Page 81 of Immortal Rose

“They claim it’s more of an old wives’ tale to scare children from straying too far from home,” Foxcourt said, “but that children did go missing from time to time.”

“For reasons I’m sure I don’t want to know,” Reddy said. “Should I make some discreet inquiries?”

That was the advantage Reddy had existing at the edge of the Patricians’ world. He moved between the levels of society with far more freedom and, outside of the Patricians, with significantly less scrutiny.

“Yes,” Hugh said, grateful. “You might start with your new hall boy. He’s the one who brought the matter to my attention.”

“Yes, about that,” Reddy said, glaring at him. “Take him back. Now.”

“I already have a full staff,” Hugh told him. “Half of whom are rather livid with me just now. Felicity of all people gave me a scolding—I haven’t been dressed down like that since Nanny Agatha found me rummaging around her trunk for sweets.”

Reddy clucked his tongue, sympathetic. “Don’t let them guilt you. You did what you had to—what Foxcourt would have done. There wasn’t time to work out the details.”

Hugh nodded, relieved to hear someone agree with him. But still, that cold stone of memory sat heavy in the pit of his stomach. His mind prickled with the beginnings of a notion.

You must make it right with her.

Reddy had returned to the window. Seeing Hugh had lingered near the study door, he asked, “Was there something else?”

It was a terrible idea, of course, but lately those seemed to be the only sort he had. She had looked upon it with such longing . . . That seemed like permission enough.

Damn it all.

“Yes,” Hugh said at last. “There’s one more thing.”

Chapter Seventeen

If there was a single thing to recommend the day, it was the prospect of finally seeing Oliver.

I woke to an oven-hot room, having sweated through my night rail. Even Felicity had seemed wilted as she’d come in, pronouncing it a boiler of a day.

And so, I’d powdered myself with more talc than usual as I’d dressed, hoping it might help absorb my sweat and salvage my appearance into something presentable.

No chance of that. By the time Foxcourt handed me into the coach, my lilac dress was splotched with dark stains and clinging to me.

These unpredictable, wretched flares of temperature always stirred the good people of Linden into a febrile state of irritation, myself included. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst of it, of course, was the unholy smell.

It was as if we were trapped beneath the armpit of a rotting body. The strength of the city’s fetid reek had shoved me back a step with the force of a thrown fist.

I was no stranger to discomfort. It had formed the foundation of my existence for as long as I could remember, and I’d always credited it fairly with sharpening my drive, to find new ways to cut opportunity from life’s bones.

But just then, as I bounced on my seat with each dip in the cobblestones—who had thought bloody cobblestones a good idea?—not a single part of me felt well. The sores on my back and ankle stung under drips of sweat, and what little breakfast I’d managed to choke down was threatening to make itself known again.

More ominous, however, were the blurred spots in my vision and the pain stabbing at the back of my left eye. It could mean only one thing.

I shifted uncomfortably on my seat, consoled, at least, by the drop of sweat that had collected on the bow of Foxcourt’s top lip. Another traced a sleek path from his temple, down over the strong plane of his cheek, to that stubbornly masculine jaw—

I blew out a harsh breath, averting my gaze to the covered window. Well, he’d at least been forced to forgo his usual demonic black attire, which was very likely his own version of suffering. Confronted by the revolting heat, he’d surrendered to a light gray linen jacket and waistcoat that made him seem altogether too soft.

I closed my eyes and focused on breathing through my mouth, not that it helped. Taste and scent were sisters, after all. I could make it through the next hour. I could. I wanted to see Oliver, to assure him I was well—not that I was positively glowing with good health and humor just then, but I was at least no longer covered in Fairgate’s filth.

“What is it that you’re reading so intently?” I asked irritably into the silence. The fact that this infernal man could read in a moving coach without wanting to cast up his accounts only deepened my annoyance.

“Some of Rosebourne’s recent correspondence,” Foxcourt said, not looking up from the missive. His voice seemed deeper, more honeyed, in the heat somehow. My fingers curled.

Yes. Right. He’d told me this morning he’d gone back to Briarwood Palace without me, only to discover the nectar had been there. My irritation at being left behind was second only to knowing the nectar had vanished.