“Don’t be ridiculous.” Robert pierced him with a penetrating glare. “I must follow the rules, Brother. I don’t want to end up in the scandal sheet for everyone’s entertainment.”
“The application for the expedition expires tomorrow afternoon. By then, I have to take a sample of the plant to the society, convince the botanists to accept me, and present the application. Not even your ducal state will speed the matter.” He pointed at the unreachable plant. So close, so distant.
“I’m sure everything will be fine.” Robert kept his hand firmly clasped on Hector’s arm. “I’ll write a letter as soon as I learn who lives in this house. I’ll do my best to speed up the process. I’m sure a meeting will be arranged in a couple of hours.”
“Robert, please.”
“Will you trust me? I know what I’m doing.”
Hector’s shoulders sagged with his exhale. “All right.”
So more delay then. Reluctantly, he let his brother lead him away from his golden dream. As he cast one last glance at the window, the lady stared at him. A red spot stained the tip of her nose. She wielded a paintbrush as if it were a sword. Good Lord, those eyes. They were two emerald pools currently glaring at him.
He averted his gaze lest she think he was a degenerate. Maybe he was. He might not be as observant regarding etiquette as his brother was, but he wouldn’t delay his dream. He’d wait a few hours for a reply. If the green-eyed lady didn’t answer by the time the sun had set, he’d snatch his plant and take hold of his future.
* * *
Hector pacedas the crimson light of the sunset crept over London like bloody fingers. Hours had passed from the moment Robert had sent an urgent missive to the house of the golden pimpernel, and no answer had come from the green-eyed lady. He’d checked the mail every ten minutes, galloping down the stairs and making enough noise to earn a reprimand from his mother. Drinking tea had done nothing to calm him but had increased his need for the water closet. Reading a book hadn’t distracted him from the anxiety. The library usually never failed to soothe his nerves. But today, even the ticking of the grandfather clock bothered him.
“Hector?” Robert appeared on the threshold of the library door, seemingly out of thin air. Or maybe he’d been there for a while. “Don’t you want to have dinner with us?”
“No, thank you.” He raked a hand through his hair.
“For heaven’s sake, stop fretting and eat something.”
“My stomach is churning. I can’t possibly eat anything.”
Robert put a hand on the knob. “They will answer. I sent an official letter with the symbol of the Duke of Blackburn.”
“Maybe they don’t care about the fact you’re a duke. Not everyone gives a damn about your position.” He regretted the words the moment they left his stupid mouth.
Robert’s fingers closed around the knob. He worked his jaw and fiddled with the knot of his silk cravat. “Very well.”
“Robert, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so bitter.”
“No, it’s all right.” Robert raised a hand. “I’ll tell Mr. Daniels to set something aside for you in case you change your mind.” He closed the door, leaving Hector alone with his guilt.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered in the silent library.
In his defence, an expedition founded by Sir Alexander von Humboldt happened once in a lifetime. He couldn’t miss the opportunity to work side-by-side with the most renowned scientists in the world. Botanists, zoologists, and even anthropologists would join the expedition. Hector had to be on that ship.
Dusk overcame the sunset. Shadows flickered in the glow from the gas street lights. The grandfather clock struck nine.
Enough. Hector was tired of waiting. A dream required action to be realised, and he was too restless to be optimistic. He rushed upstairs, careful not to let the wooden steps squeak under his weight. He rummaged through his room in search of a few tools. Judging by how long it took him to find his satchel, Robert was right about Hector’s lack of organisation. Oh, lawk. He’d searched for that book on Irish mosses for weeks. Who would have guessed it’d ended up behind the stove? And where was his coat? Not in the wardrobe; it was full of dried plants for his herbarium. Never mind. No coat.
Twenty minutes later, armed with a glass jar and a knife, he sneaked out of the house. He couldn’t sleep anyway. What was the point of tossing and turning in the bed, worrying about a trip that could happen if he only did something? He’d cut a sample of the plant and return home as quietly as a thief, and Robert would be none the wiser. Then he’d wait for the damn reply and play the role of the perfect gentleman, drink tea, and discuss the weather with the green-eyed lady. Maybe ask her to see her painting. Everyone would be happy.
But tonight was for grabbing his dream by the throat. It shouldn’t be difficult. The brick wall around the lady’s house would offer an easy way to climb to the first-floor window. A cut, and done! A few months from now, he’d be onboard theObservatory, staring at the sea and chatting with other scientists about Dr. Darwin’s latest articles. He’d return to England enriched by knowledge and strengthened by experience. The botanists of the Royal Society would apologise for the poor way they’d treated him. Not that he cared about their apology. Science was all that mattered.
He couldn’t contain his impatience as he hurried along the empty pavement. The smell of burning wood and smoke lingered in the night air with the ever-present stink of horse dung. Police constables might present a problem if he was caught climbing the wall of a house, but the whole deed shouldn’t require more than a few minutes.
He stopped in front of the house and cast a reverent gaze on the plant. His moment of awe was ruined by the yellow light pouring out of the window. The lady painter was still at work at this time of night. Painting had to be an obsession for her.
Well, he shouldn’t judge. Never mind. He’d be discretion itself. He had no intention of waiting. He’d waited enough.
After he searched the street where the long shadows of the trees crept, he pulled up his scarf to cover his face and stole to the wall on his tiptoes. Now that he stood right under the window, the golden pimpernel didn’t seem so close, but the ivy plant covering the wall could be used as a rope. He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers and grabbed the thick stems. When he hauled himself up, he rested the tip of his boots on the bricks. The surface was slippery with London’s humidity, and he dropped a good foot.
“Damn.” He gritted his teeth, wishing he had Robert’s brawny physique.
