Tenwick sighed. “I’m standing right here.”
“Yes, dear.” His wife reached behind to absently pat him on the chest. To Felicia she asked, “How much do you want for it?”
“Five shillings,” Felicia said, expecting to be haggled down.
Instead, the duchess opened the reticule on her wrist and produced the coins. “I’ll take it.”
Her husband sighed. “This isn’t why we’re here, Phil.”
She shot him a wicked look. “I don’t see why we can’t do both.”
Unwilling to lose such a high-paying customer, Felicia accepted the coins and exchanged them for the expensive bottle. “Remember, just a dab will do.”
With a grin, the duchess tucked away her prize. Her husband sighed, fingering the white streak in his hair. They didn’t leave.
Uncertain, Felicia asked, “Are you certain I can’t offer you a vial to entice your wife?”
He straightened and dropped his hand, his expression impassive. “Indeed not. But you can offer me something else.”
The only thing Felicia sold was her perfumes. Hesitantly, she dipped in another curtsey. She tried to hide her trepidation as she answered, “I am at Your Grace’s service.”
Still beaming from her purchase, the duchess asked, “You are the F. Albright who publishes in Chemists Quarterly?”
No one had ever accused Felicia of such a thing. In fact, the few times that Felicia had confessed that she was a respected chemist in her field, the men and sometimes even women involved in the exchange laughed at the idea. Slowly, Felicia answered, drawing out her words. “I am…”
The duchess turned to give her husband a triumphant look. “See, I told you it was the daughter. Women can practice the sciences as well as men. Sometimes better.” She turned back to Felicia. “Though we did have quite a time tracking you down.”
How had they found her? Everyone, including the publishers of the journals to which she sent her essays, believed her to be a man. Once or twice, someone had tried to track her down, only to settle on the surety that her scholar father was responsible for her papers as well as his own. After she’d been confronted by that mistaken notion, she’d stopped trying to correct people. Let her father deal with those who wanted to discuss or disparage her research. He was so absent-minded, she wouldn’t put it past him to believe that he had written those essays and forgotten that she’d done so.
“I am the one, but I…” Felicia looked from duchess to duke. What, exactly, did they want with her?
His gray eyes piercing through her as if to read her inner turmoil, Tenwick said, “We’d like you to create the truth serum for us.”
3
He wanted the truth serum. Her truth serum.
It had to be some kind of jest. No one in the chemistry or botany fields believed her research to be solid. She’d railed against them for years. The science was sound. If only she had the funds and access to the right chemicals, she could prove them wrong.
Both the duke and duchess waited for her response.
She opened her mouth and shut it, gathering her thoughts before answering. Somehow, her clever response turned into, “You’re serious?”
The duke nodded.
Felicia still didn’t believe him. “Why?” He was a duke, for Heaven’s sake! What could he possibly need with a truth serum?
“I like to be a patron of the sciences.” He delivered the sentence with a calm, smooth tone of voice. Not a muscle twitched in his expression. He didn’t look away from her eyes.
Perhaps it was that last that convinced her he must be lying. Liars liked to think that looking someone in the eye made them more believable, but in actuality, such unwavering attention usually meant that they were focusing too hard on hiding something. About then, Felicia would have given her left arm to have the truth serum completed and on hand, just so she could feed it to him and learn the truth.
You’re smarter than that. This is a riddle.
As a child and young woman, she’d loved riddles. As an adult, she had no time for them. But maybe this one…
“I’ll be paid, of course.”
“And put up at my estate in the country for the duration of your research.”
Outside of London, where she wouldn’t have easy access to the chemicals she needed. It would cost more to have them shipped to a remote castle. Even more curious.
She tested him by stating, “I have this autumn’s wares still to sell. I can make my way to your estate once I’ve finished with the market.”
“I’ll buy the lot of them.”
A surge of satisfaction winked to life in her chest. She snuffed it out before it showed on her features. I knew it. He didn’t want her to create the serum for him solely to be a patron of the arts. He wanted it done quickly, which meant that he had a purpose for the serum.
What could be so pressing? A lying servant? If his concern had been a cheating wife, the duchess would not have boldly accompanied him. She seemed like no fool, and knew exactly what he was about. Felicia studied her expression, trying to discern the truth from her, to no avail. They were good at hiding their intentions.
A duke built like a soldier. A duchess who openly claimed to be a scientist. Both somehow able to track her down despite her nomadic lifestyle and the fact that she, as a woman, was not affiliated with her work. This pair was far from what they seemed. Were they even nobility?
Spies. A war was being fought, not terribly far away, and a truth serum might infinitely come in handy to turn the tides.
Felicia narrowed her eyes. “Do you work for Britain?” She wasn’t going to aid some foreign blackguards, not even for an exorbitant amount of money.
Shock showed on the woman’s face. The man, on the other hand, remained impassive. “This isn’t the place for discussion. May we go inside?”
Inside her wagon? It would be dreadfully cramped with three people. Could Felicia trust them? They could, after all, simply render her unconscious, kidnap her, and force her to work for them.
The moment the couple rounded her table, Chubs jumped to his feet. He didn’t growl, but he stepped forward to lean against Felicia’s thigh. He would never let something happen to her on his watch.
She glanced down the sparsely-populated lane of stalls and inwardly sighed. “Very well, but I’ll need to bring my wares in.”
The woman grinned. “I’ll help. I’m Phil, by the way.”
“Felicia.” Her name slipped out, even though they obviously knew it already. Even if they hadn’t sought her out, the sign hanging from her awning proclaimed it loud and clear.
Between the two women, they shortly stripped the stall of items. Phil piled the cloth and bottles into her husband’s arms. Both she and Felicia carried the rest inside, clearing the stall in one trip whereas it had taken Felicia several to set the perfumes out.
She entered the wagon first. With only her and Chubs, the wagon often seemed crowded. She had only enough space for a seating area that doubled as her bed opposite a row of cupboards that rose to waist height, the tops cleared for her to use as a work bench. She slipped the perfumes into a crate in the far corner. Phil followed, handing off the rest of the bottles and finally the cloth, one by one. When Felicia stood, the wagon felt as tight as if she was in one of those bottles. Chubs was curled up in his usual corner, padded with spare blankets. The narrow space between the bed and the cupboards was eaten up by the duke’s broad shoulders.
Felicia motioned to the bed, thanking her forethought for having straightened the sheets this morning. “Please sit, Your Grace.”
Thankfully, neither of the aristocrats protested. Felicia leaned her rump against the work table as she faced the pair. Phil leaned against her husband, snuggling into his embrace. He encircled her with his arm. From the neutral expression on his face, he might not even notice he did so. It might be an unconscious gesture, needing and wanting her close.
Felicia buried a twinge of regret. If she hadn’t run away from home, she might h
ave had that.
Or she might have been miserable, forced to serve her husband’s whims and denied the freedom to pursue her scientific research. At least now, she lived on her own terms. Marriage wasn’t a part of her plans. At age thirty as of next month, she feared she was coming to the end of her childbearing years. She had made this choice, and she liked her freedom, even if she occasionally wondered, “What if…”
Right now, her only concern was: What if the duke and duchess weren’t who they said they were?
She drew herself up, casting a glance toward Chubs to ensure that he was alert in case she needed him. He slinked off his blanket, slowly getting closer to the group. His body was so long that his rump could probably still touch his bed while his paws touched the duke’s boots.
“You work for Britain?” She kept her voice light, despite the suspicion swirling inside her.
The duke raised an arched eyebrow. “We do. My family has been loyal to the crown since our nation’s inception.”
“Then you are the duke and duchess of Tenwick?”
Phil looked at Felicia with a quizzical expression. “Of course. He’s a bit conspicuous to be disguised.”
The duke clenched his jaw and shifted his arm around his wife. He said nothing.
Felicia pressed her lips together. “You want me to believe that a duke and duchess are Crown spies.”
Tenwick’s gray eyes snapped. “When did we say that?”
Heedless to her husband’s displeasure, Phil leaned forward and answered over top of him. “Yes. In a support capacity, of course.”
He made a face. “We don’t know if we can trust her.”
The duchess shot him a speaking look. “We’ll have to trust her at some point, if she’s to help us.”
Felicia gnawed on her lower lip. “Perhaps you ought to tell me exactly why you want me to create this serum for you now.” After all, she’d been publishing her research on the subject for years. The war with France was hardly new.
After a tense look exchanged between the aristocrats, the duke admitted, “We have a French spy in our midst and we’re unable to discover who. Our one source who knows him refuses to give him up, even under duress. We need a sure thing, and… given the turn in the war, we need it as soon as possible.”
His voice was stiff, formal, grim. What had happened in the war? Last Felicia had heard, the armistice with Napoleon was only just ending, what with Britain’s new alliance with Prussia.
“Can you create the serum?” An edge of doubt entered Tenwick’s voice.
Felicia drew herself up. “Of course I can.” She had, after all, thoroughly researched that very thing. If she’d had the means to test her theory, she might have concocted such a serum already.
“Good.” The duke stood. “Then you’ll be working around the clock with our best botanist.”
It was on the tip of Felicia’s tongue to inquire after her pay for this endeavor, but the query dissolved beneath her curiosity. “Who?”
The duke’s expression gentled. The corners of his lips twitched, almost an admission of amusement, or maybe pride. “My brother,” he informed. “Gideon Graylocke.”
Felicia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Not the stubborn man who had been in a public row with her through the Royal Botanical Gazette over the past several months, simply because he refused to accept valid criticism. Oh, this was going to be more fun than she’d thought.
Although she tried to keep the amusement from her tone, it made her voice tight as she answered, “Perhaps it would be best if I meet with him first, to ensure he’s willing to work with me.”
She would even try not to nettle him too much in the process.
The duke raised his eyebrows in a haughty expression. “He’s pledged himself to the Crown’s service. He has no choice. But if you’re willing to meet with him today, we’ll discuss particulars then.”
Felicia smiled. “Hanover Square. Three o’clock.”
She could already imagine the expression on the botanist’s face when he realized that the person with whom he’d been heatedly corresponding was a woman.
If he tried to underestimate her, she was going to prove to him exactly how poor an idea that was.
4
The morning had been crisp and cold, chilly enough that opening the office window had been enough to rouse Gideon and allow him to brace himself for the coming day. By the time Morgan had sent him a note alerting him to the meeting with his rival that afternoon, Giddy had already scoured the library for books that might prove helpful with his coming assignment. He’d found and reviewed Mr. Albright’s essays regarding this alleged truth serum.
Giddy still didn’t believe it could be done, not to the effects stated by Mr. Albright. Liquor could loosen the tongue just as effectively. When intoxicated, it was more difficult to recall a lie, especially an elaborate one. It didn’t guarantee the truth, which seemed to be what Mr. Albright proposed and what Strickland demanded.
Sweat clung to the back of Giddy’s neck as he paced beneath the bright sun in Hanover Square. Towering brick-and-stucco townhouses ringed the square, each loftier than the last, and a neat, square garden replete with shrubs and trees occupied the center of the square. The carriages that rumbled past, clattering on the cobblestones, were hidden behind the bower on the other side as they turned the loop. Many retired to the mews at the north corner of the square. Although the air in this part of town smelled clean enough, every now and again, a breeze carried a whiff of the straw and manure scent of the stables.
When Giddy had arrived at precisely ten minutes to three of the afternoon, the garden had teemed with ladies young and old, as well as the occasional servant walking a dog. As the last vestiges of summer heat had returned with a vengeance, those ladies had retired to their townhouses, shielding themselves beneath bonnets and parasols. Giddy had no such luxury. He’d paced the edge of the garden by the gate, the heat in turn searing into his exposed skin and hidden beneath the dappled shade of an oak tree. After a time, when no gentleman presented himself, Giddy began to wonder if Mr. Albright awaited him at another corner of the square. At five minutes past three of the afternoon, he’d taken a circuit of the square; and again at a quarter past three.
Now, his pocket watch informed him that the hour drew close to half past three and he was still left alone to brood. Well, alone save for the woman seated on a stone bench in the shade of the oak tree, plying a handkerchief with her needle. She didn’t appear as affected by the heat as the other ladies who had retired to their tea indoors.
He stood beneath the shade for a moment more, relishing the cool shadow over his heated cheeks. He had better things to do than wait until he expired for a man he didn’t even like. A man he would be forced to work with for the next several weeks, if not months, until Strickland accepted that what he asked simply could not be done.
Meanwhile, Giddy had other problems to deal with. Although the Season had come to a close months ago, after a brief stint in the country, Mother had returned to Town to torment Giddy. Usually, he spent all his hours shut up in his orangery at the Tenwick ancestral estate. This was doubly true upon the Season’s close, which allowed him the freedom to tend to his plants without remorse over neglecting social engagements. However, his engagements as a spy necessitated his remaining in London this year. As far as Mother was concerned, he might as well have stood on the roof of the house and threatened to jump. In her eyes, his decision not to tend to his plants was a cry for help.
A cry his younger sister, Lucy, was too happy to rectify. Between Mother, Lucy, and his co-sister-in-law, Charlie, he had never had to work so hard to convince someone that he was not, in fact, at death’s door. At some point in the past month or two, Lucy had gotten it into her head that Giddy was jealous of his brothers’ recent marriages. When he dragged himself home upon the completion of an exhausting night of spy work, the very last thing he wanted to do was fend off a grasping debutante who wanted to marry the brother of a
duke. When he decided to marry, he wanted nothing less than the mutual respect and cooperation that Morgan had with his wife. He wanted someone he could work alongside, as equals. Despite what his mother and sister seemed to think, he didn’t need to find such a woman now. He was only twenty-four, for Heaven’s sake.
Unfortunately, despite his vociferous protests, Mother refused to believe that he wasn’t lonely and pining for a wife. Since he couldn’t possibly confess his affiliations with the British spy network, he had to endure her torturous efforts in silence. Mother, Lucy, and Charlie had already made the decision to accompany him when he returned, rather than staying in Town with Morgan and his newly pregnant wife. With Giddy’s luck, his family would be smitten with Mr. Albright, and Giddy would spend the duration of his assignment fielding off comments of how much more polite and astute and congenial his rival was. Perhaps the poor man would wind up married into the family, thereby prolonging Giddy’s suffering indefinitely.
Come to think of it, perhaps Giddy wasn’t as irritated by Mr. Albright’s tardiness after all. In fact, he now started to hope that the man had changed his mind and wouldn’t show up.
“I don’t think she’s coming, tiger.”
The woman’s deep, musical voice, thick with amusement, shimmied down Giddy’s spine. She spoke with the cultured accent of a gentlewoman, but there was an edge to her voice that warned she might not be as accustomed to doing so as her words suggested.
He turned, offering her a glance. “Are you speaking to me?”
They were the only two people in the square. Even the carriages had ceased their trundling, shut up in the mews to wait out the worst of the heat. The air all but shimmered from the glaring sun. Even so, the woman wore no bonnet. Although her skin was hidden from the sun’s harmful rays beneath the boughs of the tree, her suntanned complexion bespoke that she commonly neglected to cover herself. Her black hair escaped its pins to coil around her head, wisps teasing the column of her neck. Her dress, a dark ochre in color, scooped low across her breasts to display her curves. She wore no necklace or earrings to accentuate her beauty, but she needed none. She attended her embroidery with an easy self-confidence radiating from her. Her nose and cheekbones were a bit sharp for conventional beauty, but that small flaw paled in the face of her self-assurance.
Tempting The Rival (Scandals and Spies Book 3) Page 3
