Page 72 of Immortal Rose

I gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

The bloody man. That had been a shrewd ploy to get information about me if I’d ever heard one. But it unsettled me, again, to find that he hadn’t been far from the mark—that he knew me well enough after only a few days to guess I’d never do something to simply do it.

There had been a purpose in taking that work beyond the pay and floral castoffs. It had allowed me to handle and understand the scent profiles of any number of plants and flowers, including more exotic varieties. A few years in the flower stall had refined my nose and the scent catalog of my memory to what they were today.

We retreated again into silence. I flipped through the fragile pages as quickly as I dared, keeping my left eye shut to read the smaller inscriptions and faded ink. I drew the candle nearer to me, but even the addition of that light wasn’t enough to sharpen the words on the page. It would have to wait until the better light of morning.

But I didn’t want to have to wait until morning. I wanted to be done with this, to hand him his bloody perfume and be on my way. Done with him, and the way I felt him drawing nearer, his body and his mind.

The floorboard creaked as he took a step toward me, but I knew by the subtle shift of pressure, by the deeply unfair way his presence had of quickening my pulse. Mastering it like a conductor would an orchestra. A step closer, and my heartstrings began to trill. Another step, and the drumming began in my ears, at my throat, my wrists.

The uncertainty of what he might do lingered like a soft breath between us. I glared at the passing pages of the Treasury, but it was a pointless rebellion. Every other part of me was engrossed in tracking him as he came closer, the delicious warmth of his body at my back again, stirring a flutter low in my belly, lighting my nerve endings like wicks.

My chair creaked as one of his hands gripped it, his knuckles brushing my shoulder.

“Do you mind—” I began.

A small gold object flashed at my right. I pivoted, instinctively seeking out its irresistible glimmer.

Dangling from Foxcourt’s hand was a gold chain, and from that, a small glass lens encased in a gold frame. The handle was exquisitely shaped with the goddess Venia’s luxuriant form; the drape of her one-shouldered gown and the vines and flowers around her had been rendered with staggering detail. The swiveling loop at the base, where the chain was attached, was etched with roses.

My mind went utterly blank at the sight of it.

“Do I mind what?” Foxcourt prompted, amused.

I only half heard him; I stared at the glinting object in rank astonishment. My hand rose of its own accord, as if enchanted.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a quizzing glass before.” Foxcourt lifted the chain out of my reach, forcing me to look at him.

“Of course I have,” I said.

All the fashionable ladies wore them, whether they needed the visual aid or not. I had simply never seen one so beautiful or delicately made in my life. The ones the Radcliffe & Sons apothecaries sold were simple and silver-framed.

He lowered it slowly into my upturned palm, the long chain coiling there with noticeable weight.

Real gold, I thought, my mind instantly calculating the cost like the magpie I was.

“Do you ever ask for help when you need it?” he said, sounding almost cross.

I looked up sharply at that, my daze at its end. “I do not need this. Here—take it back.”

“You do,” he said, his voice gaining that imperious, all-knowing edge I despised. “Just take the blasted thing, will you? It’s not as though it’s encrusted with diamonds. I found it in the desk drawer. After watching you struggle to read whatever text is on those pages for the better part of the last hour, I rather thought it might speed up the process and save us both the misery of sitting here a moment longer than we need to.”

“Then do not let me keep you, my lord,” I said snidely. “I know how gentlemen of your rank enjoy your evening revelries.”

Foxcourt only stalked back to his desk, reclaiming his seat and his quill. “If you require a more powerful lens, I will send Tommy for others to try. Or if you prefer spectacles, that can be arranged.”

Anything to speed the creation of Immortal Rose, of course, and end this prison sentence.

I gripped the quizzing glass until I felt Venia’s form dig into my palm. He had prepared a neat little trap with this; either I didn’t use it, and I proved him correct that I refused to ask for help, or I did use it, and I had to suffer knowing it had come from him and that he had seen me struggle and pitied me.

With a sigh of surrender, I lifted the lens to my left eye. The words on the page sharpened as if by magic. It was the final insult that Foxcourt had, of course, somehow given me the exact strength of magnification I needed.

The words swam in my vision. I gritted my teeth, swallowing until the lump in my throat eased away. I would not thank him.

“I will take care of it and return it upon completion of the perfume,” I heard myself say, letting the formality of my tone rebuild whatever distance we’d lost this evening.

He did not look up from his work. “I would rather know who struck you.”