Page 11 of The Love Remedy (The Damsels of Discovery #1)

11

“You need not worry, Papa. I have more than enough books to keep me occupied. I won’t even notice you aren’t here except no one will be scolding me for not eating enough vegetables.”

Thorne squeezed Sadie’s hand as they rushed to school. They were late due to a stop at the dressmaker’s to pick up her new winter coat, bonnet, and muff. November had turned the corner from autumn to winter, and Sadie had outgrown her coat from last year.

His daughter looked grown-up in her new winter clothing, but fortunately for him, she still allowed him to hold her hand when they crossed the busy streets, happy to give the street sweepers one of the pennies she kept in her pockets for that occasion.

Every time his child pressed a coin into the palm of another child her age, he shivered at the thought of the children in London working day and night for such pennies, the contrast between Katie’s wan face and Sadie’s eager eyes.

His stomach sank and Thorne didn’t want to think. He wanted to clear his brain of everything but the feeling of Sadie’s hand safe in his, the scrape of the wind’s nails across his cheeks, and his gratitude that no one would be punching him in the head for sport tonight. Those were simple delights. Uncomplicated. Free of any obsession or entanglements.

“What about Miss Peterson’s offer?” Sadie asked.

Thorne jerked his head around and stared at his daughter.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She peered up at him, one brow slightly lower, a sign of her ever-present concern about the foibles of aging, then shook her head with a pitying scrunch of her nose.

“I worry about your memory,” she said.

Before Thorne could contradict her by reciting the opening monologue from Richard III , she continued.

“Miss Peterson said if you were out all night tonight, that I am welcome to go downstairs to their apartment and spend the night. That she is happy to have me as a guest.”

A sullen breeze swept down Shaftesbury Avenue and yanked at Sadie’s bonnet strings, flipping up the hem of his greatcoat and sending loose refuse spinning down the street.

“Do you think she means it?” Sadie asked.

Once again, Thorne walked the precipice of parenthood, the dilemma of blanket reassurances versus the business of disentangling the worries and fears that lived in Sadie’s head. Why would Sadie doubt the genuineness of Lucy’s offer? What did he not see or understand?

Two years ago, Thorne took an assignment to hunt down a devious and immoral killer, a man who might slit your throat to spare himself the time wasted by arguing a point. Thorne found the experience of strategizing where a knife might strike a fatal blow in a fight analogous to figuring out which questions with his daughter might lead to information, and which led to tears.

Girls were hard.

“Yes. In my experience, Miss Peterson is to be trusted. I believe she meant her offer.”

Sadie nodded to herself, and they arrived at her school without further conversation. After bidding their goodbyes, Thorne found himself a hack and made his way toward St. James’s Street.

While no longer the center of the beau monde as it was during George’s reign, the area remained popular with the aristocratic class, and the streets were full of well-dressed gentlemen and ladies promenading with their footmen trailing behind, laden with packages.

The pace of one’s promenade told everyone they had no place to go, no fixed occupation, for the gentry did nothing so crass as work every day. This dividing line between themselves and the new middle class had faded somewhat during Thorne’s lifetime.

Soon, living off interests, raising the rents on tenant estates, or accumulating piles of IOUs from deferential tradesmen—soon this would end. Thorne saw the signs better now that he had removed himself from his family’s orbit. The great houses of London were being sold and split up into smaller dwellings. The anti–Corn Law movement was gaining strength as the price of grain stayed stubbornly high, but the harvests were poor. There were as many merchants as aristocrats standing elbow to elbow in the great banks.

Still, a well-dressed man commanded respect no matter how he’d paid for his togs.

Donnely and Sons was not the most famous tailor in London, but Thorne’s father and his brothers used them, and if they were good enough for Thornwood men, they were good enough to create an outfit that showed—even from a distance—the quality only money could buy.

For the next twenty minutes Thorne stood for final fittings of two new jackets and another set of dress clothes. Last night before he’d arrived back at the apothecary to find Lucy in a breathless panic, he’d worn his only set of dress clothes out to the Earl of Westwood’s gaming club, Grommots, where he’d been until the small hours gambling and pretending to drink with Westwood while plumping him for information about Duncan Rider.

Thorne’s visits to other apothecaries were leading him nowhere. None of them were selling anything akin to Lucy’s salve, and none of them had anything to say about Duncan Rider other than he was easy on the eyes and empty in the head.

Thorne agreed wholeheartedly with the latter.

He’d hoped Rider himself would be there, but Westwood explained that Rider wasn’t moneyed enough to know how to comport himself at a place like Grommots. Thorne had peered around at the burgundy velvet–covered chairs and overstuffed settees, the cut of the crystal ashtrays that held an assortment of pipes and cigars, and the muted brilliance of dusty but ornate crystal chandeliers.

The familiar smell of smuggled brandy, sandalwood, and fresh playing cards filled his nose, but Thorne felt none of his past ease at finding himself in the company of men with deep pockets and expensive taste.

“Can’t believe I ran into you. Thought you were dead,” the earl said, not unkindly.

“Retired,” Thorne said laconically, “not dead.”

A few men looked twice at him as they walked past, wondering perhaps if they knew him from university or another club. Among this set, not many men found themselves watching prize matches unless they were well into their cups.

“Same thing,” Westwood said, then laughed, a tinny bray that used to make Thorne’s ears itch at school, and time had not improved on it. “The Gentleman Fighter. What a life you had back then. Did you lose it all?”

Luckily, Thorne had saved during his fighting years, and with his salary from Tierney’s, this allowed for Sadie and him to live well enough.

Instead of answering, Thorne winked and set a finger to the side of his nose. The earl laughed again.

“Always the joker, Thornwood.”

They sat side by side on tall, padded stools next to a roulette wheel. Once Westwood had gotten over his shock at seeing Thorne alive, he’d been delighted to have the chance to brag about his new title and old fortune.

“Never thought I’d come to it, but my cousin Hal had a dicky heart and Raphe ate some bad fish, so here I am.”

Westwood had finished his third drink by then, and it didn’t take much effort for Thorne to steer the conversation in the direction he was interested.

“Nice enough chap for all he’s a mushroom,” Westwood said when Thorne again brought the subject of Duncan Rider up. “Fellow has the brains to capitalize on an opportunity and should be encouraged. Not that I’d bring him home to meet my sister, mind you—”

This time he laughed so loud that Thorne grabbed the glass in front of him and clenched it tightly—for the first time that night, he was tempted to take a sip.

“But unlike you, I wasn’t raised in a titled family, and sometimes it is a pleasure to simply... be my old self. Before I became an earl, I knew the men I drank and played cards with were my friends because they liked me. Now that I’m an earl...” Westwood stared at his brandy, his face a picture of wistfulness. If Westwood were a better person, Thorne might have had some sympathy for his circumstances, thrust without warning into a role that could break even the best of men. He, however, was not the best of men—

“Would you like to see a collection of cravats, sir?”

Thorne pulled himself from the memory of last night and stared at the tailor. The work had been finished and the sight in the mirror startled him, as always. He was thirty-five but looked ten years older. Despite his broken nose and scarred visage, in his finery one might mistake him for his father, Lord Blackstone.

The image wouldn’t let him be as he left the tailor’s and set out for more intelligence gathering. Sick to death of the smell of drink, Thorne nevertheless paid visits to various pubs in the vicinity of Rider’s apothecary, standing rounds and, on the side, collecting information. More than one man had let slip secrets after a few pints, and there was a chance Duncan had done the same.

From the bland but well-kept Duck’s Bottom to the King’s Arms, cheerfully festooned with papier-maché crowns, Thorne purchased round after round of ales. In some cases, he was recognized even after all these years, and in others, he made friends as well as any man who looked like him could. The denizens were happy enough to talk to someone new, especially someone new who was buying the drink, and gossip flowed as freely as the ale.

It appeared that Duncan Rider had been a cheerful if somewhat tedious companion until he’d come up with the formula for his lozenges. Since then, he might have been spending his days under the watchful eyes of his father at the apothecary, but his nights were now spent out with a new crowd, men who ran far faster and played far deeper than his old cronies at the local pub ever could.

Conventional wisdom held that the senior Mr. Rider reined Duncan in when the spending became too outrageous, but the elevated circles in which he now traveled had been a boon for their business. The Duck’s Bottom especially missed Duncan’s presence, as he’d been perennially available for a game of darts and so bad a player he made everyone else look good.

Thorne and his own father had never been close. He didn’t know many men of his station who were close to their fathers, but he’d admired Blackstone and believed in his integrity and wisdom. Generally, Thorne’s older brothers were the ones that took up his father’s attention with spending habits similar to Duncan Rider’s but no work ethic to accompany them.

Most likely Thorne would never have considered the nature of father-and-son relations or reflected on how important they were had he not asked his father for help and been denied.

That day Thorne had shown up at his ancestral home, Longlake Abbey, with his two-year-old daughter in tow.

It had turned out that his punching half-naked men until they bled was seen by his parents as an eccentricity Thorne would eventually outgrow.

Acknowledging a natural-born granddaughter of mixed race was different.

Blackstone never said this outright—in fact, he never said a word when Thorne arrived home with Sadie. It had been his mother who’d pointed out the unsuitability of Sadie’s birth and strongly suggested Thorne find a loving couple to adopt her.

The suggestion made perfect sense to a man of his station.

Too bad it had been made after Thorne had fallen in love with his daughter.

The last time Thorne saw his father was when he left Longlake Abbey that same day with Sadie asleep over his shoulder.

Tonight, Thorne had arranged to meet Westwood at another club. This one, Freeley’s, was not one Thorne knew well. When he entered a little after midnight, he understood why.

Unlike the club the night before, Freeley’s was bare of such finery as red velvet settees and crystal ashtrays. Instead, the decor was similar to that of a fancy pub: mostly wooden stools and the occasional leather chair, functional clear glass lamps hanging from a plaster ceiling, and far more ale being dispensed than smuggled French brandy.

Here, the men walking by did not discreetly examine Thorne from the sides of their eyes. Instead, those who still recognized him greeted him with enthusiasm, slapping his back and proclaiming their pleasure that he hadn’t died after all.

Eventually, Westwood waved at him, and Thorne made his way to where the earl sat together with Duncan Rider. Rider wore a forest-green coat and a bright golden waistcoat with a pink cravat—very au courant. He pumped Thorne’s hand again and displayed a nice set of teeth, proclaiming his absolute pleasure in making Thorne’s acquaintance once more. Westwood explained that Thorne was a gentleman who took up prizefighting for a number of years. Duncan nodded, a blank look behind his eyes. Thorne figured Duncan was about the same age as Lucy and would have been too young to have heard of the Gentleman Fighter.

The thought made Thorne’s bones throb.

They took up their cards, and he waited for the men around them to become absorbed in the game so that he could speak with Rider, but the night was an exercise in frustration. Word that Jonathan Thornwood, the errant nobleman formerly known as the Gentleman Fighter, was alive and well had spread throughout the club, and Thorne soon found himself being hailed by dozens of men to come settle bets or say hello.

“Not dead. Retired,” Thorne explained for the thousandth time that night. He stood with the Earl Grantham, who peppered him with questions about his early fights. Like Westwood, Grantham had also acquired a title by surprise. Unlike Westwood, Grantham had more than filled his predecessor’s shoes. The earl sat on two reform committees in Parliament and hid his political acumen behind a facade of harmless geniality, playing up his common roots. He was friends with Arthur and Violet Kneland but hadn’t had occasion to run into Thorne in years.

“Well, congratulations on being not dead,” Grantham said, slapping Thorne jovially on the back. Thorne was not a small man, but the earl topped him by two inches and had the shoulder span of a blacksmith. The slap nearly sent him flying.

“I’m quite pleased as well,” Thorne said dryly as he kept his eye on Rider. Despite his newfound wealth and Westwood’s patronage, the young man appeared uncomfortable in the rowdy company. Thorne had tried to coax him into casual conversation about the apothecary, but Rider avoided any discussion of his background. Instead, he engaged Westwood haltingly on horses and various bits of news from the scandal pages, sounding stilted and rehearsed.

Rider was out of his element, and Thorne had missed his opportunity to exploit it.

“And the lovely Geneviève?” Grantham asked. “Is she enjoying her retirement as well?”

The noise of the crowd had risen to thundering heights but wasn’t loud enough to drown out the buzz of blood racing through Thorne’s veins.

Grantham, for all he played the fool, was adept at reading others and immediately realized he’d said something wrong.

“Ah, feck, Thornwood, I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?” the earl asked.

Thorne’s left shoulder jerked up in a half-hearted shrug. “You couldn’t know. She died of consumption seven years ago.”

This time, the earl’s enormous hand rested gently on Thorne’s shoulder in a gesture of sympathy.

“My condolences. She was a sweet girl.”

Thoughts of Genny led to thoughts of Sadie. Thorne wanted to go home. Though Grantham tried his best to cheer Thorne up with an impressively dirty joke or two, it was with relief he bid the earl good night when Westwood and Rider stood up from the table.

“Are we off somewhere else?” he asked as he joined the men at the coatroom to collect their belongings.

“?’Fraid I must be going home,” Rider said.

“He’s a workingman, you know,” Westwood said, his consonants thick from drink. “Not like us. Stands up at the cock’s crow.”

Thorne accepted the offer of a ride, asking to be let out around the corner from the apothecary. Nearing home, he saw a faint light in his windows. A sliver of worry woke in his spine. Before he could pick up the pace, Westwood’s carriage returned.

Slipping into a recess between two buildings, Thorne watched as the carriage came to a halt in front of the apothecary and Duncan Rider jumped out of the vehicle before it had completely stopped moving.

The young man staggered toward the front door but froze before he reached the wooden walkway. His head fell back as he stared up at the Petersons’ set of rooms, and his topper fell to the dirt road behind him. After a moment, Westwood leaned out the carriage door and called softly to Rider to get back in the damned carriage.

Rider turned and picked up his hat, looked up at the Petersons’ window one more time, and climbed shakily back in.

Thorne emerged from his hiding place, ruminating on Duncan’s behavior.

Obviously, Rider felt conflicted about what he’d done to Lucy. This plus the information Thorne had gathered so far painted a picture of Duncan Rider as a not-too-bright opportunist. Lucy had trusted him and given him the formula for the lozenges, but Thorne was almost certain Duncan was neither clever nor devious enough to sneak back into the apothecary, sort through Lucy’s papers, and steal yet another idea.

Who had taken it, then?

While contemplating that question, Thorne sneezed. The smell of cigar smoke and brandy had suffused his clothing. Other than to distract himself from Westwood’s laugh, Thorne hadn’t felt an urge to drink tonight. While the environs of the club—the low murmur of male voices, the scent of cheroots and brandy—were intimately familiar, they hadn’t felt completely comfortable. Whereas before, time would cease to exist in a place with money, alcohol, and no windows, tonight the minutes had crept by.

The entire time Thorne was there, he’d been aware of someone waiting at home for him.

Letting himself into the side entrance, he took a swift look around the ground floor of the apothecary. Lucy must have finished her work for the night, for the workroom was empty. Out of habit, Thorne pulled at the drawers in the office desk to be sure they remained locked, then took himself up the two flights of stairs to his apartment. Upon opening the door, he spied Sadie, clad in her nightgown and thick flannel robe, standing in the hallway with a half-used candle in a brass candleholder.

“What are you doing up?” he asked. “I thought you were going to be sleeping in the Petersons’ apartment.”

Sadie shook her head. She’d seen to her own hair tonight, as evidenced by the puffy locks that had escaped from her two plaits.

“Miss Peterson came up here with me,” she whispered. “By the time I got ready and came out, she’d fallen asleep on the settee. I left her there, thinking she must be tired to find our settee comfortable, and went to bed, but I woke up a little while ago.”

Thorne pulled his daughter close, indulging in a rare embrace even though she was a big girl of nine years old. To his relief, Sadie did not remind her father she was a big girl and rested her tiny head against his stomach.

“Did you see the carriage that stopped outside?” she asked.

Thorne pulled back and examined Sadie’s face. “I did. Could you hear it up here?”

Passing him the candlestick, Sadie tried to fix one of the unraveling braids. “I woke up because of Miss Peterson’s snoring. That’s when I looked out the window and happened to see a man looking up here. He seemed familiar.”

Thorne was about to question Sadie further, when he cocked his head, listening intently.

“I can’t hear any snoring,” he said.

“Exactly.” Finished with her hair, Sadie took the candlestick and started back toward her room. “It’s so quiet it woke me. I’m used to having the floorboards shake through the night.”

“Come now,” he said. “I don’t snore that loud.”

Sadie stopped and raised one eyebrow, a neat trick that Thorne had never mastered. “You are louder than a herd of elephants.”

Thorne did not bother arguing. He’d broken his nose so many times he could hear his breath whistle when it was cold. While herd of elephants might be hyperbole, he certainly did snore.

“I will make sure Miss Peterson gets downstairs to her rooms and be back right quick,” he said as Sadie laid her robe on the chair next to her bed and climbed beneath the covers. “Did you say your prayers?”

Sadie nodded through a yawn so big she couldn’t hide it behind her hands. Thorne bid her good night and took the candle with him as he closed the door to her room.

Sure enough, Lucy was asleep on his parlor settee. She hadn’t even managed to lie down. Instead, she sat upright, fully clothed, her cap askew and topknot leaning to the left. Her hands were at her sides, unclenched, palms facing upward.

Thorne held the candle up and examined her, searching out her flaws. There was no hint of her worries on her face—he wondered suddenly how old she could be to not have any deep lines or wrinkles. Younger than him. Though even if they were the same age, he’d guess the same, having lived her life free of the influences Thorne had once surrounded himself with.

Like a puppet, Lucy snapped her eyes open, and he jerked in surprise, spilling wax on his polished dress shoes.

“I fell asleep,” she said.

If Thorne had held completely still, she might have closed her eyes and fallen back asleep, but he uttered a curse when the wax dripped on his hand. Lucy leapt to her feet.

“I fell asleep,” she repeated with a hint of surprise.

Thorne held the candlestick up so the light fell between them. Lucy’s eyes were wide, and a red crease ran down her cheek where she’d rested her face against the decorative stitching on the back of the settee. Fine locks of her hair had come loose from her topknot, and her cap had fallen to the side, so Thorne could see the naked skin of her part. It woke an unexpected protective urge within him.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“I am. Is Sadie...?” Lucy covered her yawn with ungloved fingers, three of them wrapped with plasters.

How had she hurt herself? Thorne ignored the urge to ask, to hold her soft palm in his and fuss over her cuts.

“Sadie is in her room. Thank you for watching over her,” he said.

Lucy smiled, and his protective instinct warred with the tapping of banked lust at the base of his spine. Grantham’s mention of Genny and the nights spent in the company of alcohol and games of chance had worn away at Thorne’s composure.

“Can you find your way downstairs by yourself?” he asked, stepping back. “I am just going to look in on her again and be certain she sleeps.”

Any number of expressions could have passed across Lucy’s face, but Thorne stepped back again so that Lucy stood alone in the dark. He held the candle up and pointed it toward the door.

“Of course, I can manage on my own,” Lucy said.

After she left, Thorne pretended to himself that her voice held no hint of sadness.

—

“So, in summation, I’ve nausea in the mornings, me ankles are swollen, I’ve fatigue and constipation, belly cramps...”

“It sounds as though you may be pregnant, Mr. Gentry.” Thorne’s voice boomed from the doorway.

Lucy looked up from her plants and scowled at both of them.

Early this morning, she’d received permission from the apothecary’s guild to enter their botanical gardens.

The Worshipful Society of Apothecaries established the Physic Garden in the sixteen hundreds. Down the Royal Hospital Road almost to the Chelsea Embankment, behind tall brick walls that kept the public out and the heat in, four acres of land were given over to a garden that rivaled any in the known world. Only members of the Society of Apothecaries were allowed inside those walls.

Delighted, Lucy had carefully packed the plants gifted to her by Mrs. Parekh. They would make fine additions to the gardens and provide knowledge to apothecaries all over England. She’d planned on taking the plants during the afternoon lull but wouldn’t have time if she couldn’t escape Mr. Gentry.

Who was experiencing—

“Abdominal tumor, Mr. Thorne,” said Gentry with a slight frown. “Canna be pregnant if I’ve no womb.”

“Right,” said Thorne. He turned to Lucy. “Miss Peterson, I have a question—”

“There’s all sorts of ailments of the womb,” Mr. Gentry continued as though Thorne had asked his opinion. “Some more serious than others. You can have tumors in the womb as well as the abdomen, of course. D’you know, one of the largest tumors ever recovered from a womb weighed twelve pounds and was in the shape of a horse?”

Thorne’s mouth dropped open, a slightly green cast to his skin.

“Mr. Thorne,” Lucy said quickly, interrupting Mr. Gentry. She knew quite well he could—and would—recite every known tumor ever recovered that he’d read about in his voluminous library of medical books, some of which dated from the last century. “Do you think you might spare an hour of your time to help me transport these plants to the Physic Garden?”

“Gladly,” he replied, not bothering to disguise his relief. “Is there someone to watch the shop?”

“I am happy to stay and keep an eye on yon Katie,” Gentry said pleasantly. “She’s a good girl, but with those Guardians hanging about, you don’t want to leave her alone too long.”

Taking Gentry’s hands in hers, Lucy squeezed them and smiled. “Mr. Gentry, what would we do without you?”

Gentry turned a lovely shade of pink, and Lucy deliberately ignored Thorne’s rolled eyes. No doubt he had his own opinion on what they might do without Mr. Gentry, but she refused to let kindness go unacknowledged.

What carried her through the bad times were the memories of small kindnesses.

Gentry, delighted with being given his task, informed Katie of his duties and continued his ruminations on tumors, his own in particular. Meanwhile, Lucy showed Thorne how to wrap the remaining plants in damp burlap. With his help, Lucy split the plants between two boxes, which she covered in woolen blankets, and they left the shop by the back entrance.

Luckily, they managed to both find seats on a crowded omnibus heading to Chelsea. A comfortable silence fell between them as they inched through the London streets. Occasionally, Lucy would bite down on a smile when she caught Thorne’s reaction to conversations nearby. Once, overhearing a young man speak disparagingly of his mother, Thorne cleared his throat loudly. The youth glanced in Thorne’s direction with a sneer that disappeared when the boy caught sight of the disapproving stare leveled in his direction.

Within moments, the bell had been pulled and the young man exited the omnibus looking back once over his shoulder, his white skin having paled to the color of whey.

“You must be careful where you aim that scowl of yours,” Lucy said, leaning toward him and speaking quietly. “Looks to be a powerful weapon.”

Thorne glanced at her from the corner of his eye, but his mouth softened. “Don’t know what you mean.”

More people got on at the next stop, and Lucy found herself smooshed up against him, filling her nose with the smell of bay rum and wool. He stood after another minute and motioned for an older woman to take his seat, replacing his scent with that of camphor and peppermint. Finally, Thorne cleared the way for the two of them to disembark and they began their walk toward the Thames.

A callous breeze off the river assaulted them with the smell of soaking refuse and clawed at Lucy’s scarf.

“It might have been preferable to listen to Mr. Gentry’s tales in the warmth of the shop with this nasty wind,” Lucy remarked.

Thorne looked at her askance. “I’d rather bathe in the Thames than listen to tales of forty-pound tumors.”

Lucy sighed. “Mr. Gentry has been known to exaggerate his stories upon occasion. Although, I seem to remember mention of that tumor in one of my old medical journals.”

Shifting the box in his hold, Thorne put out an arm across her chest to stop her as a wagon slipped on the cobbled streets and came perilously close to the side of the building where they stood. A rush of warmth gave Lucy some protection from the chill.

“Why do you let him stand around the shop so much?” Thorne asked before Lucy could thank him for his solicitousness. “Most times he doesn’t order any cures, just talks. I know he’s put some folks off.”

When he lowered his arm, they crossed the street.

“I suppose it’s not a secret, but no one talks about it much anymore,” Lucy said. “Gentry’s wife and two daughters died in the same month as my parents.”

A sudden and utterly unexpected longing for her mother squeezed Lucy’s chest.

“What did they die from?” Thorne asked.

“Cholera.”

As the wind bore down on them, Lucy ducked her chin deeper in her scarf.

“Mr. Gentry and his family had only lived in London for a few months before they died,” she explained. “When we reopened the apothecary after my father’s death, we would see him sometimes, walking the neighborhood and talking to no one. Each day he grew thinner and sicklier until one day, he dropped to the ground and did not get up.”

She and David had been arguing at the front of the shop that day when Lucy saw Mr. Gentry fall. She’d known a moment of frightening envy at the sight. If there were no one relying on her after losing her parents, she might have collapsed as well. What must it feel like to just let go of everything and leave it to fate?

“David and I brought him home and put him in our parents’ bed. It took two weeks to get him back on his feet. After a few days, he was restless but not well enough to be on his own, so Juliet gave him a stack of periodicals to read.”

Thorne’s brows lowered. “ Medical periodicals.”

“If anyone is to blame, it’s Juliet.” Lucy slowed at a hole in the walkway, and together they picked their way through the half-frozen mud of the street until they could once again climb up on the wooden boards. “Once we realized what we’d done, David tried to rectify it. He brought home every conceivable novel from the lending library and a stack of literary magazines, but it was too late. Mr. Gentry had found an obsession that... filled a need.”

“Filled a need?” Thorne repeated.

Was it right to share the Petersons’ theory with Thorne? Although Lucy and Juliet had been trained alongside physicians, they’d never taken an oath of any kind to keep their customers’ secrets. It simply never occurred to them not to.

“Because now he’ll be prepared,” Thorne said, nodding to himself.

Relief that he’d figured it out on his own washed through her. “Exactly. He’ll see the symptoms coming and know what to do in case he or anyone else he loves becomes ill. I just wish...” The top of the greenhouse in the center of the Physic Garden appeared as they turned the corner.

“What do you wish?” Thorne asked.

She prepared to cross to the entrance of the garden and looked over at him.

Breathe , he’d demanded the other night. It had been an order, not a request, and Lucy had felt helpless to disobey. Breathe. She’d leaned into his command in the same way she leaned against his body, relishing the strength and surety that was so lacking in her life.

What did she wish?

I wish you’d touch me again, Lucy thought to herself. Caught in his stare, she let the chaos of the streets around them fade. I wish you’d take me to bed and for once I would just feel and not think. I wish you would like me. I wish you would tease me and flirt the way Duncan once did, I wish...

“Watch out!”

Lucy’s foot hit the ground at an awkward angle as three boys ran past her in the street, two of them clad only in their shirts and the third in possession of a coat but no scarf or hat.

“Little monsters. They almost ran you over,” Thorne growled.

“They have to run,” she said, limping slightly as they crossed toward the garden’s entrance. “They don’t have enough clothes between them to keep even one boy warm.”

Thorne looked up at the inscription over the gate, then down at her.

“Lucy Peterson,” he said softly. “You are...”

“Good day, Jonathan.”

The gates to the garden had swung open, and two men stood there, staring at Thorne. One of them Lucy knew well, Mr. Robert Fortune, who worked hand in glove with the hortus praefectus , John Lindsey.

The other was a tall man who towered over them with his high top hat. He wore polished boots, and his woolen greatcoat had three capes, brass buttons shined to perfection, and fur lining the collar. The scent of privilege wafted from him like the most expensive of colognes.

“Sir,” Thorne said in return with a slight bow.

What was this?

“Good day, Miss Peterson,” said Mr. Fortune coolly. He eyed the boxes with an eagerness that contrasted with his faint air of disdain. “These are the plants you promised us? But let me relieve Mr. Thornwood of his burden. No doubt he and his father, Lord Blackstone, have much to discuss.”

Mr. Fortune took the box of plants from Thorne’s arms and chuckled nervously, glancing between Lucy and Thorne.

Thornwood .

Not Thorne.

Carts and horses rode past them, birds sung in the many trees behind the garden walls, and the boys who’d run by them now came back in this direction shouting like brigands, but all she could hear was a sound like rushing water and the almost painful thud of her heart in her chest.

Ezekiel Thornwood, the Baron of Blackstone, for she recognized his picture from the broadsheets, bowed his head to her, and Lucy curtsied in return. Thorne stood to the side; his brows pulled back as if he’d asked a question, but no words emerged. Not even an introduction.

Of course. Why would there be an introduction? She was merely a lowly apothecary, and Thorne was the son of a baron.

Mr. Fortune bid good day to Lord Blackstone and gestured for Lucy to come with him. Without looking back at the two men, Lucy followed him blindly as the gate closed behind her. When asked a direct question, she stuttered out a yes or a no, offering nothing in return despite the curiosity rolling off her host.

Lord Blackstone.

His father .

This explained Thorne’s fine gloves and cultured speech.

Disappointment burned from her stomach up to her throat no matter how much Lucy chastised herself that there was nothing to be disappointed about. Thorne did not owe her the history of his life, nor his real name, nor anything other than the promise that he would help her figure out where her formula had gone.

Whatever intimacy the two of them created in the dark of the office two nights ago, it was a cocoon of desire only. There had been no promises, no whispered words of false affection—just two bodies coming together for a short time.

Breathe.

The Physic Garden had been in existence since 1673, a home to medicinal plants, the study of medical botany, and more recently an international seed exchange. Straight paths created a geometric design and led along banks of teaching plants. Fortune pointed out one or two new additions since Lucy had last visited as they picked their way past the pond rockery. When the girls had been apprentices, they’d been awed by the lava stones there, donated by the famed Joseph Banks.

Mr. Fortune and Lucy discussed the contents of her boxes. He was especially thrilled with the neem sapling and had just returned from China with new plants of his own. They left the boxes at the end of an enormous greenhouse, then made their way back to the estate, which once was a private residence and now served as the central hub for the work of managing the society’s vast garden.

After entering Lucy’s plants into a series of ledger books, Mr. Fortune offered her a cup of tea, but she declined. Katie’s good nature would allow her to tolerate Mr. Gentry only to a point.

“Shall I have a boy summon a hack?” he asked. “Or were you planning on returning somewhere with Mr. Thornwood?”

Ah. Mr. Fortune’s curiosity had won over his discretion, but Lucy refused to give him any more information. Bad enough he had always considered her and Juliet embarrassments to the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries. Much to his chagrin, there was no rule against women apothecaries because no one anticipated a woman wanting to be an apothecary. Despite Mr. Fortune’s protests, Lucy’s father had apprenticed his daughters without hesitation.

There was also the ever-present assumption that because they were young and attractive, Lucy and Juliet were in want of a husband. Or, if not a husband, male attention of a certain sort.

Either way, Mr. Fortune would talk. She was an unmarried woman walking the streets alone with a man to whom she was not related. Despite Lucy being an apothecary, she was still a part of society, and her unchaperoned status made her appearance with Thorne risqué. Mr. Fortune now held a juicy piece of gossip with no context and could be counted on to use it against her at some point.

Lucy accepted his offer of a hack and pushed the cab’s curtain open as far as it would go despite the stench coming off the Thames and the biting cold. Perhaps Thorne would return to the shop as if nothing had happened. Maybe his father had come to bring Thorne back into the fold? An avalanche of questions ran through her brain. Was she in a position to demand the answers?

She pushed open the curtains even further, letting the wind blow away whatever nonsense had spun itself in her head like cobwebs, dulling her instincts and distracting her from larger concerns. The shop was what concerned her most, now and in the future. Anything else was a waste of her time.