Page 94 of Immortal Rose

Appalled, I whispered, “He was a boy. A child.”

“Who stood to inherit what Glenmoor wanted,” Reddy said. “The contract specified that if the duchess passed before her children reached their age of majority, her fortune would be given to her uncle, the then Earl of Foxcourt, for safekeeping on their behalf. It was altogether more ambiguous on what would happen if there was no heir to inherit, allowing Glenmoor to argue before the probate court that it should remain with the estate. But good old Foxcourt intervened and, contrary to the duke’s claims, proved that Hugh was still alive.”

I worried my lip between my teeth. “My God, as if he doesn’t already have enough as a duke.”

“If you ask me, Glenmoor is as furious about not being able to finish off Fox as he is about losing the blunt.” Reddy gave a humorless laugh. “There’s . . . something inhuman about him. A void in the soul, as if some cold darkness opened inside of him, and now nothing can fill it. The only thing that seems to bring him satisfaction is toying with Fox and taking from him: his uncle, his uncle’s role in the government, the King’s affections . . .”

“Everything,” I finished.

“Everything,” Reddy agreed. “It’s impossible to tell if Glenmoor fought to be named regent because he feels he’s the only one deserving of it, or because he knows controlling Eleanor will torment Fox.”

The chill deepened. “Both, likely.”

“There are already too many lives caught up in this,” Reddy began. “The King. Eleanor. All of Foxcourt House. You must swear to me you’ll finish this infernal perfume as quickly as you can and be done with this darkness.”

“Has it ensnared you?” I asked, almost too soft to be heard over the slowing clop of the horses’ gait. The shouts of sailors and laborers rose, heralding our arrival to the ship.

“I rather threw myself at it,” Reddy admitted, collecting his walking stick and hat. “But a different shadow staked its claim on me first.”

I smoothed a hand down the front of my cloak, shaking loose a petal from the rose.

“Reddy,” I began, “who did you lose?”

The words slashed through him like a bolt of lightning. He turned his face into the shadows as the carriage came to a final stop. “We’re speaking about you.”

“It’s too late to warn me off now,” I told him. “I’ve been in the darkness from the moment I accepted Foxcourt’s offer, and to get what I want, I have to trust him to see me through it.”

The words were out before I could stop them, ringing with a truth I hadn’t fully acknowledged to myself.

Reddy’s grin flashed in the dark as the coachman opened the door.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Lockwood,” Reddy murmured as he climbed out. “It’s hard to hate the bastard once he lets you know him. Believe me, I tried.”

In the low lantern light, Captain Algernon Carrington looked more like a creature that might dwell in the deep rather than sail the waves. He smelled like one, too. His essence clung to him like a barnacle: that sulfuric brine of ocean water, raw fish, tar and pitch, old parchment that unfurled around him like maps, and gunpowder. Less blood than I might have imagined, though that was hardly reassuring.

Wiry gray hair, bleached white by the sun, rose in tangled curls about his head, as if caught in some unseen drift. His eyes gleamed black like a shark’s, and he was as massive as one. A lifetime working the decks had created limbs as thick as the barrels his men were unloading behind us. The harsh sun had baked his once white skin to a lined leather carved with a great many scars.

His smile was worst of all—it was a true pirate’s smile. He had hunted, been hunted, and survived it all. Even the man who had raised me would have pissed himself when confronted by this towering monument to the fabled age of pirates.

In a word, he was terrifying. Or rather, he would have been, had it not been for the click of the knitting needles in his hands. The beginnings of a hat? A scarf? A charming noose? It fluttered in the night’s gentle breeze, as red as a spill of blood.

“What a delightful . . . blanket?” Reddy ventured into the silence.

The captain gave him an evil glare. “It’s a sweater for me grandson, ye addle-pated lubber,” came his guttural voice. “Is this the chit, then?”

Reddy eased a step closer to me as I tightened a hand around his arm.

“I see your manners haven’t improved in the last year, Carrington,” Reddy said. “This is the lady in question, yes.”

“They might’ve improved had you kept me in your fleet,” Carrington ground out. “Angleson’s a clodpole with the ambitions of a mouse. My crew and ship are wasted on him.”

“Better investment to buy and maintain my own ships, I’m afraid,” Reddy said smoothly. “Nothing personal, of course—that’s why I’ve recommended you to her ladyship. That is, if you don’t have an exclusive contract with Angleson?”

The captain sucked on one of his remaining teeth, his black gaze slashing toward me. “Not exclusive, no. But I’ve a family. Very little could entice me to work double tides.”

If there was one thing my so-called father had taught me, it was that rough characters like Carrington only respected a nerve that matched their own. I drew up to my full height, polishing my accent until it was as pristine as a diamond. “I see now this will be a waste of time, Mr. Reddy. He will be of no help to us. I’ve heard it said that a sailor carries his grudges to the seabed.”

Barrel after barrel was removed from the ship behind the captain’s immense, rugged body. He had met us at the end of the gangplank, staying near to the ship like a hovering society mama over her debutante.