Chapter Thirty-Five

A lfie’s breath hitched, the grandiosity of the ballroom suddenly oppressive, squeezing the very air from his lungs. Directly ahead, as the prince led Bea off the dance floor, Bea’s parents fluttered about him and their daughter with the eagerness of bees around the season’s first bloom. With hands that bespoke of a life untouched by toil, her mother fussed over Bea’s hair, attempting to tame what was never meant to be restrained. Each time a curl escaped its confines, it seemed to Alfie as though a piece of her soul was asserting its freedom, the soft tendrils kissing her skin in silent rebellion.

And he wanted that spirit wild and untamed in his arms, moaning with pleasure, and screaming his name. She was never one to bow to others and Alfie hated that her spirit stifled under her parents’ watchful gazes. Wasn’t it the responsibility of parents to help their children blossom with their full potential rather than prune them like a boxwood in a maze to cripple them into convalescence?

Bea stood resplendent amidst the chaos, a serene smile playing on her lips, unaware or perhaps uncaring of the commotion her mere presence caused. Alfie’s gaze lingered on the way a loose strand of hair brushed against her collarbone, trailing down the delicate expanse of her décolletage—a sight more enthralling than any play he’d witnessed at the theatre.

Then, with the formality reserved for transactions of great import, Bea’s father drew the prince aside. Though their words were lost in the cacophony of the gathering, Alfie’s heart sank with imagined conversations of dowries and ancestral estates, of special licenses and family jewels that would pass if Bea married—Alfie convulsed at the thought—the prince. Such were the currencies of the aristocracy, bargaining chips in the game of matrimonial alliances and he was not factoring into this equation.

How ironic to think of since he failed to account for the carrier oils or alcohol in a dilution. Even when he labeled the vials of his concoctions, he mentioned the essential oils, powdered teas, or distilled essence of medicinal plants but he never mentioned the base of talcum powder, alcohol, or sunflower oil. Rose oil was five percent rose and ninety-five carrier, yet it was labeled as rose oil. That’s what he was, the carrier oil, or the diluting alcohol. And it stung. He’d taught Bea what a real kiss was, how to embrace the pleasure of a climax, and how to give pleasure to a man. Yet, he was never to reap the fruit of his passion—the prince was.

And even though Alfie wanted nothing more than to hate Stan, he couldn’t even accomplish that. Stan had a noble cause, an even nobler title, and he could offer Bea a far better life than an apothecary. Yet, it left a bitter taste in his mouth to think of it.

Alfie couldn’t bear the sight in the ballroom any more. Fleeing the stifling atmosphere for the cool reprieve of the gardens, he found himself among the imposing silhouettes of the orchard. Quince trees loomed large, their extended branches like trolls with long crooked fingers. The waxy sides of the leaves glistened in the moonlit night, and the farther Alfie got from the building, the silence that beckoned him was ripped apart, startling him as a twig snapped. He kicked it into the darkness, cursing under his breath, wishing his broken heart could be as easily dispatched. Heartache was a cruel contradiction, leading him out there among the quince trees and shadows, but the farther he went from the building, the less he could escape the throbbing image of Bea swaying in the prince’s arms. He was a suitor everyone approved of, and Alfie was simply not.

“Alfie?” A man’s voice came from behind him. “Alfie, is that you?” It couldn’t possibly be any worse. Stan’s voice pierced the silence like a nightmare gripping him. “Alf-i-e!”

“What do you want from me, hm ?” Alfie pivoted and walked back through the row of trees and found the stately prince, backlit from the yellow glow coming from the ballroom. Alfie took a wide stance and crossed his arms.

The prince quirked a brow. “What’s the matter? I came to tell you something.”

“ Hmpf !” If you’re announcing your engagement to Bea, I’m not going to congratulate you.

It would be too cruel.

“Bea sent me,” the prince said, touching Alfie’s shoulder. He slammed him away, royal or not. Stan didn’t react to his action. Instead, he appeared calm—even understanding—as he said. “She has to tell her parents first, but she said it couldn’t wait and sent me to you.”

“I’m not happy for you, just so you know. I don’t think you’ll love her a fraction of how I do.”

“Who?”

Now Alfie stopped and blinked at the prince. It was dark but his eyes glistened in the moonlight and Alfie was seething. “How dare you ask me that?”

“ Aaah. Bea? Yes, you love Bea! I know that. I’m happy for you .”

Alfie balled his fists. If he knew, then how could he pursue her? Alfie might be below him in station, but he was a human being and had helped him. He deserved at least some respect. “That’s why she sent me to tell you right away. Her parents didn’t let her so I—”

“What?”

“She’ll receive an official secret mission.”

“That’s a contradiction in itself. If its official, it’s not secret.”

“No. Well, yes. She’ll work with me, as a spy. Didn’t you see us at the ball? She’s brilliant.”

Yes, she is. And she danced with you. Alfie swallowed hard but his insides churned with anger, jealousy, and the worst feelings he never knew he was capable of.

“I’m sorry I stole the dance from her, but we had to keep up the ruse for Nagy and List,” Stan explained.

Alfie narrowed his eyes. That was the problem with Stan; he wasn’t Alfie’s friend, but he had the same enemies. “Explain yourself.” But he kept his fists balled, ready to defend Bea’s honor and restore respect for himself if necessary. He’d never punched a prince before but there was a first time for anything…

Stan cleared his throat and then leaned in to Alfie. In a low tone, he explained that they needed to extract some information and lead Nagy and List into a certain direction which he couldn’t say more about. Comprehension dawned.

“So Bea will spy for you?”

“Well, she’ll be on clandestine diplomatic duty as an English citizen to support the autonomy of the Transylvanian people.”

Alfie waited.

“Yes, hm… ” Stan took a step back. “But I hear that congratulations are in order. She told me you proposed.”

“And she accepted.” Alfie took a wide stance and crossed his arms. The fact that Bea told Stan was a beacon of hope. Perhaps he ought to hear the prince out. “She said she loved me.”

“Oh, finally!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It was so obvious at the Langleys, I was afraid List would comment on it. We had made a plan to extract the information from him but the way you two looked at each other, I wasn’t sure List wouldn’t focus on another scandal altogether. She was supposed to have come with me, you know.”

“I do. That’s the problem. I gave her a love potion for you to… wait! I saw you in the carriage at the park together. Are you saying you don’t like her?”

“Oh, but I do. She’s brilliant, as I said. I can’t wait to work with her more closely.”

Alfie cocked his head. “Just work?”

Stan swallowed audibly and scratched the back of his neck. “Yes. I’m not going home for some time though. I hope you won’t mind it if she works with me?”

Stan had the tone Alfie recognized instantly; it was the same one patients used when they didn’t give away all the symptoms or the origins of an embarrassing condition. “Is there someone else?”

“Oh well, yes, she’s… oh she’s…”

“Not Bea?”

Stan shook his head. Relief washed over Alfie. Not Bea, at least not for Stan.

But for Alfie, she was everything!