at least not enjoyed the man’s obvious misery quite this much.

But another thought occurred to him. It was a misery, wasn’t it? A perfumer’s nose was their most prized asset, but the Rosebourne nose was something else entirely; like every strength, it could be made a weakness. Hugh would remember that. He would use it.

“You’ve his way—your great-uncle’s.” Rosebourne tapped his cane impatiently against the ground. “Smiling and smiling as you sharpen knives behind your back.”

“Thank you,” Hugh said.

“But blades cannot cut through poison, can they?” Rosebourne mused. “Tell me, did the air still reek of licorice when you found him?”

The familiar, sickening weight coiled in Hugh’s chest. The image painted itself in the shadows gathering at the edges of his vision. A body, twisted in on itself, forever contorted by the final throes of agony. The tracks of dried blood streaming from his eyes, his mouth, his nose, and, God, even his ears.

There had been so much of it, pooled on the ground beneath him like ink.

“And yet, the good people of Linden believe he sent himself on to his eternal reward,” Rosebourne continued, “grateful to have the great, charitable Duke of Glenmoor succeed him as home secretary—why, you must have been thrilled the position stayed within the family. And to have him named regent in the event of the King’s death . . . surely there’s no greater honor.”

Hugh gritted his teeth with such force he was surprised they did not crack.

“It is fortunate the customer in question did not become acquainted with that particular foreign scent,” Rosebourne finished, just as his rolling abomination came into view. “Or else neither of us would be in the position of getting what we desire, hmm?”

Hugh shoved down the lingering sting of memory, the humiliation at having been so easily read. Down and down, into the numbing darkness he’d nurtured in his heart. “Quite.”

The white coach rolled to a stop before them, and a footman, looking rumpled after a day of traipsing through the city, leapt down from his perch to open the door for his employer.

Rosebourne limped forward, seizing the young man’s arm before he could move to place the steps beneath the door.

“Sir?” the footman asked, eyes widening as Rosebourne took a long, deep inhale.

Not finding whatever it was he’d been looking for, Rosebourne reared back, snapping for the coachman’s attention. “What have I told you about that blasted polish? Do you mean to suffocate me before we reach the house?”

The coachman blinked owlishly at his employer. “But, sir—”

“Bah!” The old man stifled a sneeze, hauling himself into the dark heart of the coach. He held out a hand, blocking the footman from closing the door. “An update, Foxcourt. By tomorrow evening. You’ll have your perfume then.”

Hugh gave a sardonic bow. The unmitigated gall to give him an order.

As the man’s craggy face disappeared behind the carriage door, Hugh heaved in a deeper breath, seeking whatever scent had so offended the man.

His brow creased. Linseed oil was hardly an assault to the senses, even for a more powerful nose. But if Rosebourne despised it . . . well.

Hugh smiled darkly. He’d be more than happy—overjoyed, in fact—to douse himself with the stuff before standing over the perfumer’s shoulder to encourage the man to blend his little oils faster. And if Rosebourne still resisted, Hugh would personally coat every inch of the man’s house, every blasted piece of furniture, in the polish until it became an inescapable reminder of the task he was neglecting.

Enjoying the thought immensely, Hugh watched Rosebourne’s coach depart with a snap of the ribbons.

Go after him, he heard Uncle Giles’s voice whisper in his mind. The work is not finished.

But it was, at least for this godforsaken day. Rosebourne lived but a short drive away, and Hugh had already put eyes on Briarwood Palace. Come morning, he would be the one haunting the man’s doorstep.

Hugh turned, mulling which nearby street presented the best opportunity to find a hack.

“Where are you off to, Foxcourt?” someone called.