“Piyali?” Evan prompted.
Mother and daughter drew offended breaths at his overly informal address of an unfamiliar and unmarried woman. Even in a small Welsh village, propriety must be maintained.
“Dr. Mukherji,” she corrected him, her voice cool and clinical. Unless Evan decided to share whatever he concealed, there was nothing more she could do today. She was tired and hungry and irritated. And a report was due to Mr. Black. “I can’t say for certain. Further tests are required.”
A light mist of rain dampened Evan’s hair as he stood in the street staring at the door of Yr Ysgyfarnog Wen. If only he could turn back time.
Five years and she was still as beautiful as ever. He had no right to look, no right to steal glances. But he had. Of dark eyes he’d once stared into. Of long, wavy hair he’d once twined about his fingers. Of deep pink lips he’d once kissed.
He’d done his best not to stare, not to notice how the graceful arc of her collarbone peeked from beneath the edge of her neckline, how a short corset clasped her narrow waist beneath its tooled, leather surface, how her skirt flared outward over generous hips, or how its raised hemline revealed ankles encased in laced boots.
Her corset was studded with metal loops, hooks and chains to which she’d clipped all manner of essential devices and tools. Including a government-issued TTX pistol that gave his pulse a jolt. Was there anything more alluring than a strong, competent woman? But it was the familiar, amber glass vial dangling from a chain beside her hip that focused his gaze. Wondering, he’d bent close to peer through the aetheroscope and inhaled. Essence of orange blossoms. All these years she’d kept it, the same essential oil still scenting the water that rinsed her hair. Long-suppressed desires stirred.
He closed his eyes. He had no right to such thoughts.
Not one week after he’d returned to Britain’s shores, a skeet pigeon with rust-tipped wings had alighted upon his window sill, a brief note tied to its jointed ankle with news of her degree and the direction to her family’s London townhouse. To speed his reply, she’d even included a punched return card for the clockwork bird.
With stars in his eyes, he’d sat down in his tropical greenhouse to put pen to paper. Halfway through his letter a small, blue frog had leapt onto the back of his hand. A stowaway upon one of the many lianas—climbing vines—he’d brought back from his voyage to the Amazonian rainforest. He’d thought the shimmering creature cute, adorable, delightful.
Until it bit him.
Evan rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, the soft black leather of his gloves reminding him of the moment everything went wrong. He’d never sent that letter. Or any letter. One didn’t ask the woman he loved to share a slow descent into madness.
Time passed, and the vine of his silence slowly twined itself about his throat, growing so thick that only a machete could cut it free. Too late to ask her for help now. Not only did she likely despise him, she was a Queen’s agent.
Nonetheless, he must speak with her. Her aetheroscope was broken and that meant she would want to return to London on the morning’s steamstage. That couldn’t happen. He couldn’t allow her to leave, not with a sample of Miss Price’s skin in her possession. Here, in Wales, things could be kept under control.
Stopping her meant entering The White Hare where one Miss Sarah Parker, the tavern’s daughter, would be lying in wait. He willed his feet to move, to cross the rutted road, willed his hand to wrap around the iron handle of the tavern’s door and pull it open.
“Evan!” Sarah cried, her voice a confection of icing and spun sugar. Wiping her hands on her apron, she rushed to his side.
Out of the proverbial pan and into the fire.
Three months ago, Sarah and Miss Price—Tegan, she insisted whenever her mother wasn’t around—had begun fighting to gain his attention, all in a futile effort to secure a marriage proposal. Their bickering was a constant reminder of what he would never have, a thorn that pricked at his conscience.
Tegan found any remotely credible excuse to throw herself in his path. Unchaperoned, she regularly dropped by his cottage—a three-mile walk into the countryside—to request more packets of headache powder and throat lozenges for the shop. Chances she sold that much were close to zero.
And Sarah? She pounced on him every time he stepped into The White Hare, always ready with a pint of his favorite ale, begging for tales of his time in the rainforest even as she tugged the bodice of her dress scandalously low. Worse, her parents aided and abetted, turning a blind eye to her blatant flirtations and not calling her to task when she ignored the other customers.
“Miss Parker,” he replied. “Where is Dr. Mukherji? I need to speak with her.”
Wrapping her arm about his, Sarah urged him closer to the peat fire burning in the grate. “Upstairs,” she admitted, playfully pushing him into a chair and dropping into his lap. “But I’m right here.”
“Sarah,” he warned in a low voice. “I’ve asked you not to—”
She leaned forward, pressing generous breasts against his chest while twisting a finger into his curls so tightly it threatened to rip his hair from its roots. “Oh, please. All these months you’ve been without a woman to warm your bed. You need a wife, one who can help you run that pharmacy of yours in Cardiff. Tegan might know business, but she’s far too uptight to keep you satisfied after hours.”
“Stop,” he snapped, grabbing her hips and shoving her away. “I’ve no intention of taking a wife.”
Laughing, Sarah caught her balance on the sticky tabletop. “No? Then you’d best be careful. The Indian princess can’t take her eyes off you.” The lift of her chin redirected his attention.
What? He whipped his head about, catching Piyali’s narrow-eyed gaze from across the room as she descended the stairs. Guilt stuck in his throat. He’d not been unfaithful and didn’t want her to think… Did it matter? Her eyes slid away, and she turned her back, climbing onto a stool at the bar. A deliberate move to avoid any and all private conversation.
“She’s not a princess,” he said.
“Oh?” Her voice rose in a teasing lilt. “Then why do you stare at her as if she wears a crown of gold and precious jewels?”
Evan glowered. “Please, just bring me a pint.”
“Of course,” Sarah said, then winked. “And I’ll see what I can do about a little something extra.” She sauntered away, swinging her hips with each step. Tossing a quick word to her father, she jerked her head in Evan’s direction. Then, sliding onto a stool, Sarah turned her bright eyes upon Piyali. Her lips moved, and Piyali laughed. Not good. Sarah’s interference was akin to swatting a bee hive with a stick. The dull, throbbing beginnings of a splitting headache began to hammer away at his skull.
Glass banged on wood as Mr. Parker dropped a pint of frothy ale onto the table before him. “The way you’ve been handling my daughter? I think we ought to speak about calling banns.”
Evan dropped his head into his hands.
Chapter 2
“So tell me, is the all-too-precious Miss Tegan Price going to live?” The blonde, blue-eyed serving girl dropped onto a stool beside Piyali and leaned close. “Not that I wish her ill,” she hastened to add, “just that we’ve been at each other’s throats fighting over Evan.” She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Tegan’s always fabricating one ailment or another, any excuse for Evan to formulate her a new potion.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Not only is he the most handsome man for miles around, he has a shop in Cardiff, and both of us want out of this dismal village.” A deep sigh slid from her lips. “Not that he wants anything to do with either of us.”
Piyali blinked at the sudden onslaught of unsolicited information. “I’m sorry, I can’t discuss a patient’s health,” she said. Then, reminding herself she was an agent tasked with collecting information, forced herself to sip the bitter ale and plaster on a conspiratorial smile. “But please, feel free to share any and all gossip about her with me.”
A wide gr
in split the woman’s face. “We’re going to be great friends,” she announced, slapping a hand upon the bar top. “I’m Sarah Parker, daughter of this humble establishment. Sorry about the shameful display of overt flirting you had to witness. What is your trick? Evan can’t seem to take his eyes off you.”
“It’s not what you think,” she began, but a discordant note rang in her answer. “We knew each other once, long ago.”
“And now find yourselves forced to work together to cure Tegan of whatever it is that ails her.” Sarah held up a hand. “Which you can’t talk about, but it’s good to know you’re not added competition.” She leaned forward, eyes wide, waiting. “So tell me instead, are you from India?” She continued before Piyali could draw breath. “I love the embroidery on your skirt. I’ve always wanted to travel, but the only other place I’ve ever been—not counting Cardiff—is London.” She sighed. “I miss London.”
Sensing an easily won ally, Piyali shared a bit more than she would otherwise. “I was born in northeast India, but moved here as a young girl with my stepfather and mother. Aside from the four years I studied in Paris, I’ve lived in London.” After an epidemic of diphtheria tore her family to shreds, her mother had resisted remarrying, choosing to support them by selling the stunning kantha shawls she hand stitched, until a chance encounter with a British textile importer had brought her stepfather into their lives. Ignoring the many yelling and pleading aunties and uncles, they’d married and moved to England. Her mother had found a second chance at love… could she?
“Paris!” Sarah’s eyes grew hazy. “I’m so jealous. It’s awful here, but my father lost his job over a bar fight and decided he’d open his own tavern. Here. In Wales.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve no idea why. It’s so remote. And forget about learning Welsh! It’s impossible to wrap the tongue about. Just try to say the name of this tavern.”
Piyali made her best attempt, and they both dissolved into tears of laughter.
“See?” Sarah said, then lowered her voice to a whisper as she waggled her eyebrows. “Thing is, I understand it just fine. Makes it fun to listen in on all the gossip.”
“Sarah!” Mr. Parker yelled, beckoning his daughter. “Enough. Back to work.”
Feeling as if she’d struck gold, Piyali pressed a hand atop Sarah’s. “You’ll tell me more about this town later?” Perhaps it was a path to nothing but renewed pain, but she needed to know about Evan, about what he’d been up to since his return.
“Only if you tell me more about India. And Paris.”
“Agreed.”
Sarah hopped onto her feet and turned back to the customers.
Sensing Evan’s stare between her shoulder blades, Piyali took a deep breath and turned. Sad blue eyes met hers. Why hadn’t he answered her message? Perhaps he’d fallen in love with another? Her chest constricted. They had been apart far longer than they’d been together.
Her heart had almost healed. Almost. Not that she would be giving him a chance to tear another hole by squabbling with Sarah and Tegan. It didn’t matter what kept him silent. He’d made his choice.
His eyebrows drew together. Good. He ought to feel guilty about never answering her message. If he’d changed his mind, it was simple decency to inform her that she no longer fit into his life plans.
Difficult as it was, she needed to speak with him. She needed to know what he knew about the blue lesion and, to meet the bare minimum requirement of her mission, she needed to deliver Mr. Black’s invitation.
She spun on her seat to face the bar and waved Mr. Parker over.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“No.” She placed a punch card, a rolled parchment in a tin canister and two coins upon the bar. “Rather, I’d like to charter your skeet pigeon.” The clockwork bird didn’t look particularly airworthy. She frowned. “If it’s in working order.”
“Tends to malfunction,” he warned, his voice suggesting she wasted perfectly good money. “Even on a good day, doesn’t make it much past London.”
Worth a try. It was the only bird in town, and she hadn’t seen any telegraph wires. If Mr. Black couldn’t arrange to have a new crystalline lens objective shipped, she’d take her sample back for analysis in her laboratory at Lister University. Waiting a few days for an answer would give her time to keep an eye on Tegan’s lesion. “Good enough.”
He pocketed the coins and, as he turned to tie the tin canister to the bird’s ankle, his wife burst through the door, a bloody rag wrapped about her finger. Glaring at her husband, she pushed past him and plunged her hand into a bucket of soapy water all the while muttering under her breath about stupid plans and unreasonable men.
“What happened?” Sarah asked, handing her mother a clean cloth.
“It’s nothing.” Mrs. Parker dried her hands. “I scratched myself on some thorns by Seren’s Well.”
“The fairy well?” Sarah hissed. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”
The steam in her mother’s answering stare could make the nearby copper teakettle whistle. “I did it for you,” she snapped.
“You can’t,” Sarah spat back. “That’s the whole point. Do you know what the other girls will say if they find out?” She stalked away.
As Sarah’s mother struggled to bandage her finger, Piyali offered, “I’m a doctor. I can look at it if you’d like.”
Mrs. Parker’s head jerked up. For a long moment, she stared at Piyali, her face expressionless. “More than a doctor, I’d say. Everyone knows what the Price Family is up to, pulling strings to drag you all the way here from London.” Her mouth twisted. “Bet they were mightily disappointed when a woman arrived. And a foreigner at that. Nothing they’d like better than to see their precious daughter wed to a man of influence.”
Piyali sucked in a sharp breath of air. She was a citizen, granted as a royal prerogative when she joined the Queen’s agents, an offer only extended by special invitation. By working as a British spy, she had done—and would do—far, far more to serve this country than most natural born citizens. All this, however, was not something one announced, particularly in a Welsh tavern.
“Elena,” her husband growled in warning, “there’s no need to air the dirty laundry of others.”
“Hmphff.” Mrs. Parker snatched a rag and set to wiping the far end of the counter.
A hand touched her shoulder, and Piyali jumped.
“It’s me.” Evan’s voice was hushed. “We need to speak. The rain has stopped. Perhaps a walk?”
Given the hostile glances the tavern owners hurled at each other like poison-tipped darts, Piyali was all too happy to flee. “I’ll grab my overcoat.”
“What’s this about a fairy well?” Piyali asked him.
Lines of irritation pulled at the corners of her mouth. Insulted by the Parkers, most likely. They were experts at open hostility and masters of harsh insults. How they’d managed to conceive a daughter, he’d never know.
“Ffynnon y Seren. Seren’s Well. A bit of local tradition and legend,” he answered, happy to let more serious topics wait until the dark cloud lifted from her face. “A pretty little spot just outside the village. Come, I’ll show you.”
Evan didn’t offer her his arm. He wasn’t a gentleman, and she wasn’t a lady. Besides, it was better if they didn’t touch. He wouldn’t want to let go.
Despite all they had to say to each other, they walked in silence beneath the gray sky, following a narrow, winding path into a wooded gully. As they neared the well, he waved her ahead of him, not wanting to obscure her view of the ancient holy site. A small pool edged by rocks collected the upwelling of water beneath an old tree. Its roots had twisted and turned, invading the crevices of the ruins that stood beside the well. Overhead, scraps of cloth tied to its branches fluttered in the wind. Rough stepping stones led downward to the cool, clear water.
“It’s beautiful. And so very peaceful. Like a pabitro pukur…” She trailed her fingers over the moss-covered stones of a low wall. “What was this?”
<
br /> “An alter? A shrine? A chapel?” He shrugged. “No one recalls. But,” he couldn’t suppress a smile at the ridiculous legend he was about to share, “tradition has it that one can cure epilepsy by bathing in the pool at midnight while holding a duck beneath one’s left arm.”
“A duck?” Her face lit up as she laughed. “Are there any other odd traditions?”
“Too many to count. All invocations involve an offering of a bent steel pin to the gwragedd annwn, the water-sprite, who lives here. Most requests are for healing various ailments. Warts. Leprosy. Toenail fungus.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Skin lesions?”
Ah. It seemed they were done with pleasantries. “I’ve no idea what causes it.”
Only a partial lie, but it wasn’t like he could hand her the frog. The blasted critter had leapt from his workbench and disappeared into the tropical plants and vines that grew in his greenhouse. He’d searched for hours—days, weeks, months— but had never seen the creature again. He cancelled all visitations to his greenhouse, all the tours he’d promised of the strange, wonderful plants he’d shipped home, unwilling to expose another person to its bite. Now he was a recluse, fast becoming the village eccentric.
Unfortunately, forbidding anyone to enter his greenhouse had the opposite effect, generating ludicrous rumors that he’d brought home man-eating plants and snakes that could swallow a child whole. Soon adventure-seeking boys had arrived, peering through the condensation-fogged glass, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever lay hidden inside.
He’d ordered a lock—the 3XR CinchBolt—but it arrived too late. A little over a week ago, Evan awoke to find the door to his greenhouse ever so slightly ajar, the plants nearest the crack struggling to endure the cold spring morning.
Though nothing obvious had been stolen, his first thought had been of that blue frog. Had it escaped? It seemed so. For not three days later, Miss Tegan Price had knocked on his front door, begging an ointment for a strange rash. This time, she’d not been pretending an illness.
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