Page 2 of Immortal Rose

Rosebourne was nearly to the door, his head lowered like a bull poised to charge, by the time Hugh followed. The perfumer limped, favoring his left leg as always, his walking stick serving its actual function rather than as an ornament to trumpet his riches.

Hugh stopped only to retrieve his own belongings. He might have abandoned them in his haste to keep the man in his sight, but it would have drawn the wrong sort of attention. That was the real trick of this line of work: controlling when you wanted to be noticed.

His quick footfall echoed as he hurried down the marble steps. He spared a wary glance to the shadows caressing the columns lining the stairs—the last, crumbling remnants of the ancient palace that had once stood on the site. Settling his topper back on his head, he nodded to the behemoth who served as the club’s porter and waited for him to drag the door open.

The dark street beckoned, as drowsy and alluring as a well-sated lover. The cool summer air bit at his senses, and he was grateful for the way it cleared the lingering smoke from his chest.

A blanket of damp clung to the city, a gift from a fleet-footed storm. For a single, precious hour, the rain had driven away Linden’s notorious reek. Now the familiar blend of excrement, sweat, and other assorted filth reasserted its rightful place.

Rosebourne stood off from the small crowd of gentlemen waiting for their coaches to be brought round, a no doubt perfumed handkerchief pressed to his nose. The light of the nearby lamps drew out the few remaining sparks of red in Rosebourne’s white hair. Strange, Hugh hadn’t ever noticed it before. Well, the man had the bad luck of having his full attention now.

Hugh was the portrait of insouciance as he sidled up to Rosebourne, joining him in the shallow pool of lamplight. Palpable distaste poured from the old perfumer as he eyed Lord Feathersby blissfully swaying with his eyes screwed shut, seemingly unaware he was humming “The Black Needle” for all those gathered to enjoy.

Rosebourne noticed Hugh then and sucked a tooth in displeasure. “I should have known you’d be slithering about.”

“Of course,” Hugh said pleasantly. “I count slithering among my many varied talents.”

The perfumer snorted beneath his handkerchief. “Out with it then.”

There was much Hugh enjoyed about Rosebourne, his ruthless annihilation of his competition chief among them. His bluntness was no exception. It was rather refreshing to skip the dance and get to the point for once.

“As surprised as you are to see me this evening, Mr. Rosebourne, I’m equally wondering at your own appearance here,” Hugh said, in that same agreeable tone. “Was I not clear when I told you that my order took precedence over all else, including creature comforts?”

“And was I not clear,” Rosebourne countered, “that I would make no attempt to fulfill your order until you acquired what I asked of you? Or do these many supposed talents of yours not extend to procurement?”

Hugh’s smile tightened. Procurement? The man may as well have asked him to locate a teardrop in a lake. “My task is proceeding at pace. It’s yours that has a deadline.”

“Hmm, yes,” Rosebourne said. “A rather pressing one, wouldn’t you say?”

“And yet,” Hugh said, spreading his hands between them, “here you are. I hadn’t realized you were so eager to discover the endlessly creative ways I have of burning your world to the ground.”

The rose-tipped cane creaked under the force of the perfumer’s grip. “Were you aware, my lord,” Rosebourne began, “that deceit smells sour, like spoilt milk?”

It took every ounce of Hugh’s force of will to school his expression as the old man’s words sank in. But he remembered now. Uncle Giles had told him of this years ago—the strange second thread of the family’s unnatural fairyborn gift.

“Better than some of your more recent offerings, I’m afraid,” Hugh said. “Half the sitting rooms in this city stink of candied violets and some infernal cousin to lavender.”

“And fear,” Rosebourne continued, ignoring this. “It reeks of wet fur.”

Hugh drew in a humiliatingly sharp breath, as if he, too, could smell it wafting from the folds of his limp waistcoat and shirtsleeves. All those years he’d spent learning to control every aspect of himself, to tamp down on the simmering anger in his blood, to ease any hint of feeling from his expression—it was worthless in the face of magic such as this.

His breath came lighter, quicker, as if to match the rising beat of his heart. Bloody hell.

Something else, he ordered himself, focus on something else. He’d kill every feeling in his body before he offered them up to the man on a silver platter. Hugh was the one in control here. Not Rosebourne.

Not anyone else.

The creak of wheels against stone and the steady clop of hooves pierced the disdain curdling between them. Rosebourne craned his head, peering down the street, only to settle back with annoyance. It wasn’t his.

“I was acquainted with the last Earl of Foxcourt,” Rosebourne said. “Your great-uncle, wasn’t he?”

Hugh’s throat tightened as the man’s face flashed before his eyes. “He employed your more . . . useful perfumes.”

“As do you,” Rosebourne said, pointedly. “I approve every such order, mind you.”

A warning to cap off his night. Unbelievable. Hugh despised using the perfumes in question, but necessity trumped misgiving every time.

“I’d expect nothing less,” Hugh said. “I’d only fear what might become of you, should the King no longer avert his gaze from your use of fairyborn magic.”