The dark rose, p.1
The Dark Rose, page 1
Contents
Also by Denise Rossetti
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
About the Author
Titles by Denise Rossetti
THE FLAME AND THE SHADOW
THIEF OF LIGHT
THE LONE WARRIOR
UNLACED
(with Jaci Burton, Jasmine Haynes, and Joey W. Hill )
LACED WITH DESIRE
(with Jaci Burton, Jasmine Haynes, and Joey W. Hill)
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE DARK ROSE
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / September 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Denise Rossetti.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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ISBN: 978-1-101-57812-4
INTERMIX
InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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Chapter One
Caracole of the Isles
Palimpsest
“I can’t do it.” When Rose opened her fingers, the crumpled sheet of paper fluttered down to the silk coverlet like a broken-backed bird. “I can’t send another one to die.”
“Rosarina.” Noblelord Izanami’s claw like hand groped across the bed for the letter. “My dear.”
“Don’t ‘my dear’ me.” Her skirts swishing with agitation, Rose crossed the elegant room to stand by the tall windows.
“Merciful gods.” Her voice cracked as she rested her forehead on the cool of the glass. Below, blue wavelets kicked up in the light breeze, and skiffs darted to and fro on the canal like improbable water beetles, bearing passengers and goods. Decked out with graceful bridges, fretted towers, and pagoda roofs, the city of Caracole flirted with spring like the finest of courtesans.
Grimly, she turned her back on it, facing the long gaunt figure in the bed. “For the gods’ sakes, the man was torn to pieces! Gutted like a beast in an abattoir.”
“I know. It means he got too close.”
Unflinching, the Queen’s spymaster met Rose’s anguished gaze. Did he have regrets? She suspected he did, but they could not compete with expediency, the greater good of the Queendom. Staring into those faded blue eyes, seeing the dispassionate intelligence there, the iron purpose, a wave of revulsion rose in her throat.
“How can you stand to look in the mirror?” She made a wild gesture. “Year after year, you’ve sent them out, knowing—” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Godsdammit.”
“Three decades to be exact. You forget—I am the Queen’s Left Hand.” Each word cost him dearly, but not even illness could rob Noblelord Izanami of his cool composure, his air of hauteur. “The responsibility is part of the office. All our agents know the risks.”
His gaze sharpened. “As do you, Rose.”
He paused for a moment, gathering his strength. “There is no room for scruples in this business. And you cannot tell me you haven’t always known it.”
Rose pressed her lips together. “Not at first,” she said. “Not for the first few years.” She shot him a dark glance. “You were sly. You drew me in so slowly, so cleverly.”
His thin lips had a blue tinge she didn’t like, but he managed a smile. “Ah, you were perfect.” He let out a sighing breath. “The best young mind I’d ever met, wonderfully subtle, incredibly devious, and yet—” Something sparked in his eyes. “In person, you were dazzling, more beautiful than the Sister Herself. Gods, what a combination. A courtesan and spy without peer. Flawless.”
Rose sighed. It wasn’t flattery. Always a pretty child, then a lovely girl, she’d matured into a woman so breathtaking men stopped in the street to stare as she passed. The most sought-after courtesan in the Queendom, the Dark Rose.
It was the whole package she sold, not just her body, but the charm, the clever conversation, the music and the dancing. And in return? Rosarina of The Garden had always been discriminating in her choice of protectors, but she’d given good value. Her elegant presence on his arm gifted any noblelord with a certain cachet in public. In private, he gained an enchanted world in which he could be king or courtier as the whim took him, surcease from his troubles.
Always on display, always on stage, even in the most intimate moments. There’d been times she’d felt scraped hollow by the effort of giving and giving and giving, until there was only a tiny kernel of self left unsold, but godsdammit, in the end, she’d done it—escaped with the façade in place, her soul intact. And if the only person who knew the real Rosarina was a manipulative aristocrat old enough to be father, well . . . that was the price she paid.
With a fluid shrug, she said, “I retired as a working courtesan years ago. When Prue and I bought The Garden.”
“Now you are even better placed to be my intelligencer,” the Left Hand said with quiet satisfaction. “And to succeed me.”
“What?” For a second, she was sure she’d misheard, but before she could say more, the old man gasped for breath, his face first flushing, then going alarmingly pale. He clutched his chest, coughing.
Rose leaped for the bell pull, but a strangled grunt from the bed stopped her. “No . . . wait.” The command was unmistakable.
Her heart hammering, Rose sank to her knees on the rug and took a long-fingered hand in hers. His flesh was cold, the bones brittle beneath the thin skin. Gradually, he grew calmer and a faint wash of color returned to his sunken cheeks, though his chest rattled with every breath.
“Noblelord.” Rose said when she could force words through the lump in her throat. “This is nonsense. You’re too godsbedamned mean to die.”
“We all . . . die,” he said acidly, but his fingers gripped hers with surprising strength. “This matter is not closed, Rosarina.”
“If you mean the succession, yes, it is.” Rose ripped her hands free. She stood, glaring down at Izanami. “I won’t do it. I couldn’t. Don’t you see?” She whirled away, took a couple of hasty paces and turned. “I’m weak. I’ll never be as . . . as cold-blooded as you. I know Green IV is a threat, I kno
“You’ve been acting in my place for more than a month, since— Hand me that cordial, would you?” He drank, taking small disdainful sips. “Every decision you’ve made thus far has been a good one, made for the benefit of the Queendom.” He closed his eyes, his breath still shallow and quick. “Give me . . . a moment.”
Rose did so, disciplining her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A solution existed for every problem—provided one was prepared to pay the cost.
Disemboweled, the report had said. The walls painted crimson with his blood. Gods!
The beautiful room was hushed in the warmth of the afternoon, bars of sunlight streaming in to spark on the jeweled tones in the rugs, to caress the thin hands folded on the old man’s chest. When he died, they’d lay him out like that. Noblelady Izanami, small and dark and lively, would grieve for him sincerely and his three daughters would be distraught.
And she? Rose blinked hard. She’d miss him dreadfully.
“I’ll go myself,” she said into the silence. “It’s the only way.”
The Left Hand’s eyes opened slowly, as if the lids were weighted. He thought for a long time, his brow furrowed and his lips tight.
“Very well,” he whispered at last. “I don’t like it, but we must have someone on Green IV. I’ll get Marot to step in here.” He fixed her with an imperious gaze. “You will report frequently and you will do what I tell you. Do you hear?”
When she nodded, some of the tension left his long frame. “Come back . . . to me . . . my dear.”
Rose bent to kiss his cold cheek, gray stubble harsh against her lips. “Of course,” she said steadily. “No one suspects the Dark Rose of anything deep. All she thinks about is parties and pleasure and whether to wear her hair up or down.”
Carefully, she folded up the paper and placed it in her pocket. Then she slipped out the door without looking back, heading for the music room where the Izanami daughters were waiting for their regular lesson in deportment. Her heart beat so high in her throat she had to breathe like a runner, in deep desperate huffs. With a hand on the latch, she paused, staring blankly at the rich grain of the wood. She bit her lip, using the small pain to anchor herself, to stop the frantic spinning of her thoughts.
Rose didn’t pray often, or with any real conviction, but now the words came unbidden. “Merciful Sister, I beg You, give me the courage, don’t let me fail. Don’t let me die.” She swallowed hard. “Not like . . . that. Please.”
A tiny breeze caressed her cheek, the back of her neck, carrying with it the faint briny smell of the sea. For a moment, she was a girl again, back home in the Spice Islands, sailing and swimming and fishing, the sun in her eyes and sand between her toes. So carefree, so foolish.
Sister helps she who helps herself. She straightened, breathing deeply.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Throwing the door open, she sailed inside. “Ah, my dears. I trust you’re not too distracted by this beautiful morning. We have work to do.”
* * *
Three weeks later
Ballynewhaven, Green IV
Gravel crunched as the carriage swept down the long curved drive of the Lord-Scion Harte’s town house. In the dim interior of the luxuriously appointed vehicle, Rose smoothed her long trailing sleeves, conscious of a sense of trepidation so acute it approached exquisite. Every nerve tingled. Sister in the sky, how long had it been since she’d felt such a pure sensation?
Deliberately, she pulled in a long breath. She’d never been offworld before, but as the Technomage starship speared away from Palimpsest, she’d lain quietly in the safety webbing, staring out at the vastness of space. Tears of awe had sprung to her eyes. She and all those she cared for, they were no more than the merest specks, born alone, dying alone. It gave her mission a certain perspective.
She shivered, reaching up to rub the nape of her neck, but carefully. It wouldn’t do to disturb the coiffure, not when it had taken the combined efforts of two maids to achieve it.
The carriage slowed, drawing to a halt. Hooves stamped, tack jingled. Rose’s lips curved with pure pleasure. Four matched grays. Only the highest sticklers and the wealthiest on Green IV still used horse-drawn vehicles. The Sciony that governed this small jewel of a planet was a self-contained world of privilege and political intrigue, ruled by a brawling oligarchy of eight great clans. Between them, Queen Sikara and the Left Hand had spared no expense to give her entrée to it. Deiter had grumbled, as was his way, but the old wizard had provided the introduction she needed. They’d played their parts. The rest was up to her.
She gathered serenity around her, shrugging into it the way she would have donned a cloak. This was her business, her profession—and by the Sister, she was very, very skilled. A true courtesan creates a persona, she told her apprentices again and again. Achieve a certain mystique, make it look effortless, and you’ll be irresistible.
A bewigged footman opened the door and extended a gloved hand. Light from a myriad of glowglobes in fancy sconces washed into the carriage, a wave of sprightly music tinkled in the soft-scented air. With considerable satisfaction, Rose observed the footman’s eyes widen as he took in the picture she presented, but he was too well trained to do more than bow and murmur, “Scionelle?”
Hide in plain sight.
Tenderly, the man assisted her to alight. Together, the tips of her fingers resting on his serge-clad forearm, they climbed the imposing stairs, Rose’s gem-studded heels rapping on the flagstones like a delicate military tattoo.
The great house shone with light and music and laughter, its clean Palladian lines soaring up in a perfection of architectural rationality. As they passed through the columned portico, an impeccably suited majordomo appeared at Rose’s elbow.
He bowed, betraying not a single flicker of surprise or censure. “Scionelle, what name shall I say?”
Rose gave him a contained smile. “I am the Noblelady Rosarina of Caracole.” The Queen had insisted on making the honorific real. Rose’s mouth twisted a little. Ironic when she had a perfectly good title of her own, unused for twenty years and no more than a trifle tarnished.
“Thank you, Noblelady.” Another bow. “I will announce you.”
The ballroom glittered with the cream of the Sciony, the men wearing the pale breeches and fitted evening jackets dictated by convention, the women a bower of tropical flowers, each clad in yards of billowing silk. As they moved in the precise measures of a formal dance, all she could think of was the toy she’d had as a child, a tube filled with shards of colored glass. Shake it and everything shifted, but somehow the patterns always fell into a perfect symmetry. So pretty. So ephemeral.
The dance was drawing to its graceful conclusion, the musicians in the gallery slowing the pace of their plucking and fiddling. Already heads were turning.
Standing at the top of the curving staircase, Rose lifted her chin. Good.
As the last notes died away, so did the conversation. One by one, a hundred people turned to stare. Rose favored them with a tranquil smile, tilting her head as the majordomo pronounced her name. The man didn’t even need to raise his voice. Truly, the acoustics were extraordinary.
The moment she took her first step, the murmurs began, as if a playful breeze had swept across a garden, setting all the flowers to nodding and swaying.
A middle-aged man with sandy hair detached himself from the throng and took the stairs two at a time, meeting her not far from the bottom.
Creases appeared at the corners of appreciative blue eyes. “I am the Harte,” he said in a soft brogue. Raising her hand, he brushed it with his lips and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, the beautiful Dark Rose of Caracole. You are even more . . . spectacular than your reputation promised.”
Rose gazed into those clever eyes. “Thank you, Lord-Scion. I am greatly in your debt for the invitation.”
“I had no idea doing a favor for my old friend Purist Deiter would be so delightful.” Harte twinkled. “I am most thoroughly at your service, Scionelle.”
