Chapter Seven

Brunswick House, the home of Countess Langley…

V iolet and Bea took a stroll in the garden and later on withdrew into the drawing room for a leisurely afternoon that stretched into the evening hours.

Bea was reeling from having met the new prince. It was nearly impossible to lay sight on an unmarried royal before the matrons of the Ton swept over him like vultures, yet Violet had tucked him away just for her.

Just minutes ago, they’d walked past Henry’s study and saw the two men standing over his desk and trailing lines on a map of the continent. They were discussing gold shipments and country lines in Transylvania. Bea was fascinated and wished she could stay and listen, but decorum meant she needed to mind her business. Ladies weren’t supposed to show interest in such things. She followed Violet to the drawing room, determined to find out more from her friend.

“However did you keep him here?” Bea asked once the footman had shut the door, and she was alone with Violet. “And what’s the talk of gold and shipments and Transylvania?”

“Oh, so you overheard.” Violet widened her eyes with excitement and lowered her voice. “He’s engaged in a diplomatic mission with Henry. Isn’t it marvelous?” She gripped Bea’s wrist and squeezed excitedly. “There’s a terribly secret and exciting mission he’s involved with.” Violet leaned closer to Bea as if the walls were spies. “It has to do with gold shipments over the Mediterranean. Thieves, pirates, and lost carriages. Henry has been up all night, studying maps with Stan.” Violet spoke familiarly of her husband as if he were anything but the tall and imposing Earl of Langley, but Bea was as intimidated by him as she’d been before Violet married him.

Her friend sat back and folded her hands as if ready for the next act in a play. “So, about you. A prince! And a charming one, too!” Violet cast her a woman-to-woman look.

“Rather charming, I suppose.” Bea knew exactly what Violet’s mission was, but she wasn’t sure she knew enough about the prince to openly set her cap on him. She’d prefer to continue discussing the maps Henry and Stan were studying.

“I asked my staff to keep an eye on Stan, and he’s healthy.” Violet drew her eyes open and nodded. “ Very .”

Oh dear. “I’m not looking for breeding stock.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’re only looking for a husband who can sweep you off your feet and take you to faraway places.” Violet gestured as if the thought alone were sheer exaggeration. “He seems capable enough.”

“To physically carry me?” Bea frowned. It didn’t sound romantic in the literal sense.

“Just imagine, you could be a princess!” Violet stood up and swirled in her morning dress as if last night’s ball hadn’t ended yet. “You’d live in a castle.”

“He said he hasn’t been there in a long time.”

“Even better! Then you’ll travel around the world with a royal escort!” Violet looked out the window dreamily. “Just imagine.”

“The distance between England and Transylvania can hardly be considered around the world .” Although Bea had to admit that traversing the Mediterranean Sea, or the countries spanning from Portugal and Spain via France to the Kingdom of Bavaria, then Italy, Austria, Hungary, and finally, Transylvania did seem rather intriguing. And that’s what she wanted just as much as meeting her criteria for a husband—getting away. The farther, the better.

“You look flushed.” Violet arched a brow and eyed Bea suspiciously.

Heat had risen to her face and had not subsided. It was probably the effect of the dashing prince and hopefully not a herald of the beast. Now would be a bad time for her condition to appear, especially if she decided to pursue the prince.

He was rather well-built and well-mannered, and his smile was warm and kind. There were worse matches for girls like her among the Ton, and besides, there were hardly any princes available in England.

“This is my chance,” Bea mumbled, though not with any certainty.

“But he is leaving in a fortnight,” Violet warned. “You need to secure the match in a very short time.”

“It gives me no time at all!”

Why did you even introduce him to me when the objective is impossible?

“You were considered a diamond of the first water, Bea, until you rejected twenty-four suitors. Still, if anyone can catch a prince in less than two weeks, it’s you! He could solve all of your problems.”

Violet’s words were encouraging at best or a set-up for disappointment at worst. Bea would have to forge her own destiny to choose which way to go. But how was she to navigate between her heart and her mind, especially when—in the end—every one of her thoughts somehow circled back to Alfie.

Thus, the thought stewed in Bea’s mind for hours after she returned home, as she considered every aspect. She’d tried to read every magazine that she could find, even La Belle Assemblée, throughout the afternoon, but her mind returned to the prince every time—not romantically, as it did with Alfie— but out of curiosity. What she’d overheard when she saw him in the earl’s study piqued her interest. She couldn’t help but wonder which maps Henry and the prince had studied all night. Trying to distract herself, she’d taken out her embroidery frame, threaded an extra-long piece of green yarn, and began stitching. In and out, the needle went as she stitched tiny green leaves in a circular arrangement.

She couldn’t merely express her interest and declare that the prince may court her. Perhaps that would work with a mere baronet or the second son of an earl, but a prince, even if he wasn’t in line for a throne, demanded a different sort of finesse.

Bea had honed the skill of letting suitors down easily. But making it easy for them to court her was something she’d never tried.

She set the needle down when the thread was short enough to make a final knot and switch colors. The more she thought about being courted by the prince, the more appealing the idea became. Especially when she imagined the expression on her mother’s face if she found out that Bea had married a prince, left, and was on a diplomatic mission on her way to… well, somewhere. Anywhere but London was good. Anywhere but England, was even better.

The farther she could get away from the Ton, the freer she imagined herself.

She certainly hadn’t ever wanted to be the best or the prettiest, or the one with the worst secret among the nation’s most selfish, vile-tongued, and viciously gossiping aristocrats in Europe—but that’s what the Ton had become for her since they’d been so mean to Cousin Pippa.

Red-hot anger flooded her veins.

Hopefully, the Ton would learn its lesson. Perhaps its members had at the ball last night.

Bea fanned herself. It was hot, and she felt the warmth spreading to her neck and she thought about how Violet had mentioned she looked flushed. And yet, now she could feel the burning itch that heralded the emergence of the beast. She’d tried to ignore it in the hopes that it was just her imagination, but not even Bea missed the signs.

Bea touched her cheeks, then her forehead. She could feel the bumps. The beast was emerging. It usually took a week, sometimes two. And even then, pustules lingered and took longer to heal.

“Not again, not today,” she said to no one in particular and set down her embroidery as she rushed to her vanity table, then hesitated before daring to look at herself in the mirror.

The telltale red bumps had appeared all over her face, neck, and décolletage. Bea buried her face in her hands.

“It’s the toll of beauty,” Mother used to say. “A reminder that there needs to be time to hone your other qualities when you cannot show your face in Society until you tame the inner fury.”

But Bea had always wished her mother wouldn’t focus on the beast so much.

For as long as Bea could remember, when the beast emerged, she would have to retreat for a few weeks, seclude herself, and hone her ladylike skills. In fact, her entire life had been about honing the skills a lady needed. And since her debut, which had been delayed by a journey to India, she had suffered only a few episodes and made marvelous connections at the balls and at Almack’s, never sitting out a single dance when she was in attendance.

Bea returned to the embroidery and picked up a new threading yarn, a deep shade of turquoise. Then, she began stitching a second layer of leaves in the circle on her frame.

Waiting for a chance to dance with the prince would take too long. Now that Violet had introduced them, she had a chance to speak with him more freely. The conventional methods wouldn’t do; there wasn’t enough time.

Pippa was getting married, and she’d be alone. Where should she live once Cloverdale House was converted to a rehabilitation center? Her parents would return—well, nobody could know precisely when. Soon, she’d be shelved among the spinsters while her cousin would have the dashing oculist to dance with at the balls.

No, she’d rested on her laurels far too long, and Violet was right. This was the chance of a lifetime. If only the beast hadn’t reared its ugly head. She had to do something, though.

She could be a princess. And with a bit of luck, Stan would take her far away.

But to sweep her off her feet, he needed to love her. Or at least feel a modicum of infatuation beyond mere inclination to commit to her.

Thus, she had to make him fall in love in two weeks.

Bea looked down at her embroidery and swallowed hard. The combination of dark turquoise with green silk shimmered in the light of her chamber in the same colors as his eyes.

Alfie’s eyes.

Could he help her?

I’ll expect you to harvest the orange blossoms for neroli oil tomorrow.

Oh no!

Bea looked at the clock. It was nearly seven in the evening. If Alfie had come during the day, she’d missed him.

She was on a diplomatic mission and had already fallen behind.

As the evening dragged on and night had fallen, Bea had waited for her cousin, but Pippa hadn’t returned home. Bea had a good idea of where her cousin was, and she was happy for her.

Later, as Bea lay in her bed, the weight of impending decisions pressing down on her chest like a physical burden, her thoughts churned in restless circles, each one more desperate than the last. Time was slipping through her fingers, and with her parents’ imminent return, the noose of an unwanted betrothal tightened. She couldn’t afford the luxury of waiting for her rash to heal or hoping for a prolonged courtship. This time, she needed to act swiftly and decisively, juggling the fine line between her duty and her heart’s desire.

The thought of her cousin’s wedding loomed over her—a deadline not just for celebration but for securing her own future. Bea could see it. Pippa would be with Nick, perhaps strolling hand-in-hand through Marylebone. They would share knowing smiles and be the picture of true love. Bea stared at the ceiling as her thoughts raced ahead.

Her mind played out an imaginary conversation with Alfie, his voice a soothing yet pragmatic anchor in the storm of her thoughts.

“Be practical,” he might advise, urging her to consider every option logically. Then she could hear Pippa, whose voice whispered of intuition and following one’s heart. Torn between conflicting counsels, Bea got out of bed to study the maps in her atlas once again, tracing the journey to Transylvania and Bran Castle, where Prince Stan was from. Was he the answer?

Bea’s eyes flickered over the map’s legends, her mind mapping out the journey, even as her heart wavered. She flipped through the pages with a deliberate urgency, searching for more details about Transylvania and its surrounding areas.

Pippa’s voice in her head was still telling her to listen to her intuition.

Intuition , Bea thought. If only she could hear it calling to her.

With a sigh, she plopped back onto her bed, closing her eyes in frustration. It wasn’t the exotic allure of a far-off land that captivated her thoughts at all. Instead, the intoxicating memory of Alfie’s scent from the ball—an earthy, masculine aroma that was distinctly his—embedded itself deeper into her consciousness as a silent plea for clarity amidst chaos.

Finally, exhaustion took hold, and Bea drifted into a fitful sleep, the weight of her worries momentarily lifting.

When she awoke the next morning, a newfound clarity and resolve coursed through her veins as if the dawn itself had rekindled her spirit. Bea couldn’t quite name the reckless impulse that drove her feet toward the apothecary’s shop, but she’d woken up with the urge to consult Alfie. At about eight in the morning, wearing a veiled hat to hide her disfiguration, she left Cloverdale House on Abbotsbury Road and took the carriage to Marylebone, getting dropped off at the Patisserie de la Loire under the pretense of purchasing some pastries. She didn’t want the driver to know where she was going lest her courage falter. She couldn’t explain why she was going to the practice when she was needed at home to help Pippa with wedding plans.

But Bea knew that Pippa’s wedding plans were not hers to worry about. Truly, the choice of flowers or music mattered little now that Pippa’s most important choice—her groom—was made. Bea was now one step behind her cousin and running to catch up.

With each minute, the itch worsened, and Bea felt her face heating. It might have been because of the beastly rash or perhaps because of the violent thrumming in her chest. Her heart quickened when 87 Harley Street appeared before her, where the apothecary’s shop nestled quaintly. This was no simple errand; it felt more like a pilgrimage to a shrine she hadn’t known she worshipped. Could he… would he… be able to help her?

Bea pushed the door open; she’d been there a few times to collect Pippa when she visited Nick, so she knew it was unlocked during business hours. She entered the foyer. On the left was Nick’s office. Directly across, however, was her destination:

Alfie Collins

Apothecary

She opened the door and stepped inside the room. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and dried flowers, an aromatic combination that soothed her frayed nerves. And there he was, the dashing apothecary, his presence in the dimly lit room both the balm and the catalyst to her anxiety-ridden state.