Most Eagerly Yours (14 page)

“Yes,” Laurel continued, shaking her head sadly, “I confess that once or twice, within my second year of mourning, I did cheat by slipping into a cheerful frock in the effort to recapture, in some small way, the contentment of the life I’d shared with my dear Mr. Sanderson. How lonely I was . . . and still am.”

She produced a visible tremor across her shoulders, and was rewarded by a pat on her arm from Lady Fairmont and a sympathetic murmur from Lord Munster. Aidan’s eyes darkened with an emotion that bordered on dangerous. She swallowed and raised the stakes of her gamble.

“One of those occasions happened to be on the day of the queen’s procession from Kensington to Buckingham. Oh, how I wished my Edgar could be there to share in the excitement of that day, in the glory of the new queen’s ascension. . . .” She looked up, her lower lip trembling. “It was a day of such unbridled optimism, you see.”

“And you were nearly trampled by an overly enthusiastic crowd,” Aidan said.

Laurel braced herself, looked directly into his flinty eyes, and shook her head. “No, sir. I experienced no such mishap, near or otherwise.”

“Oh, but you poor dear.” Lady Fairmont slipped an arm around her waist and gave a squeeze. “No one could possibly fault a delicate young thing like you for harboring such tender sentiments.”

A muscle in Aidan’s cheek worked ominously; his eyes shot veritable sparks in her direction. “Forgive me, Mrs. Sanderson, it would seem I have confused you with another young lady who had become separated from her sisters that day.”

“That would indeed be a mistake on your part, sir, seeing that I have no sisters. Would that I did.” She found herself startled at how easily and swiftly the lies came as she warmed to her role. Why, her hands were quite steady now, her legs as sturdy as oaken branches.

Ah, but she had right on her side. She had not embarked upon a mean-spirited deception, but a justifiable pretense necessary to the service of her queen and friend. Surely that was forgivable.

Would Lady Fairmont forgive her? Would Aidan?

For now it must be enough that they accepted her story. Lady Fairmont did so unequivocally. Lord Munster, too. Laurel perceived their trust in their open expressions and, especially in Lady Fairmont’s case, her eagerness to persuade Aidan to stop haranguing her. But then they, like most people, saw what they wished to see and delved no further.

What of Aidan? Did he believe her? Oh, indeed not, though she would wager that he would neither expose her nor confide his suspicions to the countess, whose sympathies Laurel had fully engaged. They both knew that Lady Fairmont would only berate him for a scoundrel. He had no proof of wrongdoing, nothing but a vague memory—she hoped—of her wearing a marigold walking dress when she should have been in mourning. At this point it was his word against hers, and who knew but if she stuck doggedly to her story, he might begin to doubt his own conviction?

So yes, she had won this round . . . but how long would her triumph last?

I
n knee breeches and a forest green waistcoat, a Pump Room attendant moved to the center of the room and gave three strikes of the brass bell he held. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you please, the presentation is about to begin.”

Excitement rippled through the crowd. The assembly made its way down the room to converge in front of the curtained dais.

Aidan stepped between Laurel and the countess and offered an arm to each of them. “Ladies, shall we?”

That forced Lord Munster to follow, his cheeks sucked into the sides of his mouth in a clear display of petulance.

“Fitz, old boy,” Aidan said, his mood suddenly improved, “you never did explain how you achieved a place on Rousseau’s list.”

“One must show enthusiasm for the project,” Lady Fairmont answered before Lord Munster had the chance. “And lend one’s support.”

Laurel felt Aidan’s response immediately in the bunching of the muscles inside his sleeve. Interesting, she thought. The reaction, though perhaps merely an involuntary movement, hinted at a more than cursory interest in Rousseau and his elixir.

“And how might one do that?” he asked.

Did the others hear the subtle derision roughening the otherwise velvet glide of his voice?

Lord Munster fidgeted with his neckcloth. “By making a n-nominal investment. Can’t expect the man to f-fund his experiments out of thin air, after all.”

“You never mentioned this.”

“Didn’t think you’d b-be interested.”

Aidan didn’t challenge the claim, but in the jut of his chin and the crease in his brow, Laurel perceived his ruminations. As they reached the gathering at the dais, he rounded on Lady Fairmont. “And you’ve given the man money as well?”

“Dearest, do not look like that. I offered a trifle, merely. Monsieur Rousseau’s daily needs are few, and as Lord Munster said, he cannot be expected to work and live on nothing. But hush now! The curtain is opening.”

Attendants stationed on either side of the dais tugged the drapery cords, drawing the black curtains in a dramatic sweep to reveal a table stacked with a dazzling array of glassware. A maze of copper tubing connected narrow glass cylinders with beakers, funnels, and flasks, the apparatus extending some two feet into the air. At one end of the table, an assortment of jars and bottles was clustered beside a mortar and pestle. At the other end was what appeared to be a punch bowl, only fashioned from the same pale stone as many of Bath’s buildings.

At the center of the table, a bracketed pole held one end of copper tubing suspended above a cauldron that rested on an odd sort of brazier. Made of brass, the heater’s half of a round belly was perched on four curved legs, its bowl glowing brightly. What drew Laurel’s curiosity, however, were the crank and gears attached to the brazier, and the metal coils that spiraled out from the burning core to connect with the cauldron itself.

Standing behind this peculiar display was an individual of such modest stature that Laurel had at first overlooked him. A receding hairline emphasized a dome of a forehead that dwarfed the rest of his features, except for his eyes. From behind a pair of thick spectacles, his black eyes seemed to float disembodied from his face, staring out at the audience with a disconcertingly unfocused look.

His ill-fitting coat of shabby tweed momentarily won Laurel’s sympathies, until she remembered his background—his father’s unspeakable crimes during the wars—and his own potential threat to Victoria. Until she discovered the truth of Claude Rousseau’s intentions, she must not let herself be swayed by appearances. Like her, he could be playing a part designed to deceive.

All around her, the audience applauded, all except Aidan, whose expression had turned stony.

“Welcome, and thank you for coming,” Claude Rousseau said. Despite his myopic appearance, his strong voice carried through the room. As he launched into an explanation of his elixir, his light French accent became apparent.

“The ultimate goal of alchemy is to unlock the mysteries of transformation within every individual, bringing their unique life rhythms into resonance with the universal forces of the natural world and thus promote a longer, more rewarding, and disease-free life.”

He gave the crank on the brazier half a turn, sending the gears for a quick spin. The coils glowed brilliant orange, and steam spurted from the cauldron. “My elixir, as you will see, is designed to purify the imbalances which occur within the body and the mind, thereby bringing the physical, cognitive, and philosophical elements of being into a state of harmony and clarity.”

“Good Christ,” Aidan swore under his breath.

In contrast, Lord Munster looked on eagerly, echoing the audience’s murmurs of appreciation and gasps of surprise, depending on the turn Rousseau’s narrative took.

“My research, spanning the ancient writings of such men as Jabir ibn Hayyan, Wei Boyang, Albertus Magnus, and England’s own Roger Bacon, has led me here, to this grand city, where the Romans once came to cure their ills.”

He gestured to the stone font. “Through my excavations, I have discovered a source of thermal waters far purer than those that flow from the fountain in this room, or that fill the city’s bathhouses.” He drew his fingertips across the surface of the liquid in the font. “This water has not been contaminated by traveling through ancient rubble and piping. It has been siphoned directly from the natural springs that flow beneath Bath via the majestic hills to the north of us.”

“Where is this source of your water?” a man in the crowd called out.

Rousseau smiled like a cat with its whiskers in the cream. “That, sir, is the strictest secret. For, you see, my laboratory is located deep beneath the city, below the sacred chambers of the Roman goddess Minerva. To reveal the location would not only jeopardize my research but also expose others to the dangers of possible subterranean collapse. I alone will risk the hazards, but you shall all reap the benefits.”

Appreciative murmurs fanned through the assembly until Rousseau once more called for their attention.

He selected a beaker and dipped it into the font, filling it and then pouring the cloudy water into the flask perched highest on his scaffolding of copper tubing. Next, he opened several earthenware containers, took a pinch or two from each, and ground the mixture with the pestle. The scraping sound set Laurel’s teeth on edge.

Next, selecting a slender bottle, he poured a thin stream of amber liquid into the ingredients he had just crushed. “This, ladies and gentleman, is a fusion containing tincture of purple coneflower, a powerful curative used for centuries by the native peoples of the Americas.” He added this to the water in the elevated flask.

Rousseau turned a knob and the mixture vanished, only to reappear and disappear several more times as the tubing brought it in and out of the various containers. The man added more water and tincture at intervals. Finally, the liquid splashed into the cauldron. With another turn of the crank, the brazier sizzled and the coils lit up. The contents of the cauldron began to bubble.

Laurel wrinkled her nose. “Such a dreadful odor.”

“Like rotting eggs with a touch of seasoning,” said Melinda.

“And perhaps no more worthwhile,” Aidan mumbled. He shifted impatiently, and for a moment Laurel thought he would stride away.

“You seem rather vexed, Lord Barensforth.” With a slant of her chin, she issued a challenge. “Are you afraid to stay and listen? Afraid Monsieur Rousseau might curb your skepticism?”

“He is by n-nature a skeptic,” the Earl of Munster whispered. “A leopard who c-cannot change his spots.”

Laurel doubted that. If anything, she suspected Aidan Phillips of being a master of deception, a man capable of assuming a vast array of personae as the situation warranted. Yet like the leopard, he seemed to her a sleek and cunning hunter, one that moved through the shadows with precision and stealth to seduce his unwitting prey.

Had she let herself become his inadvertent quarry last night?

He appeared not to have heard his friend’s comment, or perhaps he chose to ignore it. “I’ve no intention of going anywhere, Mrs. Sanderson.” His cool smile caused her nape to prickle. “I wouldn’t miss this demonstration for the world.”

Lady Fairmont gently shushed him.

“The formula is almost ready,” Rousseau declared, peering down into his steaming, gurgling mixture. “But not quite.”

Selecting three vials, he removed the stoppers. He held one up. “Now for the strengthening properties. First, the quickness of mercury.” He added a drop of a shining substance to the formula. “Then . . . the luster of silver.” Tilting a second vial, he gave it a tap, sprinkling in tiny gleaming flecks. He held up the third vial. “Lastly, the shimmering warmth of pure gold—the most precious of alchemical elements.”

The audience heaved murmurs of appreciation.

Aidan’s scowls deepened.

Laurel experienced doubts of her own. “Can ingesting metals truly improve one’s health?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Sanderson. The c-confluence of alchemical principles with herbal medicines boosts the benefits of the m-mineral waters,” Lord Munster explained with an air of self- importance. Several people standing nearby overheard and nodded, as though they had all been well versed in Rousseau’s process.

She strained on her tiptoes to see into the cauldron. The water had turned a curious pale mossy shade. Tiny specks flashed as they caught the light.

Aidan whispered in her ear, “You aren’t putting stock in any of this, are you?”

Everything about his manner said she would be a fool to believe Rousseau’s claims. She shrugged. “I neither believe nor disbelieve. But I am willing to be persuaded by the evidence of a positive outcome.”

A team of waiters carried in trays of glasses already filled with the elixir. Apparently Rousseau’s demonstration was exactly that, designed merely to illustrate how he prepared his formula.

“Will it cure indigestion?” came a query from somewhere to Laurel’s right.

“What of my chest pains?”

“Headaches? I suffer dreadfully from migraines.”

“I’d give half my fortune to ease my rheumatism.”

Rousseau patiently addressed each query. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please form a queue if you wish to sample my elixir. So small an amount cannot cure your ills, but you should feel remarkably invigorated.”

Within minutes, those at the head of the line began to exclaim their delight with the elixir’s effects. Smiles broke out, followed by laughter and cries of astonishment.

“Good heavens, I do believe the fellow is on to something!”

“Did I not tell you as much?”

Lady Fairmont and Lady Devonlea stood before the dais, each being handed a sample. Curiosity overcoming even her aversion to the acrid odor, Laurel moved to take a place in line.

Aidan seized her wrist and turned her about. Behind the clear blue of his eyes, white- hot anger flared. She flinched at his intensity, instantly convinced that, whatever his objections, they had not arisen merely from today’s demonstration. His ire seemed the result of a much older, more deeply rooted apprehension.