Page 6 of Immortal Rose

“No,” I answered, struggling to master the sparks of my temper. “It is a simple perfume. However—”

“Then what good is it?” he cut in. “I can buy an ordinary perfume in any apothecary or Rosebourne’s own shop.”

“Her scents are hardly ordinary,” Arabella began loyally.

My hand tightened around her arm again. “If your interest is primarily in my more noteworthy perfumes, may I recommend Lady Luck for yourself? Wearing a dab of it will draw good fortune to you whether you sit at a card table or merely seek to conduct business.”

As the creation of the perfume had taken luck from me in equal measure, I’d suffered a small fire in my room, a twisted ankle, a ruined dress, and two Midnight Markets without a sale, all for a single wretched batch of that perfume.

His eyes lit at the prospect, and, as quickly, he was redolent with grapefruit—rotting grapefruit, but grapefruit all the same.

“And I will give you both for six silver coins,” I finished, bowing my head in feigned humility as I offered Lady Luck to him. “That is two silvers less than a gentleman paid earlier in the evening for both.”

And so, the deal was done.

Triumph swelled in me, and I had no idea how I managed to wait long enough for the man to disappear back into the crowd before I turned to Arabella, shaking the fistful of coins with glee.

“Ye didn’t sell a whit to another toff tonight,” she noted with a cackle.

“No, I most certainly did not,” I said, slipping the money into the hidden pocket I’d sewn into my skirt. I dropped one silver into her basket when she turned to give an alluring look to a passing marketgoer. Somehow, perhaps after counting her remaining teeth, the man resisted the temptation.

“And I charged him full price for the Lady Luck.” I finished with a curtsy, accepting her laughter in lieu of applause.

Pride shimmered in Arabella’s eyes as she faced me again. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, and the moonlight made those strands twinkle as she gave a pleased little shake of the shoulders. “We both got a shiny from ’im!”

She whipped her left hand up from behind her skirts to reveal a small snuffbox, its lid painted with a delicate pastoral scene. I gaped as she turned it over, mocking the way the man had studied her case.

“Not so fine as to come from Bell Street, la-de-da,” she noted airily, “but it’ll fetch me a silver at next week’s market all the same.”

“How in the world . . . ?” I began, laughing with amazement. The others at the market called her Mrs. Mudlark, but a more apt name might have been Lady Lightfingers.

Arabella drew close to the battered plank serving as our table; her slight build put her at the exact right height to slip an arm beneath it, giving her clear access to anything the man had stowed near his waist.

“You keep ’em looking at something else while ye get to work,” Arabella explained with a demonstrative swipe of the hand.

“By arguing?”

“Sometimes,” Arabella agreed. “A flash of the ol’ bosom never goes amiss, especially when you’ve one as legendary as mine.”

I didn’t doubt that was true, but it hadn’t been enough to save her once she’d aged out of the brothel she’d been sold to as a young woman. The mere thought heated my blood with an acidic fury.

“Or ye get ’em thinking yer making for their wallet when yer really after their shiny fob,” Arabella continued, tucking the snuffbox down her bodice for safekeeping. “The fool thinks they’ve caught ye and won’t know the truth of it until yer well away. That’s the trick of it, see?”

“I do,” I said. It seemed all one truly needed to survive in the world was an unflinching belief in oneself, a roof over one’s bed, and a retired doxy to teach you how to pilfer from unsuspecting toffs.

That, I thought, smiling down at my two-fewer bottles, and a generous dab of perfume.

“Are ye certain ye can’t make a life of it ’ere?” Arabella began. “I don’t like the idea of ye all alone in Southpoint—”

“I’ve been alone for years,” I cut in. Feeling her flinch, I softened my tone. “It’s . . . a fresh start. New opportunities.”

To vanish, to leave all of this behind, the way I should have years ago.

“If ye say so,” Arabella said after a while.

The rattle of wheels on cobblestone forced my gaze up again. Clattering metal cages stinking of rust and animal droppings clashed with the stench of perspiring man, heralding the arrival of one Mr. Toady. His unusual essence greeted me as the man and his small, covered cart came into view down the crooked alleyway.

“Already for ’ome?” Arabella called out to him. “Night’s young yet!”