Page 70 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Thirty-Four

On a breezy day in early October, Flora sped off in search of Lawrence, her head buzzing with her news.

It had been three days since Major Wilberforce left her cottage, but she’d received a note from him earlier that morning, summoning her to Oakwood Grange, and telling her he had information for the doctor which was too risky to give him in person.

That information had been fascinating. The major had drawn a sketch of the crest he’d seen on Lawrence’s crucifix and sent it off to the College of Heralds in London. They’d replied with the name of the family whose coat-of-arms it represented. The Verey family, of Oxenholme in Suffolk.

There had followed a robust discussion between Flora and the major regarding whether or not Lawrence or his wayfaring foster parents might have stolen the cross. However, there was one part of the story, which the major said his own father had relayed to him, that had excited them both.

The late Countess of Oxenholme had Spanish ancestry and had given birth to twin boys—one with olive skin, the other with much fairer coloring. The boys had been inseparable until they reached their third birthday, shortly after which the darker child had disappeared.

No sign of him was ever found. No ransom note arrived, so it was assumed he hadn’t been kidnapped, and there was no reason to suspect foul play. He’d run away, or some fatal accident had befallen him. After years of searching and making inquiries, the grieving parents had finally given him up for dead and concentrated their efforts on schooling—and keeping a close eye on—their remaining son, who would one day inherit the earldom.

Could Lawrence be the missing son of the Earl of Oxenholme? How delighted he would be to be reunited with his family! Nobody would ever look down on him again!

Flora was all smiles as she made her way to the inn yard of the Admiral Duncan. There was the familiar gaily painted wagon—thank heaven! At the top of the wagon steps, she paused a moment to get her breathing—and her heartbeat—back under control. She was going to bring Lawrence the best news he’d ever heard, and the idea spiked every nerve with delicious anticipation.

She unleashed the flap and entered, only to be immediately seized in a choking grip by someone standing just inside.

She had no breath with which to scream, and barely enough to keep herself conscious, so she struggled madly until one of the viselike hands was replaced by the touch of cold steel at her throat.

Steel with a razor-sharp edge.

“Say nothing.”

Thank the Lord! Lawrence’s voice. Still trembling from the shock of having a knife at her throat, she—very carefully—nodded her compliance.

The knife was immediately removed.

“Flora! I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you in the darkness.”

Why was the wagon so dark? The ornate oil lamp which swung from the roof was shuttered. Had Lawrence been asleep? It might explain his overreaction to her arrival.

She heard the knife clatter to the floor, then he took her in his arms and kissed her soundly. She quivered again, not from shock this time. But she barely had time to enjoy the sensation of his lips on hers when he released her, opened the shutter on his lamp, and turned up the wick.

Her smile faded. Something was…different.

Something felt very wrong.

She noticed the wagon was exceedingly tidy. All portable items had been stored away in the cupboards and chests. The bed was made, and uncluttered.

A fist of fear struck her heart. “You’re going away?” she said with a gasp.

He turned to her, his face grave. “I can’t stay forever, my sweet,” he told her. “I’m a traveling doctor. The year is getting old, and I need to move on before the storms of autumn make quagmires of the roads.”

She couldn’t take this in. “Where will you go?”

Why had he given her no warning? Had he meant to leave without even a farewell? Fumbling behind her for the bench, she sank down upon the uneven cushion, her mission completely forgotten, swamped by a mixture of fury, shame, disappointment, and grief.

She’d known, of course, he wouldn’t remain in Fortuneswell, but she still felt, in her heart of hearts, that there was a bond between them which meant he would always come back.

Sooner or later.

“Dorchester, initially,” he replied. “And after that, Bristol, or perhaps Bath. There are a great many sick people in Bath who come to take the healing waters.”

She was too distressed and confused to look at him. Foolish, foolish woman! He’d already left once without a word. He was a fickle rogue, spoiled by female attention and lust. There was no reason for him to treat plain Miss Flora Hartington with any more concern than he did his other conquests.

Although, she hadn’t actually become a conquest. Thank goodness.