Chapter Sixteen

W aking in a fog, from bad dreams which featured a certain prince, Alfie gathered a wicker basket filled with large glass bottles of plain alcohol and a knife. His heart felt heavier than his shoes as he prepared to leave for Pippa’s orangery. Bea had invited him to pick some of the fragrant orange blooms, and as they’d discussed, that was best done in the early morning. If he waited another day, the blooms may be past the height of fragrance. The sun had hardly risen in the sky and the air was damp with dew. The perfect time for harvesting.

With a click of the door latch, he stepped onto Harley Street and waved for a hackney, pausing to glance back at his home. An odd sensation gnawed at him, like an undiagnosed ailment lurking beneath the surface. Others seemed to fit into their lives seamlessly, like doors closing gently into their frames. But Alfie felt misaligned as if his latch never quite engaged with the strike plate. Something didn’t click into place.

As he contemplated his situation, a painful churn twisted his stomach. If he helped the prince, he’d be betraying everything Nick, Felix, Andre, and Wendy stood for. Yet, aiding Felix and their Jewish friends when no one else would stand up for what was right—didn’t that count as heroism? The authorities wouldn’t help Jewish citizens; they had no protection under the law. List was on a mission to weaken even the little protection they had and stifle the supply of the precious gold they needed to earn their livelihoods and their prestige. It wasn’t right.

Or was it foolishness to pursue the wrong people based solely on a stranger’s word? Even though this stranger was a prince, carrying innate credibility? Even though he held the potential to wed Bea and take her away forever? The conflicting thoughts left Alfie grappling with his conscience.

Once he’d gotten into the hackney and taken a seat on the forward-facing bench, the carriage traveled the span down Harley Street, past the stone facades of Marylebone, and toward the busier, more colorful section of London toward Cloverdale House on Abbotsbury Road, Pippa and Bea’s home. The mares snorted; they were overworked and tired.

Alfie remembered the tall white horses at Vienna’s prestigious Spanish Riding School. He’d been there often, delivering buckets of clay mixed with essential oils for the horses’ joints. The gleaming Lipizzaner horses were the cream of the crop for the specialized Viennese riders and had unparalleled grace training. What a contrast London offered. Alfie frowned at the hodgepodge of brown, grey, speckled, and black horses pulling carriages through puddles on the slick cobblestones. The Spanish Riding School horses would never haul anything behind them.

Of course, their “stables” had chandeliers. Within its storied walls, centuries-old traditions blended seamlessly with masterful training as the majestic horses performed breathtaking maneuvers that epitomized the art of classical dressage. Alfie had seen them; he’d brought them salves. He’d looked up to the royals among horses and had served them.

He mustn’t do any more than that with Bea either. He was only allowed to serve her because he was so far below her in station. She was a Lipizzaner mare living under crystal chandeliers and he was only a speckled grey cob in a hired hack, on the way to collect his flowers for oil extraction. And just like that, his profession, his calling, and all that he’d studied seemed shabby. He hadn’t realized how low he’d sunken because starting the practice and establishing his clientele had just been so much work. Now, if word got out that he’d kissed a client—an earl’s daughter—he’d have to leave. Oh, and how he’d kissed her.

I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Perhaps he could help Nick, Felix, and Andre maintain appearances if they made a big scene of letting him go to protect their patients.

Alfie knew he’d gone too far. Kissing an aristocratic woman was above and beyond anything he could get away with. And yet, his friend Nick had gotten away with it, hadn’t he? He was engaged to a duke’s daughter.

Alfie loathed himself.

You are the lowest kind of cad.

Even scolding himself, however, didn’t erase his guilty conscience. Not only was Bea Nick’s fiancée’s cousin, but she was also a client. She’d come with the distinct request of a love potion, so a prince— a prince !—would fall in love with her. And it wasn’t far-fetched because she was a diamond of the first water, a beauty inside and out. She didn’t merely fit into the ballgowns and squeeze herself into the corsets or pile her hair atop her head to impress others at the balls. Alfie had seen her. It was all just accessories because her beauty shone brighter than any diamond ever could. She was the main attraction. She wore the dresses gracefully because she was that refined, that precious! Like the Lipizzaner, she’d been bred to achieve more than others, and she did.

He’d seen her.

And she’d taken his breath away.

The hackney stopped, and Alfie stepped out, basket and bottles in hand. He paid the driver and walked toward the park’s gates adjacent to Pippa’s castle, where Bea lived.

Of course, she lived in a castle, and not in a seventy-five square foot chamber overstuffed with books about alchemy, chemistry, and plants as he did.

She was beyond his reach.

*

At Cloverdale House, Bea didn’t feel particularly pretty. That morning, though the salve had greatly eased the burn of her rash, and she almost looked normal, she was anxious to get out of her chamber. So she put on a less-than-stellar dress so she wouldn’t need to ring for her maid, and left. She was glad she didn’t need to stay locked away for two weeks with barely any food, something her mother had insisted upon, to ensure she maintained a slim silhouette while she confined herself until her skin healed.

She’d dress for the Ton later, but first, she longed for a brisk walk before the park was filled with watchful eyes, scrutinizing her every move and finding out about her beast. She had to hide herself until it was all healed. Bea couldn’t explain its appearance and had leafed through the journal of her meals that she brought with her in her reticule. She’d read her notes about her catalogued uses of cosmetics and even her bath oils. Since she’d sampled so many wedding cakes with Pippa, Bea hadn’t even had dinner. What could have possibly brought on her beastly rash again? Oh what had Alfie called it? A tetter. Salt rheum .

Her choice of gown was one of her softest and most-washed, which was champagne colored muslin with pink embroidery. She felt like herself in this old but soft dress and not as a piece of decoration for parlors and ballrooms. It even let her forget the red hives. In the dim light of dawn, Bea wrapped herself in the warmth of her gown, the chill of the early morning seeping through the thin fabric. She shivered, her breath visible in the cool air of her chamber after the fire had gone out. The floorboards felt icy beneath her bare feet as she padded across the room to her wardrobe. Pulling open the doors, she selected a woolen shawl. Then she brushed her hair and powdered her face, wrapped the serviceable scarf around her shoulders, and snuck out of her room, down the corridor past Pippa’s room, and downstairs toward the side door.

Just as she touched the cool metal of the door, the grandfather clock chimed five times.

Orange blossoms are best picked at five in the morning to capture the most fragrant moments.

The dashing apothecary was on her mind like a constant companion, and she remembered everything he’d said—and especially everything he’d done. He was the kind of man who could sweep her off her feet.

But there was more to him—he was a man of substance and principles. He didn’t merely kiss her senseless; he’d caught her and carried her to safety. How else could a man so young have accomplished so much in his life if not through hard work, and integrity?

Bea pursed her lips as she walked through the door, consumed by her circling thoughts, which were dead ends for someone who knew maps as well as she did.

For the first time in her life, Bea thought about the consequences of her actions… for another person. She’d be jeopardizing his career if she asked Alfie for another kiss, or more. She mustn’t be so selfish as to think that her father would let him escape his punishment for touching her and—if anyone found out—compromising her reputation. She wouldn’t be a prize to parade about to go to the highest bidder, or at least, the richest bachelor in the Ton. She’d be soiled, ruined, destined to be married off to whoever would accept her father’s wealth in payment for the acceptance of a “used” woman.

And Bea didn’t fool herself into thinking that Alfie would ever receive her father’s approval.

It left a sour taste in her mouth just thinking about it.

All those rules from the Ton were supposed to give her life structure and order in Society—yet they accomplished the opposite. If it wasn’t for the cleft that Society had placed between the aristocracy and hard-working, brilliant people like the doctors on Harley Street, she could follow her heart rather than suppress emotion. Yet, as a lady, her destiny was not to marry for love, but for another supposedly good reason, and love wasn’t it. Title, and the wealth and power that went along with it, was.

Bea stood in the misty courtyard that connected the main house and Pippa’s orangery. The chill of the morning sent a shiver down her spine, and she wrapped herself in the scarf more closely.

Then she saw a shadow through the fogged-up glass wall of the orangery. The only person who frequented it was her cousin.

Could Pippa be awake at this hour?

It would be wonderful to speak with her cousin about the dilemma in her heart.