Page 75 of The Scent of Intuition
“Only from the atlas I studied. But there’s so much gold in the Carpathian Mountains, especially in regions like Transylvania, right?”
“Yes.” Stan’s eyes widened, and Bea thought they were rather shapely, dark, and intelligent. He was an intriguing man, and she was eager to be his friend. But it was Alfie she ached for.
Bea sighed. “I’ve had much time to perfect all the skills my mother deemed necessary for a lady of the Ton. I also read a lot of atlases and maps, and things about the gold mines in places like Ro?ia Montana. Have you ever been there?”
“Yes, it’s under Hungarian rule now.”
“They rarely do anything without the Austrians, I’m afraid.”
“You know about the Prussians and the Czar’s intention with Transylvania under the rule of the Holy Roman Empire?”
Bea nodded. She was sorry that the regions were in such conflict and that so many parts of Europe were controlled by people like Baron von List, a Prussian whom the Earl of Langley, Violet’s husband, despised—for good reason.
The prince studied her speculatively. “Speaking of the Holy Roman Empire, tell me, Lady Beatrice. Would you, perchance, speak Latin?”
“I studied it, yes. Nobody truly speaks it, I suppose. They call it the Holy Roman Empire, but the language is Italian, even in Rome. I speak a little German and French.”
Stan blinked. “Then forgive me if it’s not what you initially set out to achieve, but I have a proposition for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Eight o’clock in the evening at Brunswick House upon Thames.
Alfie stood atthe entrance of the Langley’s elegant house, feeling as though the grandeur of the place threatened to swallow him whole. The elaborate stonework, the towering columns, and the lush greenery whispered tales of wealth and privilege far beyond his grasp.
Violet, the Countess of Langley, greeted him with a smile as cunning as it was lovely. “Welcome, Mr. Collins,” she purred, her voice like silk brushing over steel. “Do come in. The gentlemen withdrew to the drawing room after dinner.”
Yes, the gentlemen might very well have been there, but Alfie wasn’t one of them. He had only the title he’d worked for and none that had been passed down to him for generations. Coming here felt as if he were a child playing with tools that were too pointy and sharp. He was bound to get hurt.
Still, he needed to support Felix, and the jewelers; this was no time to focus on his status. Instead, he’d focus on his purpose here tonight, one initiated because of his craft and his skills. Alfie followed Violet and the butler down the same hall in which he’d spoken to Bea only days ago at the ball, though it felt as if a lifetime had gone by. Just as he remembered it, the Langley’s entrance hall was a cavernous space dominated by an imposing marble sculpture of the Roman emperor Lucius Verus. Alfie felt as if the cold, stone eyes of the emperor were judging him, measuring his worth and finding him wanting.
“This way,” the butler intoned when Violet entered ahead of Alfie. The man stood back, ushering Alfie through a double door to the parlor room. A blazing fire in the hearth seemed a mere decoration, offering no warmth to Alfie’s chilled nerves. The room smelled of polished wood, expensive cigars, and the subtle tang of spirits.
At the card table, he saw Henry, the Earl of Langley, standing beside Baron Wolfgang von List. Both men held crystal tumblers filled with a dark amber liquid that caught the firelight in its facets. Their conversation halted as Alfie entered, their gazes shifting to him with curious intensity.
“Ah, Mr. Collins,” the earl said, his tone dripping with false formality. Of course, he couldn’t betray how close he was to Alfie since a mere apothecary was so far below his station. The trust of a patient must never be betrayed, and Alfie never would break that confidentiality. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“Thank you for inviting me to play cards with you, my lord. As you know, I’ve wanted to learn the game for some time.” Alfie nodded and exchanged polite greetings, carefully bowing low and long enough to the earl and the baron to show his status before the aristocracy.
“You’ve helped me so with my…needs, Mr. Collins. It would be poor form of me not to give you this opportunity in exchange for your services,” the earl told him. It was all for the baron’s benefit, of course. He couldn’t question his host’s choice of guests; decorum made that impossible. But giving a reason for Alfie to be there would hopefully put to rest any of the baron’s doubts and suspicions. And of course, his opinions didn’t matter to either the earl or the apothecary.
The butler reappeared at the double door and cleared his throat as if he’d been waiting for fanfare that never came. “Prince Ferdinand Constantin Maximilian Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen and Lady Beatrice Wetherby, daughter of the Earl of Dunmore.”
Alfie turned his face toward the door so fast his neck cracked and his heart plummeted. What was she doing here? And withhim? Surprise widened his eyes, for he had not expected to see her tonight. It was a pleasure and yet, it was pain. His breath hitched, and a cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck. She stood close to Prince Stan, their heads bowed together in a conspiratorial whisper and her arm hooked into his. The warm glow of the chandelier cast a golden halo around them, making her look ethereal and further out of his reach. A pang of jealousy shot through him—had their intimacy meant nothing to her? Was he simply a stepping stone in her quest to win the prince’s favor? And then, for a flicker of an instant, she made eye contact with him. It was meaningful and deliberate as if she tried to tell him something.
And then something worse bit into Alfie’s already somber mood: Bea could be in danger this evening.
The room seemed to blur. The aristocrats’ lively chatter and hollow greetings were a farce because he knew this was not a friendly social gathering. Clinking glasses faded into a distant hum. Alfie’s mind raced, each thought more frantic than the last. He could still taste the lingering sweetness of Bea’s kiss, feel the softness of her lips against his. But now, seeing her so close to the prince, a man of power and prestige, he felt the crushing inadequacy of his station. He was the one people consulted for his opinion and advice when he stood behind his counter, commanding the world of medicinal plants, serums, tinctures, and salves. Here, he preferred to—he was expected to—remain silent, a mere servant in the grand tapestry of their world.
He clenched his fists, the rough fabric of his coat scratching against his skin He couldn’t put up a fight for the love of his life, not against someone like the prince.
Alfie blinked and tried to focus his vision, pushing the anger aside when Bea stood close to Stan when speaking to Violet. The scent of her perfume still hung in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of wine and the musky scent of the ballroom. Her familiar and yet distant laughter echoed in his ears, intertwining with the voices in the elegant drawing room. The air grew stuffy, constricting Alfie’s chest as if his shirt were metal armor. Instead of fighting for his love, his role was reduced to a mere footnote.
“Shall we begin?” Prince Stan’s voice cut through Alfie’s thoughts, sharp and commanding. He turned to see the prince watching him with expectant eyes.
Alfie moved to the card table. Next to it was an elegant mahogany cart with a silver platter and a decanter, four crystal glasses, and a deck of cards. The instruments for their interrogation lay ready. The decanter with the truth serum glimmered ominously in the firelight.
After the men settled around the card table, a footman poured four glasses from the decanter. As the first dose was administered, Alfie watched the baron’s reaction intently. But the man’s cold, pointed stare remained unyielding, his pupils mere pinpricks of defiance. Stan dealt the cards, his hands steady despite the growing tension.
