Page 1 of Love Thy Enemy (The Vaughns #4)

W as there anything more beautiful than balanced scales?

Those brass arms polished to a brilliant shine and hanging equal distance from the table, each side resting in perfect harmony.

All the adding and subtracting as one worked to achieve that all-important goal.

Then there it was. Perfection. It was utterly satisfying.

Lifting his hand, Gregory Vaughn held the spatula steady, his finger poised to tap the edge and sprinkle it upon the waiting pile of powdered licorice root. Just a touch more, and he would have it—

“There you are!” bellowed Rodney as he shoved the workshop door open.

Gregory jolted, the spatula slipping from his hand and knocking against the scales, which set the powder flying into a swirling cloud that coated him and the table in a layer of beige dust. Rodney’s brows rose, his eyes widening as he took in the film covering the workspace and his friend, and silence hung between them as palpable as the remnant powder floating in the air.

Rodney sniffed and said, “At least it is licorice root.”

Leveling a hard look at his friend, Gregory didn’t wish to admit that had been his first thought as well; there were a vast many more foul-smelling and expensive ingredients that could’ve been decorating the room now.

“And this seems a perfect time for you to come on a picnic with me and the children,” added Rodney with a bright smile and an impish gleam in his eye.

“Now that my workshop is a mess?” asked Gregory in a monotone.

“Now that your task is complete.”

Brows twisting together, Gregory considered the mess and then turned that incredulous expression toward his friend.

“Complete in a sense. As in needs to be restarted,” said Rodney, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Come now, the girls are eager to enjoy the beautiful weather. What else are apprentices for but to clean messes your friend unwittingly makes? You cannot rot away in this shop forever.”

Before he finished speaking, a new whirlwind descended upon the workshop in the form of a small girl, her ringlets bouncing and skirts swaying as she rushed through the door.

“Mr. Gregory, come play!” cried Eva, throwing herself at him and wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I don’t think Mr. Gregory likes playing,” said Faith, hovering in the doorway as though uncertain whether she was welcome.

“He likes playing well enough,” said Rodney, setting a hand on his daughter’s shoulder to draw her into the workshop.

“He simply feels the world will fall apart at the seams if he is not managing his business all on his own. Never mind that it does one no good to have assistants if you do not allow them to assist.”

Faith frowned. “But he never smiles.”

Gregory choked back a laugh, but Rodney didn’t bother to smother his.

“Oh, he does, poppet. Just very carefully. If he does it too quickly, his face will crack,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. With arched brows, Rodney glanced at his friend before returning his attention to his daughters. “Perhaps we might convince him to come with us?”

Eva’s gaze brightened, and she grabbed Gregory’s hand, pulling him toward the door. “Come picnic with us.”

Though Faith remained tucked beside her father, her expression took on a pleading quality, those large brown eyes (which were a mirror of Rodney’s) begging with as much force as her younger sister’s tugging.

Gregory opened his mouth to give the usual excuses.

He had work to be done, after all. Yet her eyes—so solemn and wide—held him fast.

With a sigh that was more for show than sincerity, he allowed a rueful smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose Mr. Sparks can manage everything for an hour or two.”

Eva squealed in delight and darted back the way she’d come, her curls bouncing with each step, and Faith’s expression softened, as though Gregory’s agreement had settled some upset inside her.

But then, possessing a quiet disposition was an anomaly amongst the Stuart family, and an ally was always welcome when suffering through their exuberance.

“I have a mount ready for you,” Rodney said, nodding toward the door. “I knew you would surrender eventually.”

Gregory lifted a brow. “Am I so easily swayed?”

“Only when gang pressed by two sweet little girls,” said Rodney, giving Faith a squeeze of the shoulder as they turned to follow Eva into the corridor.

“Give me a moment,” he said, brushing himself off and depositing his apron on the table beside the now dingy scales.

Stepping out of his private workshop, Gregory crossed to the room opposite to find his assistant and apprentices working through their tasks for the day; though the young men managed well enough in the confined space, he couldn’t help but think (yet again) that they would fare better in a larger one.

Perhaps it was time to allow one of them to share his private workshop.

Now that he had graduated from apprentice to assistant, Mr. Sparks deserved a proper place in which to work apart from the others.

But the room was perfectly appointed, as it also served as a study in which to conduct his business.

But that was a thought for another day.

Explaining the mess and what needed to be done, he gave them their marching orders and followed the Stuarts into the apothecary shop.

Though both the workshops and storefront were similarly designed, with shelving covering every vertical surface (every inch of which was filled with neatly labeled jars, vials, and boxes), there was an order to this public space that the others lacked.

But then, customers needed to navigate the room without overturning the delicate containers.

Nodding to Mr. Guy, who was managing the counter at present, Gregory moved to the front door and stepped into the beautiful Yorkshire afternoon. And he couldn’t help looking back at his shop.

The windows gleamed without a smudge, allowing the passersby to marvel at the pyramidal stack of amber bottles with their pristine labels and the marble mortar and pestle that Gregory had adjusted no fewer than three times that morning.

Hints of aniseed, lemon balm, lavender, and licorice root hung in the air, as fitting as the scent of flour and sugar coming from the bakery two doors down.

“Are you going to stand about gawking all day?” called Rodney as he helped Faith into the waiting carriage.

Like the mother hen she was, Daphne settled her younger sister whilst calling for Eva to sit properly, as the child was hanging precariously over the side of the carriage, determined to examine the wheels beneath.

In short order, the trio was settled (as much as they could be with the youngest still doing her utmost to cast herself from the carriage in her exuberance), and Rodney swung up into his saddle as Gregory followed suit.

Giving a nod to the groom, his friend set off down the street.

Shopfronts and cottages lined either side of the road, their window boxes overflowing with the early spring blossoms. Children darted between the buildings, their laughter ringing through the clear air, whilst shopkeepers lingered in doorways, exchanging news in low tones.

Birdsong carried on the warm breeze as the church bell marked the half-hour, its deep toll echoing off the slate rooftops like a heartbeat.

Miss Higgins strolled down the lane, coming toward them, and Gregory tipped his hat.

Just as he was about to offer a word of greeting, the lady’s brows rose high on her forehead.

Eyes darting away from him and fixing on the path ahead, she scurried past them without a backward glance, and Gregory frowned.

Doubly so when Rodney cast him a glance from the corner of his eye.

“Another conquest, I see,” said his friend. “If you aren’t careful, every unmarried lady in the neighborhood will fall madly in love with you.”

Gregory didn’t answer: it was best to ignore the fellow when he was in a mocking mood.

Shifting in the saddle, Rodney glanced over his shoulder at the fleeing lady. “You look at them as though plotting their demise.”

“I am usually thinking about dosages or ledgers,” muttered Gregory.

Rodney grinned. “Exactly. Nothing romantic about laudanum ratios and sales tabulations.”

“In my experience, profitable sales tabulations do wonders in attracting the fairer sex.” And that was the trouble, wasn’t it? The only ladies who didn’t quiver and quake at the sight of his dour visage were those more interested in the size of his income.

“Perhaps if you let your hair grow out,” said Rodney with feigned seriousness, glancing at his friend’s close crop with an arched brow. “Longer hair is the fashion, and it might soften that stern visage.”

Ignoring that jest disguised as a suggestion, Gregory forced his hand not to rub at the offending style, which was born more from necessity than preference.

For all that ladies spend exorbitant amounts of time to get their locks to do what came naturally to his own, his curly mane made him look ridiculous, and soon the women of Thornsby would be laughing rather than fleeing.

No, it was better to keep his hair as short as short could be. Better to appear brooding than cherubic.

“You should try some cream on your face, Mr. Gregory,” said Eva, resting her chin on her folded arms, which she propped up on the edge of the landau.

The observation, stated so boldly and without explanation, caused all her companions to glance at her in varying states of confusion, and she gave them a gap-toothed grin.

“The maids use it to make their skin soft,” she explained. “If you’re afraid of your face cracking, you should try some cream first. Then you can smile more. Mrs. Todd says you’re handsome when you smile.”

Gregory stiffened in his saddle, forcing his gaze ahead.

Rodney guffawed like the kind-hearted man he was, taking genuine pleasure in that discomfort and the old governess’s secret tendre as only a true friend could.

Even Daphne—whom Gregory had thought an ally just moments ago—covered her mouth to hide her grin.

“Faith, you are my favorite,” he said with a sigh, and the girl, who had been watching the passing houses so keenly that she hadn’t been listening, glanced over at him with a puzzled frown.

“Peace, Gregory,” said Rodney—when he was able to speak. Drawing up beside his friend, he grinned. “Count yourself lucky. Marriage is a torture I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. If not for my dear children, who came from that unlucky union, I would say it is the greatest regret of my life.”

Despite the light tone and the tender smile he gave his girls, there was a heaviness to Rodney’s tone that Gregory knew all too well; he had heard it many times in the past six years since the Stuart family settled in this quiet corner of Yorkshire.

He counted himself lucky that he’d never met Mrs. Stuart; treating a lady with kindness was ingrained in his very soul, yet the thought of crossing paths with the harpy who had abandoned her husband and children tested Gregory’s vast quantities of patience.

“Pay me no mind,” said Rodney, glancing at his friend. “I see those cogs turning in your head, and you needn’t fret. I cannot be unhappy on such a beautiful day, can I, girls?”

Turning to his daughters, he drew his horse closer, reaching to tug at Eva’s curls. She squealed and pulled out of reach, throwing herself into her eldest sister’s arms. Rodney laughed, the sound echoing through the air as he set his horse away from the carriage once more.

A crack sounded in the air, slicing through the quiet like the blast from a pistol, and Gregory’s gelding jerked, his hooves dancing.

Holding fast to the reins, he glanced toward the sound to see laundry strung up on a line beside the cottage, the petticoats bobbing and waving in the sudden gust that seized hold of them.

“Peace. It is just a bit of laundry snapping on the breeze,” he murmured to his horse, but when another gust set the petticoats bouncing, the beast pranced backward.

A shriek sliced through the afternoon calm like a blade, and Gregory turned to see Rodney’s mount rear, eyes wide with panic, forelegs striking at the air.

The gentleman fought to hold the reins, but the horse had lost its senses.

It surged sideways toward the carriage, and for a breathless instant, Gregory saw the collision coming.

The groom fought his horses, keeping the pair steady—but the coach lurched when Rodney’s mount lunged toward them, and the rider fought hard to keep the horse from striking the vehicle or his children.

The girls screamed, and Daphne held the others close whilst their father fought the horse as it reared again, shaking its mane as though desperate to be free of its rider and bridle.

The driver shouted, but Gregory couldn’t make out the words as he battled his own mount, who shied about, trying to avoid the others and the laundry, which kept waving at them.

He held firm as his horse calmed, but his pulse quickened as his gaze locked on the madness unfolding just beyond reach.

And then Rodney was flung from the saddle.

Limbs flailing, he flew through the air, and Gregory watched as his friend struck the ground.