Chapter Nine

L ater that night, Alfie was at his usual place behind the counter of his apothecary shop, a sanctuary of bottles and botanicals, each with its own story and secret life. But all of this paled compared to the beauty standing opposite him, a distraction bigger than the Kanchenjunga mountain—which stood at twenty-eight thousand feet in the Himalayas.

“Thank you for helping me,” she murmured as she leaned over the counter to watch him at work. Bea needed his help, and if the purpose weren’t to drive her into another man’s arms, Alfie would have gladly helped. Yet here he was crafting the instrument to break his heart under her watchful gaze. Never had Alfie been defeated by his knowledge. He was no better than an artist sketching his tomb.

The dimly flickering light caressed the room, casting long shadows that danced on the walls as the gas lamp breathed life into the space. Alfie moved with a purpose, his every action deliberate, his hands reaching for the tools of his trade, but his heart sank lower with every motion.

He tried to convince himself that it was the best course of action: giving Bea what she wanted, the elixir to heighten her essence. But how could the prince be worthy of her if he failed to capture her essence? How dull the prince was to overlook her allure? A woman like her stood among others like a flowering magnolia amid bare trees in March—overlooking the blossoms was akin to ignoring life.

He looked at her for an instant. Their eyes locked and for a flicker of a moment he felt just like the apprentice he had been all those years ago when—but it just couldn’t be—or could it? She reminded him so much, somehow, of the young woman in the veil that he’d helped in India. Then she shifted and the fabric of her dress rustled in the quiet of the apothecary. She leaned on the counter on her elbows and tugged off her gloves, finger-by-finger. He’d never seen Bea’s hands ungloved.

Alfie’s heart stopped. He recognized her hands—those elegant, delicate fingers that had once brushed against his own in an almost accidental communication. The memory of those days in Delhi surged back, vivid, and unbidden, filling him with astonishment and longing. The girl under the veil, alone by the window all those years ago…

It was her!

His mind raced but his body remained frozen, caught in disbelief and an unexpected wave of emotion. It had been years since he last saw those delicate fingers, yet every small gesture and unspoken word they had shared came rushing back as if no time had passed. Her hands were exactly as he remembered, moving with a familiar and achingly beautiful grace.

A part of him wanted to speak, to bridge the years and the silence that had stretched between them. But another part held him back, fearing that words might shatter this fragile moment of recognition. He watched as she turned slightly, her veil fluttering with the movement, revealing just enough of her profile to confirm what his heart already knew.

She was older now, as was he, but the essence of her—the elegance, the quiet strength—remained unchanged. His throat tightened, the rush of long-buried feelings overwhelming him. He had never forgotten her, nor the way she had unknowingly captured his heart with her poise and presence.

As she glanced up, their eyes met again, and for a brief, effervescent moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. He saw a flicker of recognition in her gaze, a shared history that spoke louder than any words ever could. The connection between them, forged in silence and distance, felt as palpable as it did all those years ago.

Alfie felt a sense of completion in the quiet space between them, as if a missing piece of his soul had finally been restored.

If he had a chance to capture her essence, to feel the caress of her lips and drive his fingers through her hair, he’d never let her go. But it was forbidden to hold her as he wished; that could not only end his career but also risk the reputation of the practice.

He repeated to himself that the best course of action was to make the elixir for her and let her go. Perhaps he could forget the unforgettable woman; he certainly couldn’t touch the untouchable lady who was so removed in station that he shouldn’t even look, much less overreach his position.

She dropped her eyes to the bottles on the counter and the moment was over. “Sherry, cinnamon, and apple blossom essential oil?” Bea picked up several of the vials on his counter in turn and read their labels.

“These notes already exist within your natural scent.” He’d sensed it in India and noticed it the first time they’d met in London when he gave her the ipecac to help Pippa’s and Nick’s coup. But there was more to her now that he knew her a little better— remembered her a little more strongly.

“I have to capture her scent and enhance it,” he mumbled when he retrieved a notebook from the shelf behind him that he’d started on a journey in Morocco. He glanced at his scribblings and the sketch he’d made of a glass beaker with three layers. Oriental perfume theory dictated a symphony of high, middle, and low notes to overpower the human defense to resist, like a knock on one’s memory, a push through the door, and then a step inside with no intention of leaving.

He closed his eyes and thought of the woman whose essence he had to capture, amplify, and highlight only the most seductive, tantalizing allure of her femininity. But when he looked at her, his entire body reacted. Thus, with his eyes closed, he tried to draw her essence out. Alfie tried to concentrate but a flurry of thoughts prevented him from focusing. The golden-red curls, silky skin… the dress she’d worn at the ball, and the sweet breath when she spoke to him. She exhaled and waited, and he wished the world would be different when he opened his eyes. If only she knew—but she couldn’t. He’d never spoken to her in India, and he’d always kept the head scarf on. Did she know it was him? Could she even remember him?

Alfie swallowed hard.

Back to the task.

He opened his eyes and looked at the sketch in his notes and the top layer in the picture of a beaker, a combination of essential oils floating to the top of the mixture. “The high notes greet first, light and fleeting, an initial whisper of an invitation,” he read aloud. If the potion worked, at least he’d make this last encounter with her last.

He reached for the second little drawer on the left in his wall and took out a bottle with a cork stopper. “Almond oil is a sweet carrier oil with a slightly nutty aroma, to welcome the vanilla and apple blossom oil as the high notes.”

“Oh!” Bea watched him as if he fascinated her, and he tried not to think about whether she’d recognized him, too. Alfie carefully selected the vanilla, choosing plump and glossy pods, their fragrance rich and inviting. “Are these Pippa’s vanilla pods from the orangery?”

“No, I have a supplier because I use them often to mask other scents. Vanilla usually adds a touch of sweetness, a hint of warmth that draws the other scents together.” However, it was still too pale for the woman he was trying to describe, not with the sketches of a brush but with the layers of scents. The apple was too tangy, and he needed something to round the highest notes off.

Peach.

No.

Plum. Dark and ripe plums like her cheeks when she was flushed—like now.

He slid a mortar and pestle across the counter to her. “Would it be too much trouble for you to crush some of these vanilla beans for me?” Alfie retrieved a parchment from the drawer under the counter and pulled out two long glass vials filled with the bean paste he’d scraped out of the pods that had come in yesterday’s delivery.

Bea’s face lit up. “I’d love to help.”

Oh, how he’d love to kiss her.

But he knew he mustn’t.

“Pardon me for a moment, please.” Alfie needed to collect his thoughts and calm his body. He groaned when he walked to the kitchen and exhaled in relief, seeing the fruit bowl bearing one little dark purple plum. The cutting board and knife were still there from dinner. He sliced the last plum open and watched the dark juice flowing onto the light wooden board. The red and orange hues of the flesh reminded him of Bea’s hair, and he thought the dark tinge of the plum’s skin represented the mysteries of the night. It was tart, but the aromas from just beneath the skin were precious, so he collected the pieces, left the pit, and brought them to his apothecary, where he began to boil the plum on a low flame in alcohol. While it cooled, he considered the next layer, one that would bring the hydrophilic and lipophilic parts of the mixture so that it wouldn’t take more than a little shake to create a uniform tincture to rub on her wrists or pat on her collarbone.

Bea had finished with the vanilla. She’d done an impeccable job.

She was perfect.

Alfie sucked his cheeks in. “Thank you.”

Bea set down a vial she’d been testing, wiping a droplet off her nose. “The almond oil smells lovely.”

No, you do.

Alfie tried to concentrate on the potion. He read his notes in the open book on the counter: The middle notes emerge, the heart of the perfume, where the actual character is revealed in rich, lingering melodies . Bea’s deep laugh came to mind, the uncontrolled one she’d kept hidden at the ball but that he’d heard when she was alone with her cousin Pippa. The only trace of it had been the rising and falling of her chest when she eyed him in the hall at the Langleys’ ball, hiding her thoughts in a well-practiced poise.

He started with the musk, its rich, deep aroma filling the air as he opened the vial. The scent was powerful and primal, evoking an instinctual response that was hard to define but impossible to ignore. Alfie knew its value, the way it could serve as the cornerstone of his creation, grounding the other scents with its earthy base. Too much, and the entire mixture would smell like the cheap perfumes one could buy at the fair.

“What’s ambergris?” Bea asked when she read the label on another vial he uncorked.

“A very rare and one of the most precious ingredients,” Alfie began, then thought it might be better to let her smell it. He held the beaker in front of his face and waved from the opening toward her face.

She leaned forward to take a whiff and was so close.

Almost close enough to kiss.

The ambergris was just like the woman whose essence he was painting in scents.

“It’s amazing, is it not? Do you know it makes its journey from the belly of a whale to our fingertips, transformed by time and tide into something magical.” Its scent was complex, a mingling of sea spray and earth that spoke of ancient mysteries and the deep, unfathomable ocean.

“That’s marvelous! You know, I’ve seen whales,” she said, her voice reverent. “I was on a ship for a few months when I was sixteen, and then later, I turned eighteen on a schooner in the middle of the Indian Ocean.”

I know.

But his heart sank. Of course, she didn’t remember him. How could she? He’d always worn the scarf on his head.

“So have I.”

“And did you know blue whales are the biggest animals in the world?” Alfie was impressed at her knowledge and enthusiasm. Just another layer to peel back.

You are the most beautiful—and intelligent—woman in the world, do you know that?

“Yes.” He chastised himself for the brevity of his conversation. Why was he suddenly tongue tied in front of her? “Where did you travel?”

“Oh, here and there.” She waved in the air. “My parents have tried to find a cure for my beast— ahem —tetter.”

I know that, too. I’ve been there.

“Do you know that I had to drink a dreadful tea for almost a year that smelled exactly like the ointment you gave me?”

“Hmpf!” I made the ointment here in England, from the extract of the same tea I brought you every day.

“It was dreadfully bitter and smelled rather medicinal.” She sighed. “But there was this kind young man in India who brought me honey to sweeten it.”

That was me, Bea. I brought you the honey. I’d bring you everything you desired in this world if I were allowed.

But he wasn’t.

“Do you wish to go back?” he asked.

“To India? Oh, yes, well actually, anywhere! The farther the better!”

“Why?”

She furrowed her brows, and she opened her mouth to explain, but then seemed to think the better of it, and instead she said flippantly, “To get away from the beast. Or what causes it.”

She must think that the trigger for her condition wouldn’t follow her—or perhaps she didn’t want to admit it to herself. How could she? She called it “the beast” and it was slumbering within her.

His heart sank with pity. Oh how he wished to explain that he’d been there before and that he didn’t mind what she called “the beast”—nobody was less beastly than her. If only he could tell her that he’d thought of her every single day since he’d left India. And yet, he’d vowed discretion to Master Varier, and he was only an apothecary. She was a lady. He wasn’t allowed to cross the line.

Back to the task at hand. He suppressed a deep sigh and waved his hand over the beaker containing his mixture, sniffing the scent that wafted up to his nose. So far, it was but an approximation. More work was needed to capture the irresistible essence of Bea.

He considered his notes and the lowest part of the sketched beaker.

“The low notes, deep and resonant, anchor the fragrance, infusing the senses with a bouquet that persists, a lasting memory of the experience.” He turned his notes over to her and she trailed her finger over his writing.

The fir was next, its delicate fragrance rising like a whisper from the distillation apparatus standing proudly on the wooden counter. According to the flower girl who’d delivered the fir, the needles had been picked in the cool, early morning when their scent was most potent. Alfie poured the fir distillate carefully, the refreshing notes bringing a lightness of a gentle breeze to the blend.

Finally, he turned to the lily of the valley, the preserved buds dried to perfection, retaining their essence and promise. He crushed them gently in his mortar and pestle that was always ready on his counter, releasing their oils and fragrances into the air. The scent brought the promise of better times, and the warmth of spring to the mixture. Perfect, just like Bea, for she was the promise of a better life.

Except that she wasn’t meant for him.

Alfie worked precisely, measuring each ingredient on his scales before combining them in a crystal flask. He mixed them with a practiced hand, stirring the concoction with a glass rod, watching as the colors and scents melded into something new, something extraordinary.

As he worked, the light played across his tools—the gleaming scales, the polished mortar and pestle, the array of vials and bottles—each reflecting the light in its own way, each an essential part of the alchemy taking place. The carrier oils he chose were as important as the scents themselves. Jojoba and almond oil provided the perfect medium, their own subtle aromas adding depth without overpowering the delicate balance he sought to achieve.

After he’d filtered the mixture and poured it into a simple glass vial—a British understatement to the potency within—a drop of it got onto his right index finger, and he rubbed it in and smelled it.

“Does it smell like me yet?” She reached for his hand and brought his finger to her nose.

His breath hitched, and he couldn’t take his eyes off those delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist. Oh, how he fought the impulse to open his palm and cradle her lovely cheeks in his hand—but it was prohibited. Plus, she trusted him to create a potion for her; she was there as a customer.

“It’s close, but not wholly you.”

She furrowed her brows and let go of his hand as if she’d been burned.

Perhaps it was for the better because they’d left every modicum of propriety behind this late in the day at the apothecary, creating a way for her to entice a prince… he mustn’t think about it.

Something unique and exotic was missing, the spirit she’d stifled as a lady, but that Alfie knew all too well a good lover could bring to the surface.

From the bottom right drawer of his wall of treasured substances, he retrieved a thin tube with a waxed cork.

“May I see?” Bea reached out again, her curiosity seemingly getting the better of her.

“This is irreplaceable. I’ve saved it for a special mixture.” With great care, he held the tube upright and removed the cork, then let the dark orange drop fall into the vial—oil of guava.

When the potion glowed amber in the candlelight, its scent a complex tapestry of desire and longing, of earth and sea and blooming gardens and ripe fruits of womanhood, Alfie sealed the flask carefully, his fingers lingering on the glass, feeling the warmth of the liquid inside. He knew this was not just a perfume but a weapon of femininity. He’d used his understanding of the natural world and its hidden language to give her something so powerful that the prince couldn’t resist.

Then why did it feel so bad and unsatisfying to create this masterpiece?

Still, Alfie surveyed his counter and was rather pleased that he’d worked with such precision and skill, following the teachings of his mentors from years ago with great diligence. He’d captured the essence of seduction combined with Bea’s unique spirit.

He’d created a key to unlock the heart’s deepest desires. After years of dreaming of the veiled girl in India, he hadn’t even known that he found her until he sketched her scent with nothing but his intuition.

She was so precious that his chest constricted at the thought that another would hold her.

“Let me smell it,” Bea said as she reached for the beaker.

“It needs to come together for a few hours, and then it’s ready.”

The shop seemed to hold its breath, the air charged with anticipation, as if it, too, recognized the power of the potion Alfie had crafted when she inhaled it. In that moment, he was more than just an apothecary; he was a weaver of dreams, a conjurer of love’s most elusive magic.

And now it was time to give it away.