Page 10 of The Love Remedy (The Damsels of Discovery #1)

10

“Two weeks?”

Lucy swallowed against the tightness in her throat and forced a smile to her face as customers craned their necks to watch her and David. She’d just had to turn a customer away who had come looking for willow bark tea. Such a staple should have been out in one of the large glass jars, but Lucy had cut back on her orders that month to pay Katie, and the result was lost custom.

“I’ve got to go—” David flashed his special smile at a young woman hovering nearby, and she turned away to hide her blush. He pulled Lucy by the elbow into the office but left the door ajar so they could keep an eye on the crowded room.

“Lucy, you know this is important to me,” he finished.

Juliet and Mrs. Sweet had met up at the shop earlier in the morning and taken a hack to the other side of London. Mrs. Sweet’s employer, Mrs. Violet Kneland, the founder of Athena’s Retreat, had arranged for Juliet and Mrs. Sweet to meet with a committee of men and women who were concerned about the health of children in the East End. The committee was considering fully funding the clinic’s work with pregnant women. The latest science suggested that what women drank or ate—or did not eat—during pregnancy had an effect on their children. While Juliet was happy to provide a correction to the menses for women who wanted it, she and Mrs. Sweet wanted just as much to see women who wanted to become mothers be the best mothers they could be.

Juliet was near breathless with nerves, and it took all of Lucy’s patience to persuade her not to fake an illness to get out of the public speaking. Between the meeting and giving the benefactors a tour, Juliet would be gone until late this afternoon.

Thus, when David approached her and told her he was leaving for two weeks—two weeks!—Lucy had little reserve of calm from which to draw.

“What is it that’s so important to you?” she asked, her throat still tight with frustration. “If you would simply tell us—”

“If you would simply trust me,” he snapped.

“Who is Mr. Wilcox?”

David jerked his head as though Lucy had slapped him, and she might as well have for the hot stream of guilt that weighted her stomach at his expression.

Why had she opened her mouth?

“Mr. Thorne found that name while ‘organizing,’ did he?” David asked. The lightness in his tone did not fool Lucy, and she braced herself for the sharpness of the words to follow. No one could wound her like the people she loved the most.

“Mr. Wilcox is my partner in the business enterprise. If you would just—”

Before she could hear his bootstep on the floorboards at the doorway, Lucy felt Thorne staring at the back of her neck. David’s mouth slipped into a sneer when he caught sight of the other man.

“If you want to know about mysteries, Lucy, ask Mr. Thorne here if that is truly his name. Ask him why the Gentleman Fighter is now working as a bookkeeper for an East End apothecary.”

“Mr. Peterson.” Thorne began to speak, but David pushed past Lucy and opened the door wider to slip past Thorne as well.

“Mr. Thorne. Be sure to continue your excellent work while I am gone,” said David. Looking Thorne up and down as he passed, his sneer melted into a frown. “If you intend to remain with us, that is. You appear to be dressed for a much finer event than sifting through our dusty old ledgers.”

Lucy took in Thorne’s appearance for the first time. His hair was swept back and pomaded in the latest style, forelocks gleaming beneath an elegant topper. His blue woolen topcoat covered a deep aubergine pull-away waistcoat and his forest-green cravat glowed dully with the sheen of real silk. All the way down to his polished boots, he resembled a wealthy gentleman rather than a former prizefighter with a penchant for accounting. The only thing Thorne couldn’t hide was the damage to his face, but dressed as he was, myriad explanations might be found for it that didn’t include having been punched in the head for years on end.

Who was Mr. Thorne indeed?

David placed his own worn topper on his head and left without another word.

“That is a fine hat, Mr. Thorne,” Lucy said.

Thorne’s gaze searched her face, then shifted to examine the desk behind her. It was still perfectly organized, the pen wipes in a neat stack, the ink bottle and pen holders aligned at right angles; not a scrap of stray parchment marred its newly polished surface.

“You may ask me at any time about what I did before becoming an agent for Tierney and Company,” he said.

The rumble of his voice contained no sympathy that she could discern, but the utter stillness of his body illustrated his sincerity. It was the same stillness that had accompanied his announcement last night. That he had been a drunkard.

“Miss Peterson, Billy Weston cast up his accounts in the treatment room.” Katie poked her head around Thorne’s shoulder, appearing sympathetic. Lucy knew her compassion most likely had not extended to having cleaned up Billy’s mess. Katie’s weak tolerance for any bodily fluid left her unsuitable as an apprentice apothecary, but she made up for her queasiness with plenty of good cheer, even when Lucy was at her most upset.

They waited until Katie left before speaking.

“I am going out this afternoon to follow a lead I’ve gotten about your formula and will not be home until perhaps tomorrow morning,” he said. “Miss Juliet has been kind enough to agree to walk Sadie home after school today.”

Lucy thought about the way Sadie had enjoyed herself the night before. “Will she come sit with us for supper, do you think? She’s young to be home all night by herself.”

Thorne nodded and sighed. “My landlady used to watch her when I had evening assignments. I’m afraid our move was rather precipitous, and I haven’t had time yet to find a woman to stay with her at night.”

“Was that the famous Mrs. Merkle?” Lucy asked.

Thorne closed his eyes and nodded. “She of the many cross-stitched proverbs,” he acknowledged. “I do not mean to impose on you, but—”

“It is no hardship to have her sup with us.” Lucy paused, the sting of David’s disappointment still burning in her chest. “I won’t—we won’t play any music for her, if you are worried about our... our influence.”

Thorne’s head dropped and he took off his beautiful hat. She’d not noticed the matching silk band around its crown. This entire ensemble must have cost a fortune. Ten times the nominal sum she paid Tierney’s for his time.

Who was this man?

“Your influence,” he repeated, then raised his head. “Your influence is most welcome. Sadie is lucky to be surrounded by such hardworking and compassionate women as yourself and Miss Juliet.”

Lucy waited for a moment for him to add a disclaimer. When he didn’t, she set a hand to her throat where a lump formed.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he said curtly, and left without another word.

Billy Weston had cast up his accounts with the same vigor that he brought to all his activities. While Katie dispensed medicines to waiting customers, Lucy reassured Billy and his mother that he wasn’t suffering a wasting disease, as evidenced by his full cheeks and bright eyes, despite his current listlessness.

Billy was not the only patient to try Lucy’s nerves. Her disappointment with David and Thorne’s unexpected compliments had broken the last of her defenses, and three times that day she had to go back into the storeroom and give herself a stern talking-to so as not to succumb to tears. Katie tried hard to make up for earlier and surprised Lucy by washing the windows, but the impact was ruined somewhat when she knocked over the bucket of dirty wash water onto Lucy’s shoes.

When Juliet arrived with Sadie that afternoon, she was elated. This committee seemed interested in the clinic, and she went upstairs to write letters of request to the benefactors she’d met that day. Sadie proved so exhausted by the day’s lessons that she napped on the Petersons’ couch instead of sitting and keeping Lucy company. Dinner was a subdued affair as they supped on the leftover curry and bread, all of them feeling the effects of the long day.

Lucy brought Sadie up to the Thornes’ apartment and helped her ready for bed. She’d expected bare walls or biblical prints, but the rooms had been elegantly if sparsely furnished and smelled of lemon polish and bay rum. The candles in the holders were beeswax, and the carpets, while plain, were thick and clean.

Itching with curiosity, Lucy tried hard not to stare at the door to Thorne’s room as she accompanied Sadie in her nighttime rituals.

“Thank you so much for including us in your prayers,” she said to Sadie as the girl climbed beneath her covers. Lucy didn’t think anyone had prayed for her since her mother died, and the tenderness this evoked tickled at her chest and scratched the back of her throat.

“I would invite you to read with me, but then Papa would miss that part, and he is much enjoying Oliver Twist .”

Lucy had painted the room herself between tenants and knew the walls were covered with the cheapest ivory paint she could find, but the Thornes had put up lovely salmon-colored curtains and hung three charming watercolors across from Sadie’s bed that, combined with the pastel scraps of her quilt, gave the girl’s room a warm rose hue.

“I still have some work to do, but if you become frightened, I will leave the door to our apartment unlocked and you may sleep on the sofa,” Lucy said, surprising herself. “When I’m finished, I will come up and stay until your father returns.”

Lucy had no pause to mull over why she’d made that offer. She didn’t like children, did she?

The question fell to the side as she took in the sight of the darkened shop. Earlier, Katie had been rushed off her feet and had no time to tidy the shelves or clean the counters after having to rewash the floors. Loath to pressure Juliet after such a long day, Lucy worked for an hour to set the apothecary to rights before putting the lockbox in the bottom drawer of the office desk and lighting a small lamp that she carried to the storeroom. Time floated along without measure as Lucy inventoried and made notes on what was running low.

All she wanted was her bed, but the more Lucy worked, the more anxious she grew. After the inventory check, there was an endless list of medications to measure out and set aside. Katie had written a list of tinctures that must be restocked, and since David had now left for another two weeks, there were orders to place and bills to pay. More willow bark tea must be ordered, and a way to find enough coin for both Katie and food for the rest of the month was her most pressing issue.

On top of this were Thorne’s revelations.

David’s reaction to Wilcox’s name had been difficult to read, but it was strong, nevertheless. Was all lost? Had David somehow managed to exacerbate the damage that Lucy had started by losing her heart—and her common sense—to Duncan Rider? What did Wilcox have to do with her missing croup formula, if he did at all? If only Thorne had found her formulas, Lucy would have gladly borne the humiliation of having been wrong about Duncan stealing them.

Her chest tightened with the thought of what would happen if they lost the business. There were, Lucy knew, thousands of women in London who had no control over their lives. They had no education, no loving family, no community that looked at them with respect. They were trapped and poor and helpless.

Lucy was not one of them.

She had an education. If the apothecary closed, she could apply for a position at one of the medical apothecaries attached to a hospital. She could work with Juliet and Mrs. Sweet at the clinic. She could marry a wealthy shop owner and never work again a day in her life.

Why, then, did their finances and the fate of the apothecary sit on her shoulders and push her down with a weight so great she could not breathe?

Lucy sank into the chair behind the desk. Her throat felt strangled by the fist of anxiety that squeezed and squeezed.

No matter how sternly she spoke to herself, her breaths continued to come short and shallow as though she sipped the air. The room began to spin, and Lucy clawed at the high collar of her dress, hearing the popping of buttons as if from far away.

Was she going to die?

The office door opened, and a dark figure slipped inside.

“I can’t breathe,” Lucy told Thorne as he walked around the desk.

“Tell me what you hear,” he said, his lips close to her ear.

What did she hear?

“I hear me trying to breathe,” she rasped in between gulps.

“What else?”

His voice was a rope flung through the thinning air around her head. His knees creaked as he knelt by her side, one of his palms against her back, the other holding her wrist lightly.

“Your knees,” she said.

A small avalanche of pebbles fell when he laughed, and she raised her head so that her throat would be clear.

“Your laugh.”

Thorne’s fingers closed tighter around her wrist, and she stared at them as he unbuttoned the top back of her dress with his other hand, exposing part of her corset but freeing her lungs to inhale easier. Both she and Juliet wore the easy-to-remove day dresses of the lower classes, as they could not afford a maid.

“What can you smell?”

Lucy half turned in her seat to stare at him.

“What can you smell?” he asked again.

Pulling air in through her nose, Lucy gripped the chair’s arm with her free hand, willing the room to stop moving.

“Brandy,” she said, then narrowed her eyes at him.

“Indeed,” he said. “An inebriated earl spilled a glass of it on my trousers tonight. What else?” he asked.

Clever man. Each time Lucy breathed through her nose, her lungs expanded. Her heart had been twisting about like a fly in a web, and it settled into an agitated but somewhat slower thump. Gradually, the haze around Lucy cleared and the lamp on the top of a cabinet came into focus. Thorne must have lit it when he came back to the apothecary.

“The cold from outside caught in the wool of your topcoat. Smoke.”

The words now came without gasping, and Lucy counted the time it took her to breathe in and out, raising the count until Thorne let go of her wrist.

“What do you feel?” he asked.

Cold. The loss of his touch on the sensitive skin of her wrist. Hot. The heat of his body so close to hers they were almost touching.

“Foolish,” she said aloud.

Gently, Thorne turned the chair toward him so that she didn’t have to crane her neck to look at him. Whatever he’d been doing tonight, his pomade had long since given up the fight and his hair curled round his ears, released from the glossy prison.

“Better now?” he asked. His large hand remained pressed against her back, and she could feel the strength in his fingers through her corset to the thin lawn of her chemise.

Was it frayed? Lucy could not even remember if she’d pulled on a corset cover this morning. Her underclothes were serviceable and clean but threadbare. But he wouldn’t be looking at her corset, would he?

Thorne’s thumb moved slowly up and down the top of her spine above the edge of the corset. He may as well have set that thumb at the pearl between her legs, considering her reaction. Lucy’s nipples hardened and ached, and the thumping of her heart could now be felt at the juncture of her thighs.

One touch! One touch of a man and she was ready to roll onto her back for him.

Lucy squeezed her thighs against the trickle of pleasure that wet her there, and his breath hitched. She glanced over in time to see his mouth pull into a thin line, his pupils dilate.

One touch.

She was shaking now, an uncontrollable tremble he had to feel.

“Miss Juliet was not here most of the day,” he stated softly.

Lucy told him the worry uppermost in her mind.

“Katie left the front a mess after she spilled dirty water on my shoes,” she whispered. “Her da came in and brought her home early to care for the younger children—it’s why he won’t let her go away to school, so she can tend to them, and he can drink away her wages.”

Why was she spewing such nonsense? He couldn’t care. She should leave. Instead, she continued her list of worries.

“Juliet is anxious about the clinic funders,” Lucy continued. “Mr. Gentry has found a book at the lending library about tropical diseases, and it is illustrated . Billy Weston’s mother considers me a last resort to those useless toffs over on Harley Street. And I am behind on orders.”

The words spilled out as though she’d lanced a boil; the petty complaints, the enormous terrors, all of it drenched in self-pity.

“I do not understand my brother. I am frustrated with my sister. I tried to read your ledgers and my eyes crossed and I am terrified that the baby I saw yesterday is going to die. No. I know he is going to die.”

There. There was the worst of the poison come out now.

“Breathe,” he commanded as the air in her lungs once again turned to stone.

I cannot. The words were stuck on repeat in her head as she lurched out of the chair. She had to get to the window, no matter that her dress now fell to her waist. Thorne must have loosened her corset strings as well, because the top of her corset fell away from her breasts as she struggled with the cracked and sticking windowpane, now nearly choking.

“Breathe,” he said again as he came up behind her and lifted the casement with ease.

The sooty, damp autumn air hit Lucy like a smack, and she stumbled backward into his arms. He pulled her around so that they faced each other, and put his hand to her chin.

At first Lucy flailed when Thorne covered her mouth with his and pushed his breath into her lungs.

Though she welcomed the air, her relief was tangled with the shock of his actions and the reaction of her body to his embrace; her breasts exposed, they pressed against the slickness of his satin waistcoat and the chill of the brass buttons down the front of it.

He broke the kiss and stared down at her, no expression in his ruined face, barely out of breath, but Lucy knew their desire was mutual by the steely hardness of his cock pressed against her belly and the blackness of his eyes in the low light.

“Are you breathing?” he asked.

“I think so? Maybe you should help me once more to be cert—”

He kissed her again.

What could she hear?

The pounding of her blood through her veins as her heart sped in excitement, an altogether different pace than she’d felt before; the faint sounds of horses clopping through the street outside; and the whisper of skin against cloth where her breasts were pushed against the slickness of his satin waistcoat.

What could she smell?

The ubiquitous soot in the London air when it blew through the window and ran down her bare neck and shoulders above where Thorne’s arms held her close, the scent of tobacco and alcohol, and the slightest hint of cologne.

And what did she feel?

He needed a shave.

Sometime between when he left this morning, clean-shaven and well-dressed, and the middle of the night, Thorne sported a shadow of stubble around his mouth. The friction provided a painful pleasure, and Lucy let herself relax into his embrace.

Thorne broke the kiss.

Lucy put her hand to her lips. The sensitive skin there throbbed in time with the pulse between her legs and the beating of her heart.

Thorne said nothing, but the gentleness of his touch as he drew his fingers along her jaw, the way he stepped away from her as he pulled up her dress, the sympathy in his eyes—they spoke for themselves.

He’d divested himself of her.

“I must check on Sadie,” he said, his voice so low it scattered. “Will you be all right?”

Lucy nodded once, then again.

With an answering nod, Thorne left.

For a long time afterward, Lucy sat and listened to her breath.