Page 74 of Immortal Rose

The stench of sweat and damp wool arrived a moment before the man’s hulking form did. Hugh sprung forward, allowing shock and momentum to do the work for him. He felt the man’s gasp leave him, how his pulse jumped as he snatched the assailant by the throat, slamming his back into the wall. Brick dust shivered down over their boots as the man struggled, his eyes flaring from within the depths of the hood.

The man made a single, desperate jab of his rusted knife, but the killing point of Hugh’s own weapon had already found the sliver of space between his ribs. He shoved forward, driving the blade directly into the man’s heart.

Blood poured over the assassin’s lips as they babbled wordlessly, painting his chin crimson. He stared at Hugh, his eyes flared with pain and the terror of mortality.

“I want you to remember that you had a choice in this,” Hugh said, giving the knife a little twist. “That we both might have gone about our business this evening without the need for such unpleasantness.”

The life dimmed in the man’s eyes. As many times as he had seen it, Hugh still had to steel himself for the moment the man’s soul finally peeled away. The body sagged as if registering the loss of it.

Hugh slid his knife free with a wet suck of blood and stepped back, allowing the man’s body to slump to the ground. The death had been quicker and cleaner than the man had likely deserved.

Disgust shuddered deep within his chest, stirring his uncle’s voice from the depths of memory. Taking a life will leave a stain on your heart, even the necessary deaths.

Perhaps that was true, but it hardly mattered when Hugh had ensured his damnation years ago. Just then, the more pressing stain was on his coat sleeve and gloves.

He tugged off the latter with a cluck of the tongue, depositing them on the body before retrieving a second pair from his greatcoat’s pocket. Nothing to do about the sleeve, but then, that’s why he always wore black.

Still, why send an assassin at all? Hugh had narrowly evaded the policemen the duke had installed at Feygrove Square tonight. It had been an unusually inelegant effort to intimidate him on Glenmoor’s part. But this attack . . .

Gritting his teeth, Hugh pushed the man’s hood back, studying his unfamiliar face. Opened his mouth, checked his ears, searched the pocket of his cloak. He unknotted the rough wool, pushing the blood-soaked fabric away from the man’s chest.

Then, of course, he saw them.

The crushed flowers pinned to the man’s tattered shirt, elegant and taunting: a rose and a violet.

The night air turned to blades in Hugh’s lungs.

He knew. Glenmoor knew. Not just that Hugh had found another perfumer to save the King and threaten his plans. Glenmoor knew about Viola. Her name. Her identity. And he wanted Hugh to know as well.

How, damn it? Hugh had been so bloody careful every step of this. He’d been certain the curricle’s explosion had been meant for him.

He ripped the violet from the man’s chest, crushing it in his hand. He’d made light of the insipid language of flowers not even an hour before, but the message here was clear: Nothing is out of my reach. Not you, and not her.

Hugh pushed to his feet. Fury burned in him, threatening to erupt into a bigger catastrophe. The violet wept within his grip, crushed so easily.

Why was he surprised? Why hadn’t he learned by now that Glenmoor would always remain just that half step ahead of him, no matter how careful Hugh’s plans and preparations were? He breathed in raggedly, counting each sawing inhalation as Uncle Giles had taught him. You must master your temper before it masters you.

He willed the feelings away, the frustration and guilt and fear, boxing them into smaller chests in his mind. Steadier, he looked down at the dead assassin once more, hating the pity he felt for the man.

Hugh would never be able to match Glenmoor’s callous disregard for what he saw as the lesser value of others’ lives, and that was why Hugh continued to fail. That was why he had never anticipated Glenmoor would sacrifice a man’s soul to send a message.

A distant whistle had Hugh spinning back toward the entrance to the alleyway. Before he’d put a thought to it, he seized the man by the shoulders, dragging him deeper into the lane’s waiting darkness. His eyes shot to the pool of blood at the alley’s edge just as a man in a dark uniform strode by, a lantern swinging at his side.

Hugh held his breath, calming in the shadows’ embrace. The policeman slowed, making the puddle grasping for his boots glint sinisterly. After a moment, however, the policeman continued past them, still whistling “The Black Needle” to himself.

With a harsh breath, Hugh fell back against the alley’s wall. If he couldn’t get Glenmoor out of the home secretary’s office—and he had tried—Hugh had to find a way to wrest Glenmoor’s control of the police away from him before the duke turned them into his own private army.

If it hadn’t happened already.

Feeling cold to his bones, Hugh retrieved his card case from the inner pocket of his coat. He took a small amount of pleasure in flicking through the calling cards there: identities, past and present; his own cards; and, finally, the expert replicas Tommy had made of the duke’s notoriously gaudy ones.

He plucked one from the case and slid it into the pocket of the nameless man’s cloak. Giving it a little pat, he stood. Whoever found the body would know precisely where to return it—and to whom.

Glenmoor would worm his way out of it, of course, but there was nothing that rankled the bastard more than mess and minor inconveniences.

Still. A rather inauspicious start to the night’s work.

Hugh ensured the dark street was empty before he swept back into it. He glanced at his pocket watch. He had two objectives to complete before the sun rose, and he was already late to the first. There was still time to make the meet—less time than he would have liked. But then, that was what Lockwood seemed bloody determined to be: an ink spill over his best-laid plans.