Page 33 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Seventeen

Flora felt Lawrence hesitate a moment before he went forward to greet their customer.

She couldn’t blame him. The man looked none too savory. His hat was pulled low over his face, his mouth was hidden behind a scarf, and his greasy coat collar was turned up. When he heard their squelching footsteps, he swung quickly around, bristling like a hare about to bolt.

All Flora could see of him were his eyes. And his eyebrows, which disappeared up into his hat when he spotted her.

“Good day to you, sir,” said Lawrence, and she wondered why he spoke with such deliberation. “I’m Dr. Campaign, and this is my assistant, Madame Julietta. How may we help you?”

No, the stranger didn’t look like a hare about to flee. He looked more like a well-built weasel. There was something shifty and cunning about him she disliked instantly.

He muttered something unintelligible, then said, “It’s not something I want to talk about in front of a lady.”

“I understand,” said Lawrence. “Let’s go into the wagon. Madame, there’s some kindling in the box at the back, and a few small logs. Can you get the fire going again beside the stage? We’ll brew up some new remedies later.”

He tossed her his tinderbox, nodded toward a wooden structure built onto the rear of the wagon, and ushered his visitor up the steps.

What a shame! She’d have liked to hear the man explain his embarrassing ailment. Well, Madame Julietta would. Flora Hartington, however, wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.

But before she began rebuilding the fire, she just had to see for herself if there were any suspicious scratches on the wagon’s wheels. Just to make sure Lawrence hadn’t been lying to her.

She discovered them on one of the back wheels, running along a spoke. Leaning in, she peered at them closely. Had they been made by a knife or a dog’s claws? They were even, but not in ordered clumps like tally marks. She counted twenty-seven altogether. Twenty-seven?

She sincerely hoped those were Charley’s scratches and not Lawrence’s conquests.

Charley started barking excitedly at something. Standing up to look, she saw two redcoats observing her closely. Both men had greatcoats slung over their distinctive uniforms, and their white stockings were spattered with mud.

Her heart missed a beat. She was used to seeing soldiers from the fort above Fortuneswell, but it was a shock to encounter them at the Dorchester fair.

“Morning,” said the taller of the two, his voice cool.

“Good day to you,” she said cheerily, hoping they were merely customers. But she tried not to speculate on what ailments they might be seeking a cure for.

“What’s so interesting under the wagon?” the shorter of the pair inquired.

She flushed. “Oh. I was just checking for damage to the wheels. The road we came in along was very rutted.”

“Let me help you with that, ma’am,” offered the first, bending down to look beneath the wagon.

The dog continued to bounce about, tugging on the end of his leash and barking loudly. “Quiet, Charley,” she commanded. What was wrong with him? He must be used to seeing Lawrence’s customers all the time, surely?

“What’s in this box?” asked the second soldier, moving around to the back of the wagon.

“Firewood,” she answered as she struggled to calm Charley. “I was about to get a fresh fire going.”

“We’d be happy to assist you,” said the man at the back. “Good at starting fires, aren’t I, sir?”

“Apologies,” said the taller of the two soldiers. “We’re forgetting our manners. I’m Corporal Triggs, and yonder’s Private Renfrew.”

Flora gave an uncertain curtsey and watched nervously as Private Renfrew poked around in the box before emerging with an armful of firewood. He peered under the stage, kicked the ashes of Lawrence’s breakfast fire out from underneath it, and scraped them into a rough circle on the damp grass. Then he stamped them down.

“What’s inside the wagon?” Corporal Triggs asked, running his gaze over the painted canvas.

“Just as it says,” she replied, trying not to let his questioning intimidate her. “Dr. Campaign runs a roving medicine show—tooth pulling, wound dressing, potions and so on. It’s just the two of us, and Charley the dog who does tricks.”

Charley’s head felt soft and velvety beneath her stroking hand, but tension still trembled through his body. Perhaps he didn’t like soldiers?

Renfrew said, “We’ve introduced ourselves, but who are you, ma’am?”