by Cheryl Holt
She switched tactics. "Melanie, you've met Lord Stamford. You saw what he's like."
"So?"
"Your mission is fruitless."
"It is not. Mother claims he's very eager. Especially with his being aware of how pretty I am."
"She's hoping, Melanie." It was perilous to contradict Regina, so Kate was treading on hazardous ground. Regina often infuriated Melanie, but Melanie would never admit that her mother might be lying to her. "What if he proposes? He's so much older than you, so much more experienced and sophisticated."
"Are you implying that I'm not good enough for him?"
"No! I'm merely pointing out that he's not the man for you. You'll be miserable."
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"I will not," she mutinously insisted.
"There are so many boys in town for the Season. They're closer in age, and they enjoy the same hobbies and diversions. Why don't you broaden your search? You needn't settle on him from the very beginning."
"Mother has decreed that it will be Stamford and no other, so I have no doubt he will be my husband." Bitterly, she added, "So shut up, and fetch me that potion!"
She yanked at the door and shoved Kate out, and a footman rushed up to steady her as she maneuvered the stairs.
They shared a wan smile, neither shocked by Melanie's temper. Her moods erupted frequently, and as Kate walked down the street, she pondered how intertwined her life was with Melanie's, how odd their association.
Kate had been born with everything and had had it snatched away. Melanie had been born with nothing but had had great wealth and position showered upon her, yet they were both unhappy.
Kate entered the shop, and as she glanced around, a bell jangled. It was a quaint place, filled with exotic odors and potted plants. The walls were lined with shelves containing peculiar bottles and jars.
The proprietor emerged from the rear, and Kate could barely keep from laughing aloud. Attired as he was in a flowing robe, he might have leapt from the pages of an ancient tale of dragons and knights. His hair was silvery, and he wore a pointy cap.
"May I help you?" he inquired.
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"Yes," Kate answered. "A few days ago, an acquaintance of mine purchased a love potion from you, and I would like to buy another. For her. Not for me."
"Another?" he gasped. "The ingredients are very powerful. I wouldn't feel comfortable dispensing more."
She retrieved the wad of bills Melanie had provided and pushed them toward him, figuring cash on the counter would spur a different decision. Melanie could be insufferable, and Kate wouldn't climb into the carriage without a new vial.
"I dropped the first one. It broke."
Suspicious, he studied her. "You must guarantee that you haven't administered it to the gentleman of interest. I can't have you overwhelming him with a double dose, for there's no predicting what mischief you might render. If the poor chap grew too enamored, his heart could fail. I won't be responsible for ... for murder."
"Oh for pity's sake." She rolled her eyes and raised her hand as if taking an oath. "I swear I dropped it."
"Well, then ... I expect I could be persuaded—if the price is right."
"I'm not giving you a penny more, you charlatan. This is all the money I have."
"No need to get huffy." He traipsed to the adjacent room, and after a lengthy delay, he brought her another vial, which she tucked into her reticule.
She was about to leave, but at the last second, she paused. Since she was positive he was a fraud, she hated to quiz him, but she didn't know where else to turn.
"Might I ask you a hypothetical question?"
"Certainly."
"Supposing someone had ingested the tonic. For
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example, what if an unsuspecting person drank it by accident? Is there an antidote?"
"An antidote?"
"Yes. If it was inadvertently swallowed, that individual could be a tad anxious. If so, there must be a... a remedy."
He was no fool, and he thoroughly assessed her. "You took it."
"I didn't mean to!" she blurted out.
He tutted and clucked. "Tell me this: Have you a piece of his property in your possession? It would be an object belonging only to him, and you can't account for your having it."
Her stomach plummeted, and she was dizzy. "His ring."
"Oh my ..."
The tidings had him distraught, and his upset panicked her. "What? What is it?"
He went to a shelf and found a powder, which he poured into an envelope. "Consume this mixture in hot tea, three times today, and once tomorrow morning, then restore the ring to him. But if it resurfaces in your custody, there's no hope for it."
"Don't be so secretive. Speak to me in plain English."
"If the ring comes back to you, the antidote won't work. Some things are preordained. You can't alter your destiny."
His words terrified her. The elixir had impaired her logic and common sense, and it was obvious that she was incapable of fighting her fixation with Stamford on her own. She had to stop her obsession, but if the cure was ineffective, how was she to rectify the situation?
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In a state, she grabbed the packet of powder and fled.
******************
Marcus peered down the avenue and saw Kate Duncan flitting out of an alley. What was she up to?
She raced to a coach, which he identified as his. It was the one he allowed Pamela to utilize, so Kate must have borrowed it for a shopping excursion. But what had she bought? And what had her running as if the hounds of hell were on her heels? He was dying to know.
He was fascinated by her, though he couldn't figure out why. Many women had passed through his life, with very few tickling his fancy, but for some reason, she did.
She was so genuine, so unpretentious. In a world where he was surrounded by sycophants and hangers-' on, she was so refreshing. Plus, she was so damned sexy.
How could he resist?
He dawdled out of sight until the coach lumbered away; then he walked to the alley from which she'd materialized. To his surprise, the sole establishment was occupied by an apothecary, and he stepped inside.
A strange elderly merchant was straightening bottles, and Marcus laid a gold sovereign on the counter. A wise fellow, the man snatched it up.
"I'm curious," Marcus began, "about the young lady who was just in here. What was she wanting?"
The merchant chuckled. "She acquired a love potion."
"A love potion?"
"Yes. Her friend—a snooty little blonde—initially sought a tincture for some rich bloke she's desirous of marrying, but your lady drank it when she shouldn't
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have. So she obtained another dosage for the blonde to mete out to her unwary fiancé."
"And for herself?"
"She was wondering if I had a remedy."
"Has the brew prompted her to fall madly in love?"
"She thinks it has."
At the ludicrous notion, Marcus chortled, but he was disconcerted. He couldn't have her believing she was smitten by another. Not for the immediate future, anyway. He had too many designs on her. "Are you claiming it's authentic?"
"With girls and their romances, who's to say? It's an ancient recipe, and the lady has attained an item of the man's, when she has no explanation for her having it. Purportedly, it's an indication that the magic is working."
"What item does she have?"
"A ring."
Marcus nearly choked. "You're joking."
"No. And she was quite distressed about it, too."
Tickled by this information, Marcus grinned. What fun he would have! "Have you provided a cure for what ails her?"
"Yes. I gave her a powder to take with her tea, and I advised her to return the ring to its owner, and to pray it doesn't wend its way back to her, but I doubt my prescription will be of benefit."
"Why?"
The man's eyes glazed over, and his voice so
unded far away. "Once Fate has intervened, there's no changing the result."
With the pronouncement, Marcus could have sworn
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a frigid wind blew out of nowhere, swirled around his legs, and slithered up his trousers. It was the eeriest sensation he'd ever felt, and he shivered.
"If she comes in again, contact me." He retrieved his card and set it on the counter, but the man seemed to be in a trance. Unsettled by their conversation, he rushed out without a good-bye.
******************
Melanie fanned herself, eager to cool down. The crowd assembled in Lady Pamela's parlor was much smaller than the night before—just thirty people—and the chairs had been rearranged for dancing. A musical duo huddled in the corner, playing the pianoforte and violin, but she'd enjoyed so many trips around the floor that she'd had to catch her breath.
She adored dancing, and leapt in whenever she had the chance, which was rare. Regina didn't countenance such folderol, but she'd relaxed her rules. In London, everyone danced, so Melanie could, too, because if there was one thing Regina couldn't abide, it was sticking out, or behaving incorrectly.
Regina had never gotten over their humble origins and, to Melanie's perpetual chagrin, was forever trying to fit in but never succeeding.
She'd like to stroll in the yard, but with Kate banished from the festivities, Melanie was without a chaperone, and thus stuck in the house, which made her furious.
Kate was always showing off and drawing attention to herself. Melanie was weary of her undisciplined conduct, especially when there was so much riding on the assistance Melanie needed her to supply.
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When Kate wasn't permitted in the same room with Stamford, how were they to administer the potion?
Beside her, a gentleman sidled closer. He was an individual of little consequence—the son of a dishonored, poverty-stricken baronet—so during supper he'd been seated far down the table. Regina had been incensed by his lowly presence, but everyone else was cordial to him.
He was much older than Melanie was, probably Stamford's age or greater, and he wasn't handsome, as were many of the male guests. His blond hair was balding, his face was ruddy and pockmarked, and he was very thin, as if he never ate when he should. But he was dressed fashionably, which was a sign of wealth, and that he wasn't the slacker her mother insisted.
All evening, he'd been watching her, and she reveled in his assessment. His regard was the exact sort she should be receiving from Stamford, the lout!
When would Stamford realize that she was not only pretty, but rich? Her dowry was fat and ripe, filled as it was with the money and property that should have been Kate's. Melanie wasn't meant to know from where the assets had derived, but occasionally she couldn't help overhearing.
She peeked to the side, meeting the man's gaze, and she was thrilled by his overt admiration. At least one fellow in the blasted mansion recognized a prize when he stared at it!
Anxious to look taller and more mature, she straightened. She wouldn't have him assuming she was a child, as Stamford seemed to do. With her shoulders back, her bosom thrust out, the bodice of her new gown
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accented her figure, and he relished the sight, though he attempted to shield his piqued interest.
He moved to her, bowed, and brazenly introduced himself. "Lady Melanie, Mr. Elliot Featherstone, at your service."
"Hello, Mr. Featherstone."
"Welcome to London." He leaned nearer. "You dance like an angel. You're so graceful."
She blushed. "Why, thank you."
"I'd ask you to partner with me, but I'm terrible at it."
'That's quite all right. I'm needing a rest myself. It's so hot in here."
"I was pondering the very same. I could use some fresh air." He glanced over at Regina, but she was boring some woman to tears, and hadn't noticed him. "I don't imagine your mother would allow you to stroll in the garden with me?"
"I'm sure she wouldn't."
"Pity."
He scrutinized her again, in a manner that had her feeling grown-up and able to make her own decisions, and she wished she had the temerity to simply walk out onto the verandah. Would the world end if she did?
"Perhaps we could have a glass of punch," she offered. The refreshments were in the next salon, and the door was open wide. It was innocent enough.
He smiled, liking how she'd resolved the situation, and he escorted her over. They sat, and a servant brought them beverages. When they were alone, he sneaked a flask from his jacket and added something to his.
"Scottish whiskey," he whispered when she raised a brow. "Would you like some?"
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Seeing no eavesdroppers, she nodded, and he poured a generous amount into her cup. As she'd never had hard spirits before, she was elated to participate in the naughty misdeed.
She took a tentative sip, not caring for the taste, but she wasn't about to let him know. Though she followed the nip with several more, she had to shift away so he wouldn't detect how the sharp tang had watered her eyes.
The alcohol warmed her, and she was positive she appeared more sophisticated, more poised. "You're a horrid influence."
"I hope so." As though they were the dearest of companions, he chuckled. "May I confide in you, Lady Melanie?"
"Of course."
"You won't deem me rash, or too bold?"
"Never." It was the first conversation she'd had with an adult male, and she was ecstatic. She yearned to be flirtatious and engaging. Regina always scolded her to be more impressive but never rendered any hints as to how. "What is your secret, Mr. Featherstone?"
"I've noted how Stamford has been slighting you. Everyone's talking about it."
"They are?"
"Yes."
"He's acted abominably," she admitted, delighted to vent her frustration to someone who would listen.
"You poor babe," he soothed. "After you've traveled all this way. You're aware of what's transpiring, aren't you?"
She frowned. "Is there information of which I ought to be apprised?"
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"I can't believe your mother didn't tell you."
She wasn't surprised that Regina would keep some vile detail to herself, and her blood was boiling. "What is it?"
"I shouldn't speak of it here, in the man's own house, when he's a friend. It's not fitting."
"You must reveal it to me!"
"You're such a sweet girl. I can't bear to have you hurt."
Just then, her mother saw them chatting. She scowled, which notified Melanie that she should immediately return to the dancing.
"I have to go," she said.
He peered over at Regina, grinning as if they were having a harmless exchange. "If I called on you, would she let us ride in the park?"
"No."
"Not even with a chaperone?"
"She's determined that I'm to wed Stamford. She'd never agree to our socializing."
His dismay was evident. "I don't dare suggest it...."
"Say it!" She was panicked that Regina would drag her away before their discussion was concluded.
"I was thinking that we should meet." He paused so the gravity of his proposition would sink in. "No one could know."
Melanie studied him, then Regina, then him again. If Regina had discovered a dreadful tidbit about Stamford, she'd never divulge it, and Melanie had to learn what her mother was hiding.
Regina gestured to her, and she couldn't delay. She stood and murmured, "At midnight, out behind the mews."
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He nodded his assent. "It was a pleasure to share my punch, Lady Melanie."
"The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Featherstone."
She spun away and went to sit beside Regina.
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Marcus sneaked toward Kate's room, toting a bottle of wine and two goblets. He'd loitered at Pamela's soiree long enough to establish that Kate wasn't present, and when he ascertained her absence, there was no reason to linger.
Her door was shut, but candlelight emanated from underneath, and he tried the knob, elated when it turned. Had it been locked, he had a key and would have used it. He was that determined to be with her.
His heart pounding, he crept in so stealthily that he might have been invisible. She was on a settee by the window, her back to him, and staring out into the yard below.
She was wearing a green summer negligee, the thin straps revealing her slender shoulders and arms. It was slinky, likely made of silk, and the richness intrigued him. He'd assumed her to be a woman of extremely modest means, and he speculated as to whether it might be a cast-off from Melanie.
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The elegant garment hugged her tiny waist, her curvaceous hips and thighs. There was a slit up the side, and he could see a shapely calf, a bare foot.
Her fabulous auburn hair was down and brushed out, the lush tresses loosely restrained by a green ribbon. The lengthy ends were deliciously curled and a striking contrast to the color of her gown.
She was engrossed in a cup of tea, a teapot on the dresser. An envelope was next to it, as well as a vial of red liquid, which he presumed to be the love potion and curative powder she'd obtained from the apothecary.
He grinned, tickled that she was so disconcerted by events. She seemed so pragmatic. Who would imagine she'd fall victim to such chicanery? And how could he manipulate her anxiety to achieve his own ends?
"Hello, Kate."
On hearing his voice, she whipped around, spilling her tea down her front. She screeched and leapt up, tugging at her bodice to keep the hot liquid from burning her. Her twisting and writhing provided several tempting glimpses of bosom and breast, and he was ecstatic to note that his dreams had been very realistic.
"Why are you here?" she hissed.
"It's after midnight. You never came to my room as I asked."
