Chapter Two

H e had to work through an entire day at the apothecary before harvesting the orange blossoms for the neroli oil—an entire day before he could formulate a reason to see her again.

Alfie Collins, the apothecary at 87 Harley Street, was as much a dispenser of medicines as he was the keeper of secrets, including his own. His patients, often members of Britain’s upper crust, the Ton, had to tell him what was wrong so that he could offer a cure—or at least something to alleviate their symptoms. Sometimes, he merely treated a cough, the pains of a broken bone healing, or ointments to help wounds close without infection.

But there were instances when his professional impartiality came at the cost of his convictions. That was a problem because he wished to tell men not to stray, women to be honest with their husbands, and children not to jump from high rocks. Instead, day after day, problems that could have been prevented presented in the form of well-paying patients, and thus, as long as he had provided the right ointment, tincture, or tea, his business thrived. His role demanded stoic impartiality, and his task was not to pass judgment on behaviors or ponder the morality of the various reasons that led these highborn men and women to his doorstep. Regardless of whether their conditions were of their own making.

He wished he could prevent maladies and injuries as much as he could help to heal them. Pondering that, Alfie went to the waiting room of the shared practice, as he ought to on a Monday morning. It was where the other doctors gathered around Wendy Folsham, the nurse and younger sister of the oculist, Nick. Andre, the orthopedist, and Felix, the dentist, were already there. Wendy was holding cards with the names of their first patients of the day.

“Twisted ankle from a waltz,” Wendy read the card for the Monday morning round-up.

Mornings after large balls were particularly fruitful for Andre the orthopedist, especially during the season when so many of the young debutantes danced on polished and slippery parquet.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the note. “I’ll get some ice before I see her, it was just delivered from Gatti’s ice house.” He gave Alfie a brotherly smile, said good morning, and left to find his patient.

“Miss Mary-Ann Portsmouth, governess to little Thomas Jackson.” Wendy handed Felix the card. He let out a sigh.

“Drat. Another baby tooth she is making me check to ensure it is in perfect health,” Felix said as he took the card. “After it has fallen out!”

Alfie laughed aloud. There was no end to their patients’ eccentricities. He and Felix had one thing in common, and even though it might seem trivial to bystanders, it was pivotal to their careers: their skill and expertise had helped them to a position where the country’s finest clients sought them out, but their expertise was not always required. More often than not, discretion, or merely listening to their patients’ problems was all they could offer… because in reality there was no actual condition requiring a remedy, or an illness to cure. Felix had often told Alfie that he’d rather tackle a complicated gold cast bridge than explain how to angle a toothbrush and how much powder to use for a thorough cleaning. Correspondingly, Alfie much preferred to be stumped by a cure that he’d have to mix than to pick a pre-made vial from his shelf—for one of the many common and predictable ailments, or underlying injuries, usually the result of the Ton’s indiscretions. Both Felix and Alfie were capable of innovation and sought to perform medical marvels, rather than drown in daily routines without challenges.

“Pardon me, I’m late.” Nick appeared from his second-floor bed chamber, fastening the last button of his shirt and tugging at his cravat. “What have I missed?”

“A few hours of sleep because you were with your fiancée until the early morning?” Alfie asked with a knowing look at Nick’s disheveled hair.

Nick glowered back at him, but his eyes didn’t hide his happiness.

“Has she slept here?” Wendy’s disapproval colored her tone.

“Ahem… we were still loaded with adrenaline after the ball, and talked until it was later at night.” Nick cast Alfie a wide-eyed look, waiting to see whether Wendy would approve of the poor excuse for a scandalous night. “Wedding planning,” he added for good measure.

“Hmpf!” Wendy crossed her arms as if the argument of a well-planned wedding trumped propriety. “I suppose, as a lady, she has certain expectations for the ceremony?”

“Let them be. They’re in love.” Alfie gave Nick a brotherly smile.

Only nine hours earlier, Alfie had been standing next to Nick and his fiancée Pippa when they caused a scandal at the Earl and Countess of Langley’s ball. Only eight and a half hours earlier, he’d been in a deserted corridor with Bea.

They’d all returned late and got little sleep. Alfie hadn’t gotten any, however, because he couldn’t stop thinking about Bea. Still, he couldn’t let the others know about his infatuation with the beautiful woman far above his station. No matter how much he desired her, the fact was they’d never be together. Even just being seen together could cause her disgrace and that was something he’d never do to her. Better to stay silent about his feelings before Wendy—canny, observant Wendy, obsessed with romance—figured them out.

He gave Felix a smirk. “You know the governess is not here because of the child but for you. ” But Felix didn’t pay him any attention. They all knew that he was holding out for the long-lost love of his life, the daughter of his professor.

“And Lady Beatrice is here for you,” Wendy said as she turned to Alfie. “I don’t have a card.”

“Lady Beatrice is here for me?” Alfie rubbed the back of his neck, hoping the pricked-up hairs would settle. But at the mention of the gorgeous strawberry blonde’s name, everything stood alert, including the parts Alfie rather wished to hide.

“Yes, Lady Beatrice Wetherby, you remember, the wealthy heiress in Debrett’s who’s already rejected twenty-four suitors and yet, is still a coveted guest at London’s most prominent balls?” Wendy’s remark was right on point, though perhaps tinged with humor.

Alfie had lost count of how many times ladies of the Ton had come to him and asked for a hair dye that would give that exact shade of light blond with a copper shimmer or a rouge that shone rosily on the cheeks ‘just like Lady Beatrice.’

It was true, and Alfie couldn’t deny it either: Lady Beatrice was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—not just at the ball, not just of the season, not just in England. Alfie had seen, touched, kissed, and pleasured women from Vienna to Delhi, but never had he been caught off guard as he had the night before.

And she was waiting for him.