Page 1 of A Botanist and A Betrothal (Gentleman Scholars #4)

W as that a lady watching him?

Doctor Lincoln Welby stopped in his tracks. He had been marching through the field as though the hounds of hell were pursuing him. It was a ridiculous reaction. He shook his head even as he now tried to become unobtrusive, invisible even. Hard to do since he had been clomping through the area like a raving lunatic just moments prior.

He ought to have stayed in his laboratory, even in his foul mood. A gentleman should not be seen stomping about like a bear with a sore head. But the walls had felt like they were closing in on him after reading Grandfather's letter for the third time, hoping somehow the words would change.

They hadn't, of course. The meaning remained crystal clear: "Your peculiar obsession with plants has gone on long enough. It's time to take up your proper place in Society." As if studying God's natural creations was somehow beneath his station. As if the advancement of medical science was less worthy than attending balls and making advantageous connections.

Was that Miss Caldwell watching him?

He could see Miss Vesta Caldwell off in the distance. Or rather, he ought to say he thought it was one of the Caldwell girls at the very least, perhaps not Vesta. He really couldn’t say for certain. But he hoped it was her. She had the prettiest name and seemed the least likely to turn her nose up at him.

He'd noticed her in the gardens before, always with a book tucked under her arm. Unlike her flashier, and far ruder, stepsisters, she moved with quiet purpose, sometimes stopping to examine plants with what he suspected was genuine interest. Once, he'd overheard her correctly identifying several medicinal herbs to the gardener. The memory had stayed with him, along with the way sunlight caught the gold in her hair when she bent over the herbs.

But a woman of her breeding, with actual scientific interest... she was exactly the kind of distraction he couldn't afford right now. Even if she did make his heart beat faster when their paths crossed in the village.

In his opinion she was the loveliest of the lot with her curly yellow hair always fluttering behind her and a glint of intelligence peeking through her long eyelashes. But it mattered little which it was. He couldn’t encounter a lady at this point. Lucy would have his head for sure.

He was in no mood for company. He surely couldn’t approach her now, not in the bad humour he was in.

Give up his science? Give up his science? As if!

His laboratory already felt half-empty without Thomas, his assistant, whom he'd had to dismiss last week when funds ran low. The thought of losing the rest of his work... No. He couldn't bear it. The small stipend from the Institute barely covered his basic needs, and without Grandfather's allowance...

Lincoln's stomach churned. He'd been counting on that quarterly payment to replace his worn microscopic lenses and fund the next phase of his research. Several physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries had shown interest in his work, but those would only show profit if he could prove his extraction methods worked. Without proper equipment, he might as well be nothing more than a common gardener.

He had just slammed the door on his laboratory, wincing as he did so, knowing how Lucy felt about loud noises expressing frustration. Not that she would say anything, since she knew Lincoln didn’t usually do such a thing knowing how she felt about it, but he had done so.

It was the only way to fully express his frustration with Grandfather Westbrook.

Grandfather Westbrook hated when he referred to him in that way. So, he did it in his head whenever he was most peeved with the old man.

Lincoln was supposed to call him the Marquess, of course; everyone did so. Or "His Lordship."

"His Highness" would probably have pleased the old codger even more so, but that would be completely inappropriate. Rather than returning to apologize to Lucy just in case she had heard his fit of rage or righting the pages that had surely fallen from his desk as he had slammed the door, Lincoln set out for a walk.

It was the only way to burn off his anger over the Marquess’ demands. Westbrook claimed Lincoln owed it to his name to conform to societal norms. Of course, that wasn’t how Grandfather Westbrook worded it, but it was the main point. But Lincoln had important work to do. Why couldn’t his family see that?

He had gone much further afield than he expected, of course. Such was the extent of his anger, and that was how he now found himself hiding from the Caldwell girl.

The other scholars would have fits of laughter if they could see him ducking behind trees in an effort to avoid a female of the species. But he wasn’t prepared to deal with anyone, let alone a pretty woman.

Of course, they were all guilty of doing the same at various points in their lives, so they shouldn’t be so quick to make sport of him. Lincoln actually kicked the greenery under his feet – a childish effort at venting his ire.

Suddenly, though, he was distracted from his rioting emotions by the plants that he saw all around him. A frown rippled across his face, but this time it was one of concentration, not irritation.

Could he have found the solution to his grandfather problem? Just by the very fact of being so irritated?

Forgetting about the female creature he was trying to avoid, Lincoln laughed out loud.

Surely, if he could discover the properties he had been searching for, then his family would be forced to accept his studies.

“My studies won’t be so embarrassing then, will they Grandfather Westbrook?” Lincoln said aloud as he gazed intently at the plants before him, careful not to touch them.

“I don’t need the proffered Westbrook allowance, and I’m certainly not coming home. Westbrook isn’t even my home,” he added huffily as he crouched down to get a closer look. “I should have brought some lenses with me. And gloves.”

The tall, elegant spikes before him were mostly hidden by some completely common shrubs. Salix lanata and Ruscus aculeatus , he scoffed. He wouldn’t have even taken note of them if not for the glimpse of a flower peeking through from behind.

“What are you doing behind these old things?” he asked the blossoms that had caught his eye. “And how could you have possibly grown here? I wouldn’t have thought the soil suitable with these neighbours.”

The location was peculiar, now that he thought about it. These plants seemed almost deliberately placed, though that was surely impossible. Who would plant deadly foxglove in such a careful pattern? And yet... Lincoln tilted his head, studying the arrangement. The way they peeked out between the common shrubs almost seemed to follow a design, like notes on a musical staff.

He needed to map this properly. Without Thomas to assist with measurements and drawings, he'd have to devise a new system. Perhaps he could mark the location without drawing attention to it. The last thing he needed was some enthusiastic gardener deciding to "tidy up" and removing his specimens before he could study them properly.

And there was something else about the arrangement that nagged at his scientific mind, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It reminded him of a conversation he'd had with Mr. Darby about patterns in nature, about how sometimes what appeared random at first glance could reveal surprising order when viewed from the right perspective.

He was almost able to forget about Grandfather’s infernal letter in his joy of discovery but the dissatisfaction of his family’s view of his scholarly pursuits niggled at the back of his mind despite his delight.

None of them would ever support his studies. They never had. Why would that change now? Even if he discovered something important, it wasn’t likely to make much difference.

That was why he was at the Northcott Scholarly Institute despite being a Westbrook. Oh, of course, he wasn’t an important Westbrook, but he was a Westbrook nonetheless.

The Institute had given him purpose, direction, and colleagues who understood the importance of his work. But now, with funding growing scarce and competition fierce, even that security felt threatened. Three other botanists were racing to develop new sources of heart medicine. If he could be the first to successfully cultivate and extract from a unique strain of foxglove...

The potential benefits to medicine would be extraordinary. More than that, it would prove to his grandfather that a Westbrook could make his mark on the world through science rather than social connections. The old man's latest letter had made it clear — either abandon this 'botanical nonsense' and take up a 'proper gentleman's pursuit,' or lose every penny of support.

Being the younger son of the younger son meant he would never inherit anything, let alone a title. It did mean, though, that he had been raised with all the pomp and ceremony that went with such a renowned name.

That was until he met Rodrick Northcott and his band of misfit scientists. They had become as thick as thieves while studying together, first at Eton and then at Oxford.

His years at Oxford had opened his eyes to possibilities his family couldn't begin to understand. He'd spent countless hours in the Bodleian Library, poring over ancient herbals and medical texts. Some of his fellow students had mocked his dedication, but a few — the ones who mattered — had recognized the potential importance of his research.

Professor Thomas had been particularly encouraging, sharing tales of how digitalis had saved his own wife's life when her heart had begun to fail. "The right plant, prepared the right way, at the right time," the professor had said, "can mean the difference between life and death. Never let anyone tell you this work isn't vital, my boy."

Lincoln wished the professor was still alive to see this possible discovery. He'd understand the significance immediately, unlike Lincoln's family who would probably only see weeds where he saw medical marvels.

But at the Scholarly Society things were different. For the first time in his life, Lincoln felt like he belonged somewhere and that others understood him and accepted him even if they didn’t understand his specific science. Of course, most of the fellows could at least grasp the rudiments of botany; it wasn’t that hard, after all.

They had even managed to collaborate. There was the fellow, Severn, inventing the extraction process. That was going to be very helpful to Lincoln when he found the right plant, and then he would be able to help the medical doctors. Maybe he had now found what he had been looking for.

Severn's extraction process had been brilliant — the man had a way with chemicals that Lincoln could only envy. Together, they'd already made strides in preserving botanical specimens that would have been impossible alone. That was the beauty of the Institute: each scholar brought their own expertise, their own perspective.

Just last month, Pierce Darby, their resident astronomer, had helped Lincoln devise a better way to track the seasonal growth patterns of his specimens. And Sean Smythe, despite being a mathematician not a botanist, had contributed valuable insights about calculating optimal dosages. They were doing real work, important work, no matter what his grandfather thought.

The old man wouldn't know real scientific achievement if it sprouted in his formal gardens. Lincoln smiled grimly at the thought of his grandfather's likely reaction to his laboratory — the careful rows of pressed specimens, the detailed drawings, the pages of methodical notes. "Glorified gardening," he'd probably call it, completely missing the medicinal possibilities hidden in each careful observation.

Lincoln rolled his eyes even as he kept his gaze trained upon the plants before him.

Doctor.

He had thought getting his doctorate would have raised his respect in his family. Surely, they would understand now how important his studies were, but that had never happened.

“Never mind that,” Lincoln said to himself, trying to shake off the bad humour even as another movement from the young woman caught his eye once more.

What was she doing? Was she spying on him?

It was a ridiculous thought. But he had just possibly discovered a unique and important specimen. Better not to draw her attention to the plants. He stood up and started to walk away. Or rather he strode off in a different direction while keeping his eyes strained to see if he could find any more plantings of the unique vegetation.

Lincoln picked up his pace as anger flooded him once more as thoughts of his grandfather’s letter crowded out his delight in the plants. For once his feelings were more powerful than his surroundings.

He was a Westbrook. He shouldn’t have to curry his grandfather’s favour in order to pursue his studies. If he was entitled to an allowance, he was entitled to an allowance, whether Grandfather Westbrook approved of his pursuits or not.

Of course, his father wouldn’t agree. The honourable Mr. Vincent Welby agreed with his father, the marquis. On everything. Being the younger son, he was forever trying to curry favour with his elevated father. Lincoln had no patience for that.

If they didn’t want him to be a scholar, they never should have sent him to school in the first place.

Lincoln brushed off the unhelpful thoughts as once again the plant caught his eye, this time hiding itself behind a Ligustrum vulgare . That wild privet might make a great hedge, but it was an odd place for this unique plant to cozy itself.

What is that? Lincoln had never seen it before. At least not without colour. It couldn’t be digitalis purpurea ... could it? He’d heard rumours there was a rare white foxglove but had never thought it could be possible.

If he could find a new source of digitalis, he would surely take the medical field by storm. Doctor Harrison at St. Bartholomew's Hospital had just last month bemoaned the shortage of reliable sources for heart treatments. A new variety, especially one that could be cultivated consistently...

The discovery could fund his research for years to come. No more depending on his grandfather's goodwill, no more dismissing assistants, no more watching his equipment slowly wear out. He might even be able to expand his laboratory, take on students of his own.

But first, he needed to document this properly. Without Thomas to assist, he'd have to devise a way to study the specimen safely on his own. The properties of foxglove could be both life giving and death dealing.

It was a challenge to keep his hands to himself. But dying just as he made a great discovery would be beyond ridiculous.