Page 79 of Immortal Rose

She had the look of an ancient pagan queen with that hair, he decided. Her great big hazel eyes were so deceivingly innocent in appearance until she fixed you with a challenging gaze—and when had Hugh ever denied himself the pleasure of a challenge?

“She is rather a vixen, isn’t she?” Reddy mused affectionately. “I’d suffer a few gouges if it meant marrying someone who would keep both life and my bed play interesting.”

“She—” Hugh bit back his sharp tone. “I’d prefer not to speak of any woman in such a disrespectful way, if it’s all the same to you.”

Reddy laughed at that. “When did you become so missish?”

“At about the point you became a rake of the first order.”

Reddy sent him another amused look as he sat on the arm of the leather sofa, content to watch as Hugh felt around the shelves for the keyhole.

“She has the right demeanor to make a success of all this,” Reddy pointed out. “If she can manage to overcome her illegitimacy and ingratiate herself with the serpents of society.”

“She will,” Hugh said. “She has something they all want, and they’ve sideslips of their own. If she makes their perfumes, they won’t care she was born outside of wedlock.”

Lockwood had fairyborn magic, but her true power in society would lie in the fact that she’d be a curiosity to the Patricians—an irresistible blend of money and intrigue and tragedy. Hugh didn’t doubt for a moment she’d find a way, though whether she’d be willing to play society’s skull-numbing games was a different question.

He was beginning to suspect—indeed, hope—that she had inherited some of her grandfather’s ruthless edge. That willingness to do whatever was necessary and navigate outside of society’s rules—how very, very rare that was. Hugh wouldn’t have known what to do with a petal, but he’d been playing with knives since he was a child.

“You could cultivate her as an asset,” Reddy said, though his tone suggested something else entirely by asset.

No, that was—no. Lockwood would never make for a truly good informant, let alone a spy. In his line of work, being forgettable was the height of success, the most supreme of compliments. There was simply nothing forgettable about her.

And that hair. That fire-kissed hair shot through with bolts of pure snow white. It caught the eye in an instant. Worse still, there was a menacing little curl that seemed prone to escaping her coiffures, resting against the soft nape of her neck. It had become an unwelcome fixation, something to ponder as he lay in bed glaring up at the ceiling.

“She can’t follow orders, which immediately rules out any use I might have of her,” Hugh said, before tossing a pointed look over his shoulder. “And she seems decidedly against marriage as a concept. I doubt she’ll risk relinquishing control of the House of Rosebourne to any husband.”

“Shame,” Reddy said. “Though I still think there’s a chance of convincing her—I can be very persuasive.”

Finally, Hugh located the bloody keyhole and jammed the key in, giving it a twist until he heard the hidden door’s inner lock release.

Reddy let out a happy sigh. “I adore a hidden doorway.”

“If you are quite done making calf eyes at it . . . ?” Hugh groused, struggling with its immense weight.

“You have it in hand, as always,” Reddy said, though he deigned to lower the doorstop and take the candle.

Hugh had little need of it as his eyes adjusted to the shadows of the stairwell, though he kept a hand to the wall all the same, remembering how Lockwood, out of sheer bloody stubbornness, had done the same rather than ask for more light.

The cold, still air brought with it hints of greenery and herbs, smelling more like an apothecary to him than a perfume archive. Lockwood would no doubt be able to use her clever nose to distinguish each thread of the muddled mass of them.

And that thought stirred another—of the list, in careful penmanship, Lockwood had written of the oils she claimed to still need.

“It’s rather dungeon-like, isn’t it?” Reddy said as they stepped down into the crowded chamber.

“What do you know about the Radcliffe family?” Hugh asked instead of answering.

“The bell maker Radcliffes or the apothecary Radcliffes?” Reddy asked, inspecting one of the tulip-shaped flacons.

“Apothecary,” Hugh answered, quickly scanning the shelves for any sign of the nectar. “Lockwood is insisting one of the sons fetch the supplies she needs. I’m to send a note to him in the morning.”

“Which one?” Reddy asked curiously. “That family has an overabundance of strapping boys, all trying to prove themselves to dear Papa.”

“Oliver,” Hugh said. “The youngest, I think.”

“Hmm, he’s the one I haven’t met,” Reddy said. “Seemed a bit sickly, from what his brothers said. I’ve worked with them to source a few products they carry: medicines, teas, and the like. They indulge in a little sly importation fraud from time to time like the rest of us, but nothing that would be a cause for concern. Unless you harbor a violent dislike of Gallian bonbons and sweetmeats.”

Hugh’s mouth set in a hard line. So, nothing useful then.