Page 4 of Sweet Duke of Mine

HONEYSUCKLE & LYE: TEN YEARS LATER

“ T oo bloody hot today,” Daisy muttered into the steaming cauldron.

The heat pressed down on her like a heavy fog, thick and unrelenting. Sweat gathered at her temples, threatening to sting her eyes, but she caught the droplets with a quick swipe of her arm before they could fall. Even so, she kept her other hand steady on the long wooden paddle, stirring with slow, deliberate movements.

The contents—olive, coconut, and almond—bubbled and thickened, releasing their subtle, nutty fragrance as they blended together. The lye had dissolved just as it should, but she wasn’t foolish enough to look away, not even for a moment. The fire had to stay at the perfect temperature, the mixture constantly moving, or the entire batch would be ruined.

And she couldn’t afford waste.

Every ounce had to be accounted for, each batch measured carefully to produce the maximum number of cakes. Necessity demanded it.

Because this wasn’t just about business .

It was about survival.

It was about raising her brother properly, about giving him a future better than the one she’d been handed. A future free from worry, from uncertainty, from the scraping and scrounging she had endured for the past decade.

Gritting her teeth, she tightened her grip on the paddle and kept stirring. The rhythmic motion was steady, familiar—but it did nothing to quiet her mind.

Because when her hands were busy, her thoughts wandered.

And today, they wandered back to those first desperate days in London.

She could still see it, as clearly as if she were living it again.

Three days after the exhausting move from Woodland Priory to her aunt’s cramped house on a noisy street just east of Covent Garden, Daisy’s mother had brought her brother into the world—a red, kicking, fussing boy full of life.

Two days later, she was gone.

The midwife had shaken her head, murmuring about too much blood lost. About how the strain of the journey, the upheaval, had likely been too much for her.

Grief had settled over their small household, thick and inescapable. But mourning would not put food on the table.

So Daisy had forced herself to keep moving.

Her Aunt Theodora certainly had.

There had been no time for wailing or collapsing under the weight of sorrow—not when there was work to be done, soaps to mix, customers to serve. Aunt Theo had simply kept going, her hands always busy, her focus unshaken, as if sheer determination alone could hold their fragile world together.

And so Daisy had followed her lead.

She buried her sorrow in work, finding solace in the quiet precision of blending oils, incorporating them into the soaps her aunt sold. If Theodora could press on, then so could she. If work could keep her aunt standing, then surely it could do the same for Daisy.

And maybe, just maybe, if she kept moving forward, she wouldn’t drown in everything they had lost.

The steady rhythm of stirring, the delicate balance of scent and texture—it gave her something to cling to, something to control when everything else had been ripped away.

Her father… Well, at least at first, he had managed. He’d found work in a textile mill. But the city had little mercy for men who toiled with their hands, and misfortune struck again.

A little over a year after they arrived, he suffered a disabling injury.

That was when his optimism—his unshakable, infuriating optimism—finally faded.

A year later, her father had died a broken man.

And yes, it had been devastating, but Daisy considered herself lucky.

She had her shop—her own shop. And she had the best brother a girl could hope for, the only family she had left in the world.

Caring for Gilbert gave her life meaning. But blending her soaps? That was her passion.

Her salvation.

Her life.

And so she churned.

In fact, she embraced the process.

Once the mixture cooled, she would divide it, pouring half into another pot before adding more of the scented oils she had prepared earlier. This was her favorite part. The moment when the entire shop—and the small apartment above it—became bathed in rich, luxurious fragrance, the kind normally reserved for royalty.

Because, contrary to common practice, soap did not have to smell like pig fat, cows, or—God forbid—fish .

It could be heavenly. It could transform a mundane task into a ritual of indulgence. It possessed the power to elevate even the simplest life.

And lucky for her, there were plenty of Mayfair residents who had the means—and the good sense—to pay for such a luxury. The discerning ones, at least.

They paid well enough that she and Gilbert never went hungry. Well enough that he could attend a proper school—one that would give him opportunities he never would have had if they’d remained at Woodland Priory.

She had gotten good at that—finding silver linings in every storm cloud.

A quick glance into the large pot confirmed the lye had dissolved completely into the oils, the mixture thickening just as it should. But before she could turn her full attention back to her work, the familiar ringing on the shop’s door rang out.

“Just me, Daisy!”

Gilbert’s bright voice carried through the space, pulling a smile to her lips.

Her brother—not quite ten years old, but already so dependable—never failed to come straight home from school. First, he would run any errands she needed, then settle at the table with his books, scratching away at his studies until it was time for their evening meal.

It was just the two of them now.

But that was enough.

Daisy was more than a sister to him—she was his mother, his father, his guardian. And Gilbert… he was not only her younger brother.

He was her heart.

Aunt Theodora, well into her sixth decade by the time she passed, had taught Daisy everything she knew. Daisy, already enamored with mixing scents and oils, had taken that knowledge and built upon it—developing new soaps, growing the business, and somehow managing the impossible.

She was making a life for herself and Gilbert.

They were by no means wealthy, but they were comfortable, safe, and happy. Her income covered Gilbert’s education and the costs of maintaining the small building she had inherited—left to her explicitly in Aunt Theodora’s will. A rare independence for a woman, but one her father’s elder sister had ensured she would have.

But Daisy had also brought a small piece of the country with her.

Behind the shop, she had fenced in a tiny courtyard, transforming it into a protected garden where she grew herbs, spices, and fragrant flowers. The deed to her property was vague about who, if anyone, owned the narrow strip of vacant land between the buildings, but since none of her neighbors had claimed it, she had quietly made it her own.

Gilbert came up beside her, and she pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before handing him the paddle.

“Will you stir this while I collect some petals for this batch?”

Rose petals added a special touch to the soaps, and early May was when they bloomed at their best.

“I’ve got it,” Gilbert declared, taking over the stirring with a proud grin. A few streaks of dirt smudged his cheeks—a reminder of the errands he had run—but his face was full, healthy, unlike so many of the lads who lived in the shadows of this city. Furthermore, his eyes, bright with intelligence, met hers with excitement.

“And then I’ll show you my essay! Third highest marks!”

Daisy’s heart swelled. “I knew it was good when you showed it to me,” she said, smiling warmly.

Still beaming, she made her way to the back of the shop, pushing open the door and stepping into the filtered sunlight of her small, carefully tended garden .

The space was by no means vast—she could cross it in fewer than eight steps—but it was enough.

With the high fence and colored netting stretching from the posts to the cottage wall, it remained overlooked, ignored, hidden. Just as she preferred.

Here, beneath the soot and stench of the city, she had carved out her own paradise—a sanctuary of green where life thrived despite London’s grime. A place that not only brought her peace but allowed her to grow the herbs and flowers that made her soaps truly special.

She reached for the shears, intending to snip a few fragrant roses, when a scuffling noise on the other side of the fence stilled her.

Her breath caught.

"You think he’s dead?"

Daisy froze as an unfamiliar voice echoed off the surrounding brick buildings. The callous tone—so indifferent, so unbothered—sent a shiver sliding down her spine.

Instinct told her to turn away, to ignore whatever was happening beyond the fence. But curiosity, mixed with a sinking dread, rooted her in place.

Perhaps it was an injured animal, left to suffer in the narrow walkway? She crept forward, careful not to make a sound, and peered through a gap in the wooden slats.

Two men hovered over something on the ground. Their backs were to her, obscuring the object of their attention.

They were not the sort of men she had expected to find lurking in the alley—not drunkards or common ruffians, but more… official.

They wore dark blue jackets and tall top hats—the unmistakable uniform of the newly formed Metropolitan Police force, and the casual way they tapped their truncheons against their palms, slow and rhythmic, was strangely mesmerizing. It was the kind of motion she had seen constables make—a gesture of quiet authority, a silent reminder of the power they wielded.

That, more than the uniforms, convinced her.

These men were bobbies .

And yet… something felt off.

One of them shifted, and what Daisy saw made her blood turn cold.

The thing on the ground wasn’t an animal.

It was a man.

Before she could fully process the sight of so much blood covering a listless form, the shorter of the two bobbies raised his baton and swung down hard.

The sickening thud echoed in the tight alley.

Flinching, Daisy had to swallow to keep bile from rising in her throat.

"If he weren’t dead already, he is now," the bobby declared with a smug chuckle.

The taller man nudged the lifeless figure with the toe of his boot.

"Just what His Lordship ordered. Take the ring off his hand for proof. No one will look for him here. Just another penniless bloke whose enemies caught up with him."

Daisy’s pulse pounded in her ears.

The shorter man knelt, plucking something from the heap of rags and lifeless limbs. Even in the dim alley light, it glinted.

"I got it. But Giles—what about his clothes?"

"In this neighborhood? They’ll steal them off his back. The crows will take care of what’s left."

A bark of laughter, sharp and callous, then their conversation faded as their boots scraped against the cobblestones, their voices dissolving into the hum of the city.

Daisy remained frozen, fingers gripping the fence, breath shallow, chest tight.

Her gaze drifted back to the dead man—barely visible between the gaps in the wood. Little more than tangled limbs and fabric, discarded with less care than a sack of spoiled potatoes. Or one of the alley cats her aunt used to feed.

Although his body lay face-up, his features were unrecognizable—half obscured by a thick, matted beard, the rest a ruin of blood and bruises.

A wave of unease rolled through her.

There was no shortage of dead bodies in London—some killed by starvation, others by sickness. But this? This wasn’t some unfortunate soul who had wasted away in an alley corner.

He had been murdered.

And not by just anyone, but by men who were paid to keep the peace.

Daisy bit down on her bottom lip, torn…

With Gilbert to feed and a business to protect, she couldn’t afford to involve herself in whatever this was. But…

A rotting corpse would attract attention she couldn’t risk. It would be found, most likely. And the presence of a murder victim might then draw attention to the tiny but valuable courtyard. Some person of authority might wonder why a woman on her own had claimed a space no one had questioned before.

And then what?

Her garden wasn’t a whim or an indulgence, it made up a vital part of her business.

But even as she weighed the risk, the decision was ripped from her hands.

Because just as she resolved to turn away—to pretend she had never seen a thing—the body moved.