Page 25 of Never a Duchess
“I beg yer pardon?” Confused, Callan looked at Miss Ware, wondering how the assistant knew her given name or why he had spoken so intimately.
“It’s the name of the perfume,” Miss Ware explained. “At Baudelaire’s, it is called For Lily. At Valmary’s, it is May Bell.”
“But May Bell, it is of inferior quality,” the assistant interjected, loud enough for the few patrons left in the shop to hear. “At Baudelaire’s, we pride ourselves on our superior notes.”
The two perfumers were evidently rivals.
And desperate for clientele.
Upon hearing MacTavish coughing, Callan thanked the assistant and suggested to Miss Ware they visit the competitor and check the patrons’ names against those on their list.
“My nostrils are on fire, I tell ye,” MacTavish complained as they continued along Ludgate Hill. “I can barely catch my breath.”
Ailsa hugged her father’s arm and chuckled. “There’s nothing like the sweet scent of freshly picked heather. Is there, Papa?”
“With that thick beard, I’m surprised ye can smell anything but last night’s dinner,” Callan joked.
MacTavish winked. “Aye, I’m storing a few crumbs for later.”
Though Miss Ware smiled, she seemed lost in her thoughts. If a man could read a woman’s mind, it would save a whole lot of bother. On the bright side, she spoke to him with ease now, when she had spent years avoiding his gaze.
During the twenty-minute carriage ride to Valmary’s shop in Old Bond Street, MacTavish did nothing but complain, twitch and fidget.
“My legs ache like I’ve downed a quart of whisky and run up Ben More. It cannae be the weather affecting my bones.” A muscle in his cheek spasmed, causing his mouth to contort into a pained grimace.
A bolt of alarm forced Callan to straighten. “Are ye unwell?”
MacTavish tugged at his cravat and craned his neck. “I’ve nae felt well since sniffing those vile French concoctions.”
Miss Ware sat forward. “You look quite pale, my lord.”
“I cannae think straight. My head is as fuzzy as a rabbit-fur sporran.” MacTavish gasped a breath and his left arm jerked violently.
Alarm turned to raging panic.
Callan had seen similar convulsions once before. Many years ago. Yet the memory was as clear as Loch Eck’s crystal waters.
“Ye’ve consumed or inhaled something toxic.” With his clenched fist, he banged on the carriage roof and shouted for Dewart to return to MacTavish’s home on Pall Mall. “Open the window, Miss Ware. Quickly.”
Callan yanked down the window nearest to him, the chill air swooshing through the carriage when Miss Ware did the same.
Blood pumped fast in his veins. “Can ye breathe?”
MacTavish began swaying in the seat like a drunkard.
“Perhaps we should loosen his clothing.” A worried Ailsa turned to her father. “At least remove his cravat so he might breathe easily.”
“Dinnae touch him,” Callan snapped. “We’re almost home.” Memories fought their way into his mind. A mother writhing in his arms. Foam bubbling from her mouth. Eyes wide in panic. “Merciful Lord! We’ll need to strip off our clothes and toss them on the bonfire. We’ll need to wash while a servant races to fetch a physician.”
A whimper escaped Ailsa’s lips.
Callan pinched the bridge of his nose in a bid to keep a tight rein on his emotions. Then Miss Ware placed her gloved hand on his arm, and the feelings he kept at bay threatened to burst forth in a torrent and drown them all.
“Your Grace, maybe he’s having an adverse reaction to the scent. Ailsa, does your father suffer from allergies?”
“Nae, he has a hardy constitution.”
An agonised groan escaped MacTavish. The tall man slipped from the seat, his back arching, leaving him twisted like an otherworldly creature.
