Page 3 of A Botanist and A Betrothal (Gentleman Scholars #4)

L incoln hesitated outside Mr. Caldwell’s study, clutching his notebook like a lifeline.

His grandfather's letter burned in his pocket like a brand. "Your quarterly allowance will cease immediately..." The words might as well have been written in his own blood. Without those funds, he'd have to sell his best microscope just to keep his laboratory operational another month. And now here he was, about to beg access to someone else's property like a common trespasser.

The irony wasn't lost on him. A Westbrook, reduced to asking favours from a merchant. Grandfather would be apoplectic.

He shouldn’t be there. He wasn’t prepared. It was too soon. He hadn’t done any research on the man or the plant or anything. And yet here he stood. Lincoln took a deep breath to stem the flow of his panic.

The servant had shown him to the door, supposedly having already announced him to Mr. Caldwell, but the door was still firmly closed. The maid had simply escorted him to that hallway and gestured toward the closed door. What was he supposed to do?

His mind drifted to what had brought him to this moment.

“Can I help you?”

The soft voice from behind had startled a yelp out of him and Lincoln had nearly fallen over in his swift turn to stare at her. He had again been distracted by a unique plant.

“Uh,” he had begun inelegantly and unintelligently, which had prompted a grin from the beautiful young woman.

“Are you one of Mr. Northcott’s scholars?”

That had loosened his tongue. Pride prompted him to defend his own identity. “I am Doctor Lincoln Welby,” he began before a smile overtook him. “And yes, I do practice my science at the Scholarly Society.”

Suddenly the young woman had blushed as though realizing they ought not be conversing without having been introduced. She dipped him a curtsy. Lincoln returned the gesture with a bow and then he raised his eyebrows at her, causing her blush to deepen.

“Oh, yes, I am Miss Vesta Lowell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She curtsied again before prompting him. “Are you lost, by chance? I haven’t seen you here before. I could perhaps provide you some directions.”

Lincoln had grinned at the thought.

“No, I’m not lost, exactly. I can find my way home. I hadn’t realized in my mad tempest of energy that I had walked quite this far when I set out. But I do thank you.”

“Might I be so bold as to ask what you were looking at?” The young woman had hesitated as though uncertain of his reception to her question.

Lincoln had gestured vaguely toward the plant life behind him.

“There are many unusual specimens growing here. I was intrigued. I would love to study them.”

The way she had wrinkled her nose as she turned to frown at the fauna had been unaccountably adorable, further distracting Lincoln from the foul mood he had been in.

“Well, this is Mr. Caldwell’s property. I cannot see why he would possibly mind your doing so, but it might be best to ask him for yourself.” Suddenly, though, her expression had turned impish, and she had added. “But since you’re here already, surely you might as well look your fill today and you could speak with him on the morrow.”

Now here he stood, nerves getting the best of him. Bearding the lion in his den, so to speak.

It had seemed like a reasonable idea when the lovely woman had suggested he speak with Mr. Caldwell about access to his land. Now Lincoln was questioning the wisdom of it. Maybe he should have just ventured onto the property under the cover of darkness.

Contrarily, the ridiculous thought steadied him somewhat.

Lincoln could hardly believe there was a tremble in his hand as he lifted it to knock on the imposing wooden door. But he had come this far; he wasn’t going to turn around yet. He was a Westbrook, after all, he reminded himself with a silent chuckle. The irony didn’t escape him.

"Come in," came a brash voice, sounding irritated, likely at the interruption.

With a deep breath, Lincoln pushed the door open and stepped into the masculine room. It reminded him of Grandfather Westbrook’s library, in all honesty. Lincoln couldn’t decide if that was comforting or more disturbing.

"Well, come in, why don’t you?" the man called, impatience and irritation clearly evident in his harsh tone.

Lincoln called upon all his experience with his grandfather and mustered the fake confidence he had learned to display as a child in school—the smartest of all his classmates, always, at least until he met the other scholars.

Not the most pleasant situation for a young boy. But he wasn’t that young boy any longer.

"Yes, Mr. Caldwell. Thank you for seeing me." Lincoln stepped forward, keeping his tone even.

"Well, I didn’t invite you, did I? What do you want?" Mr. Caldwell glared under his bushy eyebrows.

Lincoln pulled back his shoulders and lifted his chin. He was used to this sort of treatment. The man’s intimidating tone was meant to instil fear, but Lincoln considered himself immune. His family spoke so similarly he ought to feel right at home.

He mustered all his Westbrook dignity and stepped further into the room.

Of course, Grandfather Westbrook couched it in more polite terms when he was being overbearing, but Mr. Caldwell’s speech was exactly the same as what he was used to from that old codger. Lincoln might be anxious about the potential for refusal, but he wasn’t going to hold back from his request despite those hesitations.

The young woman who had approached him the day before when he had discovered the plant had told him she was sure Mr. Caldwell would consider allowing him to do research on his property. Lincoln had believed her in his moments of enthusiasm. Now doubts niggled around the edges of his excitement.

He had been right as it had turned out. The woman he had spotted in the distance, seemingly watching him, was Miss Vesta Lowell. Not one of Mr. Caldwell’s daughters after all, but his stepdaughter.

Not that it mattered.

Lincoln had no interest in dallying with young ladies. He was the younger son of a younger son; he didn’t have such pressures. He certainly didn’t need such distractions as beautiful young women around him.

And Vesta was beautiful. The thought flitted through his mind interrupting his train of thought. Proof positive that ladies were a distraction he didn’t need.

All he needed from Mr. Caldwell was access to his land so he could study what he was almost certain was the next big breakthrough in medicine. Digitalis was vitally important and if the plant had—

Lincoln cleared his throat, cutting off his straying, enthusiastic thoughts, returning his focus to the man before him. Who hadn’t bothered to stand upon his entry.

“I would like your permission to study some plants on your property.” Lincoln said the words firmly, maintaining eye contact with the crass businessman, not revealing his trepidation by so much as the flicker of an eyelash. He was a Westbrook after all.

And then he waited while Mr. Caldwell stared back at him.

At first, the stare was nonplussed, as though the other man couldn’t even fathom what Lincoln had said. A moment later, for just a blink, the business man’s face turned cunning, and a queasy sensation swept over Lincoln. But then Mr. Caldwell leaned forward and began asking questions.

“What was your name again?”

“Doctor Lincoln Welby.”

“Welby. A bit of a strange name, isn’t it? Are you connected to Westbrook, then?”

It was now Lincoln’s turn to blink. It wasn’t that strange a name, and he was used to being connected to his grandfather, often in awkward ways. But he wasn’t about to deny his family. Lincoln couldn’t imagine why it would matter. He nodded.

“My grandfather is Westbrook.”

“Where are you in the line of succession?” Mr. Caldwell barked the question, putting Lincoln in mind of a particularly unpleasant professor he had endured years ago.

Lincoln had never had to explain his lack of heredity. Those who needed to know such things usually already did.

“My father’s older brother is my grandfather’s heir. And I’m my father’s spare. So, you could say I’m not in the line at all. There would need to be a terrible rash of tragedies for it to be even a possibility. Not something I wish for or consider.”

Mr. Caldwell's obvious disappointment at Lincoln's distance from the title made his stomach turn. He'd seen that look before — people measuring his worth against his proximity to the Marquessate and finding him wanting. Usually, he could ignore it. His work was what mattered, not his position in the succession. But today, with his research hanging by a thread, each dismissive glance felt like a knife.

Before Lincoln could give voice to his misgivings of why the man even was interested in his family tree, the brash questioning continued.

“What do you mean you want to study some plants? What sort of plants and how would you study them?”

Before Lincoln could answer those questions, questions he felt prepared to answer, at least to a certain extent, Mr. Caldwell interrupted with another question, this time his tone was even more aggressive and accusing.

“And how did you even come across these plants? How do you know there are plants on my land you are interested in? Were you already nosing around without permission?”

The heat of embarrassment flooded through Lincoln making his palms and soles sweat. Probably everywhere in between, too, but Lincoln ignored his discomfort and managed, just barely, to hold the man’s gaze.

“I was out for a walk the other day and ventured farther than I had planned. Before I realized I was on your property, I had spotted the plants I’d like to study. One of your daughters saw me and mentioned you might be willing to allow my investigation if I were to ask. And here I am.”

Mr. Caldwell confronted him in an aggressive tone. “One of my daughters? That’s unlikely. They’d have told me.”

“Miss Lowell would likely confirm the veracity of my words. It wasn’t a secret, I wouldn’t think.”

“Ah. Vesta.”

Lincoln couldn’t even begin to understand the layers of meaning within the man’s hard tone. But he had enough understanding of the human psyche to know there wasn’t any warmth between the two people. Lincoln wished he hadn’t mentioned the girl. He hoped she wasn’t going to face uncomfortable consequences for his oversharing.

Before Lincoln could think how to bridge the awkward silence that stretched out between him and the other man, Mr. Caldwell smacked his hand down hard on his desk and practically barked out his next words.

“You didn’t tell me what you mean to do with my land. Explain yourself!”

“I don’t mean to do anything,” Lincoln said quickly. “Not to the land,” he added in explanation. “But I came across some unusual specimens that I would like to study.”

“Which specimens?” He said the last in a sneering tone that set Lincoln’s teeth on their edge to prevent the words he wished to say in return.

“I believe what I saw was a type of foxglove, Mr. Caldwell, but a unique colour that hasn’t yet been reported, as far as I know. I would like to examine the plants themselves as well as the soil they are growing in.”

“What would this involve and to what purpose?”

“I swear to you no harm will come to your property. I would like to take a few samples of soil as well as at least a few clippings of the plants back to my laboratory. But none of my work should disturb anyone or anything here.”

“Well apparently my plants are to be disturbed and the soil. That’s not nothing.” Mr. Caldwell leaned forward menacingly, although he still hadn’t risen from behind his desk.

“No, no, of course, but I will make every effort to cause little disruption. The plants are out of the way, far from your home. My work shouldn’t interrupt anything else taking place on your property.” Lincoln could feel the sweat beading on his forehead and wished desperately to wipe it away but didn’t want to even acknowledge the weakness in front of this aggressive man.

“And you didn’t explain the purpose of all this research.”

Lincoln almost quailed. He didn’t want to admit how important it was. To him. And maybe to everyone. But he was getting ahead of himself. Perhaps it was nothing. But he could tell the wily man would pounce if he thought there might be monetary value in the discovery.

"If that plant is what I think it is, I will write a paper for a scientific academy, and it will be declared a new specimen." Lincoln tried to keep his voice steady, to hide how much rode on this discovery. The pharmaceutical companies had been clear — no new breakthrough, no funding. And without funding...

He pushed away thoughts of his empty laboratory, of Thomas having to seek work elsewhere, of all his years of research amounting to nothing but his grandfather's sneering vindication.

Mr. Caldwell stared at Lincoln as though he were a candidate for Bedlam, with his eyebrows elevated and disdain dripping from his gaze even as he began to appear bored with the conversation. He sniffed with scorn.

“It could also lead to some medical progress,” Lincoln said, fighting a blush over the note of desperation he could hear in his voice. “I cannot be certain, of course, until I run those tests. That is why I would like access to the plants.”

"Medical progress," Mr. Caldwell repeated slowly, rolling the words around like expensive brandy. "And I suppose such progress would be... profitable?"

Lincoln's heart sank. Of course, it would come down to money. It always did. He thought of the letters from St. Bartholomew's Hospital, begging for a reliable source of heart medicine. Of the patients who couldn't afford the current expensive treatments. Of all the good this discovery could do.

But Mr. Caldwell's calculating expression suggested he was thinking of very different benefits.

Mr. Caldwell’s eyes took on that brief mercenary glow that Lincoln had glimpsed earlier and he wished he could bite off his tongue. He shouldn’t have said anything further. If the man had refused, he could have snuck in during the night, surely.

But he was a Westbrook. There was no avoiding that. Westbrooks did not sneak. Nor did they connive. He had to convince the man fairly and honestly. But Lincoln struggled to hide his eagerness.

“So, it’s important, then?” Mr. Caldwell asked, his voice taking on a greasy tone that turned Lincoln’s stomach.

“It could be. I would need to do the research first to be certain.”

“Of course. But it’s important to you, at the very least.”

Lincoln knew then that he had been transparent. Perhaps he always had been. It was entirely possible his family, so like Mr. Caldwell, could see through him too. Lincoln’s heart sank. Of course it was important to him.

What sort of price was the man going to extract?

“You aren’t married are you, Mr. Welby?”

Lincoln blinked.

“No,” he said, fighting the frown that wanted to form on his head. “I live at the old Aldred Estate with other scholars.”

“So, you’re in need of a wife, then, aren’t you?”

“Not at this juncture in time, no,” Lincoln said, hoping his tone was polite enough.

In his muddled state he couldn’t remember if he ever knew how many daughters the man had but he supposed fathers of unwed girls were always thinking about matrimony.

Not that it had anything to do with Lincoln’s visit. Again, it took effort to release the frown that wanted to form on his forehead. It wouldn’t do to frown at his reluctant host.

“Sure you are, Mr. Welby.” Now the blustery older man sounded almost jovial. Lincoln did not find it reassuring.

Lincoln didn’t bother to correct the man on either count. It wasn’t likely he would notice or be impressed by the fact that he ought to be addressing Lincoln as ‘Doctor’ Welby. How was he going to argue that he had no interest in marriage at this time?

“Will you allow me to take some samples? I can be in and out in no more than a couple of hours. You really needn’t even know I was there.”

“But if you do find something, you’re going to want to come back, aren’t you?”

Lincoln’s breath hitched in his throat despite his best efforts. That was the biggest tell possible. He had never been a gambler but even he knew you shouldn’t give away your excitement. Mr. Caldwell’s gaze glimmered with triumph.

What did the man want from him? And what would Lincoln willingly give to gain access to the plants?

Caldwell sat back in his chair, satisfaction written on his face as he steepled his hands in front of him.

“Marry my stepdaughter and you can have all the time on my property you can handle.”

The words hit Lincoln like a physical blow. Marry his stepdaughter? Vesta? The intelligent young woman who'd shown such understanding about his research?

His mind whirled with competing thoughts — her gentle smile when she'd suggested he speak to her stepfather, the desperate state of his finances, the potentially life-saving properties of that unique foxglove strain, the way she'd wrinkled her nose so charmingly at the plants...

No. He couldn't think about her that way.

This was business, pure and simple. A transaction. But even as he tried to steel himself to that reality, he remembered how his own parents' arranged marriage had turned out — his mother retreating further into herself with each passing year, his father growing more bitter and demanding.

But those plants... if they were what he thought they were...