Chapter Twenty-Eight

Eight o’clock in the evening at Brunswick House upon Thames.

A lfie stood at the entrance of the Langley’s elegant house, feeling as though the grandeur of the place threatened to swallow him whole. The elaborate stonework, the towering columns, and the lush greenery whispered tales of wealth and privilege far beyond his grasp.

Violet, the Countess of Langley, greeted him with a smile as cunning as it was lovely. “Welcome, Mr. Collins,” she purred, her voice like silk brushing over steel. “Do come in. The gentlemen withdrew to the drawing room after dinner.”

Yes, the gentlemen might very well have been there, but Alfie wasn’t one of them. He had only the title he’d worked for and none that had been passed down to him for generations. Coming here felt as if he were a child playing with tools that were too pointy and sharp. He was bound to get hurt.

Still, he needed to support Felix, and the jewelers; this was no time to focus on his status. Instead, he’d focus on his purpose here tonight, one initiated because of his craft and his skills. Alfie followed Violet and the butler down the same hall in which he’d spoken to Bea only days ago at the ball, though it felt as if a lifetime had gone by. Just as he remembered it, the Langley’s entrance hall was a cavernous space dominated by an imposing marble sculpture of the Roman emperor Lucius Verus. Alfie felt as if the cold, stone eyes of the emperor were judging him, measuring his worth and finding him wanting.

“This way,” the butler intoned when Violet entered ahead of Alfie. The man stood back, ushering Alfie through a double door to the parlor room. A blazing fire in the hearth seemed a mere decoration, offering no warmth to Alfie’s chilled nerves. The room smelled of polished wood, expensive cigars, and the subtle tang of spirits.

At the card table, he saw Henry, the Earl of Langley, standing beside Baron Wolfgang von List. Both men held crystal tumblers filled with a dark amber liquid that caught the firelight in its facets. Their conversation halted as Alfie entered, their gazes shifting to him with curious intensity.

“Ah, Mr. Collins,” the earl said, his tone dripping with false formality. Of course, he couldn’t betray how close he was to Alfie since a mere apothecary was so far below his station. The trust of a patient must never be betrayed, and Alfie never would break that confidentiality. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Thank you for inviting me to play cards with you, my lord. As you know, I’ve wanted to learn the game for some time.” Alfie nodded and exchanged polite greetings, carefully bowing low and long enough to the earl and the baron to show his status before the aristocracy.

“You’ve helped me so with my…needs, Mr. Collins. It would be poor form of me not to give you this opportunity in exchange for your services,” the earl told him. It was all for the baron’s benefit, of course. He couldn’t question his host’s choice of guests; decorum made that impossible. But giving a reason for Alfie to be there would hopefully put to rest any of the baron’s doubts and suspicions. And of course, his opinions didn’t matter to either the earl or the apothecary.

The butler reappeared at the double door and cleared his throat as if he’d been waiting for fanfare that never came. “Prince Ferdinand Constantin Maximilian Hohenzollern- Sigmaringen and Lady Beatrice Wetherby, daughter of the Earl of Dunmore.”

Alfie turned his face toward the door so fast his neck cracked and his heart plummeted. What was she doing here? And with him ? Surprise widened his eyes, for he had not expected to see her tonight. It was a pleasure and yet, it was pain. His breath hitched, and a cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck. She stood close to Prince Stan, their heads bowed together in a conspiratorial whisper and her arm hooked into his. The warm glow of the chandelier cast a golden halo around them, making her look ethereal and further out of his reach. A pang of jealousy shot through him—had their intimacy meant nothing to her? Was he simply a stepping stone in her quest to win the prince’s favor? And then, for a flicker of an instant, she made eye contact with him. It was meaningful and deliberate as if she tried to tell him something.

And then something worse bit into Alfie’s already somber mood: Bea could be in danger this evening.

The room seemed to blur. The aristocrats’ lively chatter and hollow greetings were a farce because he knew this was not a friendly social gathering. Clinking glasses faded into a distant hum. Alfie’s mind raced, each thought more frantic than the last. He could still taste the lingering sweetness of Bea’s kiss, feel the softness of her lips against his. But now, seeing her so close to the prince, a man of power and prestige, he felt the crushing inadequacy of his station. He was the one people consulted for his opinion and advice when he stood behind his counter, commanding the world of medicinal plants, serums, tinctures, and salves. Here, he preferred to—he was expected to—remain silent, a mere servant in the grand tapestry of their world.

He clenched his fists, the rough fabric of his coat scratching against his skin He couldn’t put up a fight for the love of his life, not against someone like the prince.

Alfie blinked and tried to focus his vision, pushing the anger aside when Bea stood close to Stan when speaking to Violet. The scent of her perfume still hung in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of wine and the musky scent of the ballroom. Her familiar and yet distant laughter echoed in his ears, intertwining with the voices in the elegant drawing room. The air grew stuffy, constricting Alfie’s chest as if his shirt were metal armor. Instead of fighting for his love, his role was reduced to a mere footnote.

“Shall we begin?” Prince Stan’s voice cut through Alfie’s thoughts, sharp and commanding. He turned to see the prince watching him with expectant eyes.

Alfie moved to the card table. Next to it was an elegant mahogany cart with a silver platter and a decanter, four crystal glasses, and a deck of cards. The instruments for their interrogation lay ready. The decanter with the truth serum glimmered ominously in the firelight.

After the men settled around the card table, a footman poured four glasses from the decanter. As the first dose was administered, Alfie watched the baron’s reaction intently. But the man’s cold, pointed stare remained unyielding, his pupils mere pinpricks of defiance. Stan dealt the cards, his hands steady despite the growing tension.

“Shall we play whist?” Prince Stan’s tone was deceptively casual. “For those unfamiliar, the game is simple. Each hand comprises thirteen ‘tricks’, and whoever wins the most tricks wins the game,” he said, obviously for Alfie’s benefit but when Alfie nodded to signal his understanding, he stopped explaining the rules.

Baron von List gave a slow nod, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “I’m well acquainted with the game.”

As the cards were passed, Alfie couldn’t help but glance at the baron, whose aloof demeanor never faltered.

From where Alfie sat, he could see Bea without lifting his gaze from the cards too much. She stood near the fireplace and watched the men intently, her eyes flickering with curiosity and suspicion. She adjusted her shawl, the warmth of the fire contrasting with the chill in the room. Violet, seated on a plush chair by the fireplace, served Bea and herself tea with genteel grace, her gaze occasionally lifting to observe the players.

The earl shuffled the remaining deck and put it aside. “Let’s begin,” he said, his voice deliberately light.

As the game commenced, Alfie watched for any sign of weakness in the baron. The first few rounds were uneventful, each player taking a polite turn. Alfie won a trick with a well-timed Queen of Hearts, while the Prince played an Ace of Spades, securing one for himself. The baron remained unperturbed, his strategies sharp and calculated.

Alfie had only lifted the glass with the truth serum to his mouth but not wet his lips with it. The earl had finished about half of his, and List the first glass. The prince had left his untouched, reaching for it occasionally but then appearing—cleverly, Alfie had to admit—to be distracted by the game.

Meanwhile, Violet had signaled the footman to top off List’s glass from the same decanter. The second dose was underway.

“How do you like the digestive?” The earl asked, taking another minuscule sip but smacking his lips as if he’d gulped down a whole glass. “It was a gift from a friend who’d visited the Bavarian Alps.”

“It burns,” Stan said, seemingly intent not to meet Alfie’s gaze.

“It’s a fine concoction, indeed,” List spoke as if he meant something else. The room grew silent for a second that stretched.

Alfie watched as Bea and Violet cast each other a look.

“I’ve never had anything with this level of bitterness. You know, Maximilian I Joseph has sent me a bottle of his Almgebr?u every Christmas since he ascended to the throne.”

Alfie knew he was speaking of the first King of Bavaria in 1806, when Bavaria was elevated to a kingdom during the Napoleonic Wars. “It has a different taste every year, depends on the herbs the monks use in the distilleries.” He took another swig. “I like the burn better than the ones with too much honey. Sweet ones remind me of cough mixture my governess forced down my throat.”

“Is this the same King Max whose daughter was promised to…” The earl began as he shuffled the cards to deal them again.

“ Och ja, ein herziges M?del .” Oh yes, a nice girl. List wriggled his fingers, demanding the cards. “I should deal this time.”

“Who might that be?” Alfie asked, unwilling to betray that he’d understood German exactly since he’d studied and worked in Vienna for several years. Except that he felt out of his depth with the political intricacies that seemed to mean much to Prince Stan, Bea, and the Langleys. No matter. His job was to make sure the truth serum worked well enough for List to give away information that would help his friends. But it was also to ensure List didn’t take too much. There was no way to know how much he could tolerate; even the best of Alfie’s calculations based on his size were mere approximations.

“His daughter, Princess Sophie of Bavaria, is supposed to marry Archduke Franz Karl of Austria as soon as she’s old enough,” the earl explained.

“This marriage will link the Bavarian royal family with the Austrian Habsburg dynasty,” Stan added, raising his brows appreciatively. At this, Alfie perked up. Weren’t they rival families for Prince Stan?

List nodded. “Very important alliance.”

Stan cast Alfie a short look, and Alfie signaled “no.” List’s pupils were still small, his face had the usual pallor, and his language remained clear. He was certainly a man who could hold his liquor, given that he’d already had the second glass of the strong alcohol laced with the truth serum.

The earl waved to the footman and List received his third glass.

“A coffee for me, please,” Violet said, exaggeratedly loud in the background, as if she meant to tell her husband that it was enough truth serum for him.

“Me too,” Bea nodded to Violet.

The women had obviously grown nervous about the amount of Alfie’s serum that had made the rounds.

During a lull in the game, Stan must have decided to up the ante. “Tell me, Baron,” he said, examining his hand. “What brings you to our kingdom? Surely, it’s not just for the pleasure of our company.”

Baron von List’s smirk was almost imperceptible. “Ah, various business dealings,” he replied. “Trade routes, alliances… you know how it is.”

The earl interjected, his tone now lacking the earlier friendliness. His pupils were enlarged, and his face flushed. “Interesting, considering we’ve heard rumors of more… nefarious activities.” He tugged at his cravat, loosening it. Alfie could see the carotid artery pulsating on his neck.

List’s hand hesitated above the table, a fleeting sign of uncertainty. “Rumors are the currency of the weak,” he said coolly, playing a King of Diamonds.

“So, nothing to do with the smuggling operations near the Prussian borders?” Stan pressed, his eyes never leaving the baron’s.

List let out a soft laugh. “That’s quite the accusation. But I assure you, I have no involvement in such matters whether they are underway or not.”

“Forests along borders are the most fertile grounds for smugglers,” Alfie said, picking up his glass and swirling the dark liquid in it. The whiff of the potent mixture reminded him of the smells in his apothecary. It was an infusion of courage to press on. With each trick won or lost, the game revealed more about the characters involved. The baron’s composure held, but tiny cracks began to show.

Alfie watched as Bea shot a glance toward Violet, a silent communication passing between them. Both women came to the table, Violet assuming a position behind her husband and Bea—to Alfie’s chagrin—between the prince and him.

Matters were made worse when her scent—the one he’d created for her to capture her prince—wafted to his nostrils, making it hard to focus on the baron, even as the footman came and administered the fourth glass to List.

But then a vein popped up on the baron’s forehead and it began to beat vehemently. It took all of Alfie’s willpower not to leap up to check List’s pulse. But then he noticed that there was a glimmer of evil in List’s eyes that was more pronounced as he grew increasingly uninhibited. Finally the serum was working effectively to reveal what usually lay hidden.

Alfie wasn’t proud of himself for supplying the serum and helping the earl and the prince administer it without List’s consent in spite of Felix’s and Andre’s protests. What was worse was that he’d given Bea a similar potion to woo the prince. What should have been a skill set to create healing mixtures had become instruments of intrigue and manipulation.

Alfie couldn’t help but loathe himself. Nothing should be worth betraying his integrity as a man of medicine and science, even though List’s political games were endangering his Jewish friends.

Perhaps Alfie had helped the prince and the earl to take justice into their own hands, but that wouldn’t have been necessary if the authorities had done it. In a way, they were stepping up for those who didn’t have rights and protections under the law, because their Jewish friends, Felix included, had scarce legal standing in England. None in continental Europe, Alfie remembered from his classes at his university. And if people like List and King Max of Bavaria received more sway, they would skew injustice even further in their favor. It wasn’t right.

Still, even if the ends justified the means, Alfie wished he’d never gotten himself into this tangle. He’d become an apothecary to help people with their health, not poison them and never to engage in political intrigue. Or, potentially, murder.

List brought the glass to his mouth and took another swig.

Alfie focused on the dosage—too little, and Baron von List could still weave lies; too much, and the man’s heart might race out of control, leading to death.