Chapter Thirteen

A lfie hated himself for knocking the wind out of Bea and slumped onto his chair behind the counter, the only place where he felt in command and control. After she’d awakened, he’d started working in his apothecary and by the time Pippa took her home, Alfie had already polished his beakers, recalibrated the brass scale, cleaned the window, and sorted the tea sachets. Again. But there was no amount of tedious work that could take his mind off the kiss.

It was a kiss of a lifetime with the woman of the century.

“Alfie, someone is waiting for you.” Wendy burst into the apothecary shop and placed a stack of crisp white towels on the kitchen table. She leaned on her elbows and waited.

“Yes, Wendy?” Alfie knew that look. He’d known it since she was a little girl. It always worked.

“Why is he here?” She opened her eyes wide and gestured to the kitchen door.

If he engaged, she’d trap him. He knew it. And yet, Alfie had to ask. “Who is waiting for me?”

“Prince Ferdinand Constantin Maximilian Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen.”

“What?” Alfie shot up from his chair and let it fall back with a screech. He stormed to the door and found a tall, dark-haired man in a very expensive-looking coat tapping on the wall in the waiting room as if he owned it.

Alfie stopped in the doorway, suspicious of the prince’s intentions. He couldn’t possibly have already found out that Alfie had kissed the woman destined for him, or could he?

Wendy was at his heel, and he turned around, shaking his head “no.” Wendy deflated and dragged her feet as she left and disappeared out the door.

Alfie turned back to the prince and cleared his throat.

The prince turned and gave him a superciliary once-over that immediately irritated Alfie. He gave the man a similar, dismissive once-over in return.

Tall, young, strong. Impeccable tailoring. Excellent shave.

He’d make a handsome husband for Bea.

Alfie instantly hated him.

“Are you Collins, the apothecary?”

Alfie eyed the prince’s tapping fingers on the wall, and the prince stopped. Slower than he intended, Alfie walked back around the counter to the spot where he was in charge. From there, he could reach every drawer behind him, easily able to tell what was where without looking. This was his realm of expertise. Where he reigned.

“What do you need?” Alfie tried not to growl, but what else would two wolves do when fighting for… well, they weren’t fighting. The prince had won.

But something in his heart hadn’t given up yet.

“The Countess of Langley tells me that you are well-versed in non-traditional medicine.”

His rolling ‘r’ had the same effect as a wolf’s warning growl, and Alfie crossed his arms.

“Who?”

The prince laughed. “Very good. I like your discretion. But I was there, you know. I saw you at their ball a few days ago, and I’m well aware of the bonds you share.”

Alfie shrugged. Whatever His Highness may or may not know, he wouldn’t confirm.

“You’ve come with a requirement for a salve?” I hope you’re itching and burning. Go sit in some nettles.

“No.”

“Then what can I do for you?” Alfie put his hands on the counter and leaned forward, taking up as much space as possible. He was just as tall as the prince, and as far as Alfie was concerned, a title earned by way of studies was worth as much as one inherited. Whether the prince would live up to his title was yet to be seen.

Except that Alfie hoped that it wasn’t Bea who would be testing the prince’s virtues and merit.

“I need something highly concentrated and undetectable.”

Don’t they all?

Earls who needed salves of a certain slippery nature, dukes with a preference for elixirs to harden the muscles, while others preferred some for relaxation… Alfie’s list was endless and secret.

He could fill volumes with how many times ladies had come for a poison that could solve their marital problems by ending their husbands’ lives. Sometimes, they wanted their husbands to suffer. Other times, they wanted to rid their bodies of the evidence of sidesteps. But Alfie never catered to such requests. He wanted to help heal ailments, practice medicine with honor, and not sell his integrity for charlatanry or the dispensation of justice where it wasn’t his place to serve it.

“No poisons. Sorry! I’m not dealing with this kind of—”

“Not a poison.” The prince tsked . “A little something to erase traces of questions I cannot freely ask.” He drew circles in the air as if the effect were self-explanatory. “Violet said you could make anything.”

“A truth serum?” Alfie shook his head.

“A mixture that masks the effects of something nobody knows exists, an untraceable potion?”

“Never.”

The prince dropped his shoulders and looked Alfie in the eyes. “Why not?”

“There’s no such thing as a truth serum. Perhaps if you find a specialist in witchcraft or charlatanerie, they will sell it to you.”

“Then invent one! You’re the best, aren’t you?”

Argh! Alfie hated nothing more than a challenge from the man he wished to surpass.

“Let’s see. If there were such a thing, and I’m not saying there is, there are several problems. First, the dosage is problematic because I cannot give you a medicine for a third person whose weight and physique I don’t know.”

The prince inclined his head. “Fair enough. I can obtain this information for you.”

Alfie narrowed his eyes. “And I don’t make anything that could harm my clients. Or anyone.”

“Very good. I’d be the client and wouldn’t take it, so there would be no harm.”

He was smart and uncomfortably direct. If he were anyone else, Alfie would almost respect the prince. But he didn’t. He hated him because Bea liked him.

“How do I know that you won’t use this to manipulate a woman to do what you—”

“I would never!” The prince hit his fist on the counter and looked appalled. “That’s preposterous! Criminal! Immoral!”

Alfie cocked his head.

“Look, I’m not in line for anything; I’m merely trying to accomplish my mission.”

“Which is what?”

“Preventing harm to my people.”

“At the hands of?”

“An enemy I know of whom you are aware.”

Alfie quirked a brow. “You know nothing of my enemies.” You’re ranking at the top.

“I understand that you are friends with the Jewish jewelers at St. James.”

Alfie crossed his arms again and raised his chin. “So what?”

“The Klonimuses, Pearlers… Felix works in this practice with you, right?”

“Yes, Felix is the dentist here. His name is on the door.” Why was he pointing out the obvious?

“He uses gold. That gold comes from my country. And many want to subvert it without paying.”

“Thieves?”

The prince brushed the words aside as if they could be swept away like dust. “When countries clash with each other, it’s not theft. Not even a crime. An annexation is not a repossession in diplomacy. Persecution is not a manhunt, either. The bigger the scale, the more harmless the words.”

Even though he has a moral compass, I must hate him.

“Who’s your target?” Alfie asked.

“Richard Nagy.”

The man was the worst sort of scoundrel and nasty, with vile motives. If anyone had perfected the art of being a perpetrator of crimes against minority groups, Richard Nagy was the ultimate master. On top of that, he had an awful mannerism that made him seem like the victim—after he preyed on people based on their ethnicity, religion, or wealth.

“I beg your pardon?”

“And Baron Wolfgang von List.”

The only person worse than Nagy was von List, a Prussian baron on a self-appointed diplomatic duty to sully the waters in the English parliament, so that no equality would be given to the Jewish citizens. If the prince had anything to do with either of these people, Alfie rather wished to stay far away from him.

“Leave my apothecary.”

The prince chuckled, widened his stance, and sucked his lower lip in. “I’ll bring you their weight and sizes from their tailor, but I take it you know who they are?”

“I can’t say.” Alfie sucked his cheeks in. Of course, he knew the no-gooders who never got caught abusing their stations and inflicting harm upon his Jewish friends. The temptation to extract information from the Prussian Baron von List and his lackey, Bailiff Richard Nagy, would give the Pearlers, the Klonimuses, and Felix more than mere ammunition to defend themselves. Helping under these circumstances would be a good deed and a big step toward justice where the authorities were misguided.

“Can I pick it up tomorrow morning? They’re playing cards at Langley’s house, and I’d like to show my generosity with a round of whiskey.”

Henry was the Earl of Langley, one of the best and most prominent patrons of the practice at 87 Harley Street. So he was involved, too. This information reassured Alfie because it meant that the prince was on the right side of the conflict.

Alfie didn’t want to admit it to himself, but the set-up at the Earl of Langley’s house would be perfect.

He didn’t want to help the prince, but his mission was worthy and in the spirit of justice and equality indeed. Plus, it was helping his friends who’d been victimized by Baron von List and Nagy for long enough. “Cognac.”

“What?”

“Whiskey doesn’t mask the bitterness. Cognac does.”

“So you’ll make me a truth serum?” The prince didn’t hide his hopefulness well.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Can you make it undetectable, so he won’t suspect anything?”

“No. Medicine always smells or tastes a certain way.”

The prince furrowed his brow.

“But if I run a test, I must be there to detect its effect.”

“It’s dangerous to do this at my friends’ home, the Earl and Countess of Langley.”

“I’m a man with integrity,” Alfie said, raising eyebrows. “Thus, I need to be sure you don’t use this on a woman.”

“So come and watch me.”