Page 52 of Immortal Rose

“What a generous way of saying he was one of Foxcourt’s favorite sources of whispers on trade,” Reddy said, though his smile had lost some of its shine. “I think the old man felt rather guilty, seeing as he’d been the one to convince my father to take the trip to deliver the King’s message to the sultanate.”

I set my teacup carefully onto its saucer. His parents had perished in a storm while out at sea, on a return journey from Bharat, where it was said they had gone to explore new trade opportunities. The story had burned through town for weeks, fed by gruesome speculation and half-hearted hope, until it was obvious that his parents had not been spared the storm’s wrath.

“I’m very sorry,” I told him sincerely. “Both for your loss and the fact that you were forced to live with this limp nib.”

Foxcourt’s glare could have iced hell. “What is a nib?”

I smiled innocently. “Exactly what a nib would ask.”

Reddy broke into a full belly laugh. “I can tell we’re going to be the very best of friends, Lockwood.”

I’d value a friendship with such an established businessman, especially when it came to quickly learning the ropes of the House of Rosebourne and its accounts. A true friendship at that, rather than the euphemistic sort. Though . . .

I gave him another appreciative look, which he heartily returned. Not out of the question by any means. An unmarried woman need not be lonely, so long as both parties were discreet.

Foxcourt folded his paper and tossed it aside with a muttered “Unbelievable.”

I sipped at my tea in the silence, letting my gaze drift again to the painted scene above me. Remarkable how toffs could festoon their homes and palaces with depictions of fairies even as they left the fairies’ descendants to rot in prison. But so long as fairies stayed in the purely decorative realm of art and allegory, not even the Church bothered itself with the hypocrisy.

Fleming’s essence heralded his approach. I glanced over just as his narrow form appeared in the doorway. As his gaze shifted to Reddy, a remarkable transformation took place. The softening of his eyes took decades off his appearance. “Ah! Good day, sir.”

“I always know it will be when I have the pleasure of seeing that impeccably powdered wig, Fleming,” Reddy said.

Fleming looked flustered but pleased. “You really should use the front door so that I have the privilege of announcing you.”

“And ruin the fun of surprising you?” Reddy scoffed. “Never.”

“Use the front door,” Foxcourt ordered without looking up from his letter.

“Do you ever let anyone make their own decisions?” I asked, amazed.

Foxcourt’s gaze was piercing. “And risk them making the wrong choice? Is that also the behavior of a nib?”

Oh, that arrow had struck true, hadn’t it? And now he was slyly trying to figure out what it meant.

“Why don’t you tell me?” I said, smiling at his obvious irritation.

Reddy shook his head as he rose. “Well, thank you for the day’s amusements, Fox. I’ll cherish the happy memory as I go over my deadly dull reports.” He gave me a bow and another fond smile. “Lockwood, it’s been a pleasure.”

“I hope to see you again soon,” I told him, wondering if that was too forward for the new, more ladylike Viola Lockwood. “Even prisoners are allowed the occasional visitation, after all.”

Foxcourt lowered his letter, exasperation pouring from him.

Reddy winked. “You may count on it. This one does need the occasional help from his charming friend, whether he wishes to concede to the fact or not.”

“Who said I even think of you as a friend?” Foxcourt muttered.

“Eleanor, your only other friend, and I have outvoted you on it,” Reddy informed him.

Foxcourt stared at him. “I believe you were taking your leave of us. Don’t allow us to delay you a moment more.”

I took the opportunity to edge the afternoon broadsheet toward me, searching for the report of what they’d been discussing before I’d come in. The paper still felt warm and had a slight sandy cast of pounce, as if it had only just arrived from the printer.

Forgetting my self-consciousness, I closed my left eye to better scan down the columns of reports and advertisements. Seeing nothing of note, I unfolded it and would have continued reading, if Foxcourt hadn’t interrupted me.

“Page three,” he said. “You’ll enjoy it. My idiocy is thoroughly excoriated for leaving a bottle of gin too close to a lantern in my curricle, disturbing the peace of the morning.”

I frowned. It was cunning to play the fool so others wouldn’t suspect you of pulling strings behind that curtain, but it also took a remarkable lack of pride to suffer the indignity. Something I would never have expected of him.