Page 24 of Immortal Rose

It was as pretty a prison as any I’d seen, which was thankfully just the one. I steeled myself all the same. In such a place, it would be all too easy to forget my reason for being there—and that I would be leaving just as abruptly as I’d arrived.

“I suppose now is the time to impart the rules you’ll observe as a guest—” Foxcourt began.

“Prisoner,” I corrected tartly.

“—in my household,” he finished with a warning look. “While you are in my custody, you are not to leave the property unless you are escorted by myself or one of the staff. You will treat them with respect, and they will treat you in kind.”

After a long stretch of silence, I said, “That’s it? Two rules? Nothing about keeping my mouth shut or calling you ‘my lord’ and ‘master’?”

“If you insist,” he said dryly.

I glowered at him, and damn him, he enjoyed it.

“One hopes it goes without saying you’ll do nothing to endanger your own life or the lives of anyone in this house until you have seen your task through,” Foxcourt finished, tugging at his gloves to straighten them. “After which you will have your pardon and be free to do whatever it is you fill your days with, twirling flowers or harassing soldiers or threatening gentlemen with pipes. Which reminds me . . .”

He held out his hand. With great reluctance, I slid Sweetie out from the hole in my dress and deposited it into his waiting palm.

“I will be locking up all of the pipes in the household,” he said, then, seeing my mutinous expression, added, “As well as knives, letter openers, and anything remotely sharp.”

“Almost anything can be made sharp,” I informed him.

“I look forward to your next creative endeavor.” Glancing at it one last time, Foxcourt muttered, “Unbelievable,” before tucking it into his jacket pocket.

In the meantime, four shadowed figures had appeared at the top step of the house’s entry. The steely tension of Foxcourt’s body eased as the staff lined the steps, surprising me again.

The coach rocked as Cartwell stepped down to open the door for us. Foxcourt climbed out, murmuring something to him. I pushed off my seat, only to be brought up short by the sight of a gloved hand reaching back in for me. I stared at it stupidly, then at Foxcourt’s impassive face. Reluctantly, I wrapped my fingers lightly over his, allowing him to hand me down.

“Trying to play the part of the gallant lord now that we have an audience, I see,” I said, releasing his hand. The warmth of his grip lingered, even after I discreetly wiped my palm against my skirt to dispel it.

“Merely trying to fool them into thinking you’re more of a lady than you are,” he murmured back, casting a quick look around at the empty street and darkened homes.

If any of the assembled servants noticed my clenched jaw, they were too well trained to remark on it. As we neared, however, the older gentleman—the one wearing a dark suit and a full powdered wig—looked close to perishing as he took in the sight of me.

“Miss Lockwood, may I introduce Fleming, the butler of Foxcourt House; Mrs. Keyes, our housekeeper; and Thomas and William Longmount, our footmen,” Foxcourt said, his tone shockingly warm.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” I said, trying for a smile.

Fleming nodded, looking as though he were trying to swallow a frog. He was a narrow figure, with all the brittle refinement of a porcelain sculpture. His long face had been drawn down by age, drooping the skin beneath his eyes.

The footmen, however, only eyed me with curiosity. They had forgone wigs themselves, but their crimson livery was resplendent, trimmed with ivory and gold cording marred by the black bands tied around their upper arm.

Of course, I thought suddenly. The household was nearly at the end of a year of mourning for the last earl.

I would have known the Longmounts were brothers even if Foxcourt hadn’t indicated as much; they had the same golden-blond hair, blue eyes, and impish quality to their faces that made them seem younger than they likely were. Like so many of the boys I’d grown up alongside in the Brickbats, the taller of the two, Thomas, had a brutal scar across the bridge of his nose.

Strapping and tall, the brothers towered over Mrs. Keyes. Her own blond hair had been salted with white and braided into a tight crown around her head. I admired the small, gold-capped hairpins the housekeeper had used to secure it—an unusual bit of flourish, given she wore a stiff black dress of crepe and bombazine.

I instinctively stepped closer to the woman, drawn by the promise of maternal tenderness, only to be brought up short.

Mrs. Keyes had a soft, round face and an unfailingly serene smile, but a disquieting feeling unspooled in my chest as the woman’s gaze passed over me. There was an intensity there that was almost raptorial in nature, like the hawks that frequented Riverside, waiting for the easy pickings of the fishing boats.

A movement at my left made me glance over to where Foxcourt was gesturing rapidly to Thomas, his large hands smoothly flowing from one position to the next. With a start, I realized he was communicating with the footman using signed language.

“Yes, of course,” Thomas answered quietly before ducking inside.

My gaze lingered after him. His tone and cadence reminded me of my neighbor in the boardinghouse, Mrs. Gregory, who’d lost much of her hearing. While she had taught me a few basic signs, I could tell that she—much like Thomas, it seemed—was pushing through any discomfort of speaking vocally for the benefit of the hearing.

“I’ll oversee the hot water cans,” Fleming said quickly, fleeing after him. William was the one to open the door to usher us in.