Page 86 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Forty-Two

Lawrence had successfully delivered Flora’s note to Major Wilberforce the previous night. He’d evaded the sentries in the darkness, used Nat’s pick-lock to get into the farmhouse, and slid the note silently under the door of the room where he and Nat had found the major on the day of the almost-kidnapping.

When he’d felt himself a safe enough distance from the building, he’d pulled out his pistol and fired into the air to get everyone’s attention before taking to his heels.

This morning, Lawrence was waiting impatiently for news, uncertain what his next move should be. His wagon was too small for pacing, and the inn yard of The Admiral Duncan too public, so he’d taken himself off to the churchyard in a bid to expel his restless energy…and hoped for a solution to present itself.

Anyone else would have entered the sacred portals and knelt in a pew to pray for guidance. But he considered himself such a sinner that he was fearful the whole place would explode into flames of righteous wrath if he ever stepped through the doors.

Yet another reason he’d decided long ago he would never marry.

So, here he was in the graveyard, pacing urgently around the entire circuit, going widdershins in the hope he would be sucked into some faerie dimension rather than have to face the impossible dilemma before him.

He loved Flora. He’d given more of himself to her than he had to any other woman, and had been shocked at how terrified he’d been when he thought her life was in peril. Now, whether she knew it or not, he was tied to her in bonds so tight he’d no idea if he could ever escape.

And did he truly want to?

But what kind of life could he offer a gently bred female like Flora? Only shame, and the scorn of her peers. Only lowlife, gutter-bred company, and the harshness of existence on the open road. There would be deprivation, too, since she would never let him continue dealing with wreckers to supplement their income.

And what about his dream of going to America? His devout wish to start over and make something substantial of himself? He couldn’t drag her away from all she held dear. Not even if she returned his feelings enough to want to come.

There was another option. He could investigate the Verey family. Go to Suffolk, join a public tour around their home, see if any of the ancestral portraits resembled him.

And if they did, what then?

Ask Major Wilberforce, or Lord Beckport, to secure him an introduction to his long-lost family? Both men knew what he was—at best, a tradesman, at worst, a criminal. He could hardly expect the two gentlemen to gild the lily for him…even if he’d had a hand in saving both their lives.

At the end, his family was unlikely to welcome him with open arms.

He sighed. A goldcrest chittered in the branches of an ancient yew tree growing by the church lychgate, a comforting, ordinary sound. A light breeze buffeted his hair about his face and made the weathercock above the spire squeak on its bearings. When an agricultural laborer walked past the church wall, whistling, Lawrence ceased his pacing and pretended great interest in one of the lichen-covered tombstones. It wasn’t wise to be seen loitering in churchyards.

Was there any such thing as an itinerant millinery business? Maybe Flora could have her own wagon and set up a stall wherever he went to perform his show. That could work.

There had to be some way in which they could stay together.

“That’s him. That’s the quack doctor.”

His head snapped up, expecting to see a customer in search of him, only to find himself looking into the narrowed eyes of Sally Matthews as she pointed an accusing finger in his direction.

She wasn’t alone. Before he could think about taking to his heels, he was none-too-gently grasped on either side by a soldier. He didn’t even have time to utter a protest before his hands were wrenched behind his back and a pair of manacles clamped around his wrists.

“Judas! What are you doing? What do you want with me?”

The redcoat on his right asked, “Are you Dr. Lawrence Campaign?”

“No. You’ve got the wrong man,” was his automatic response.

“That’s him, all right.” Sally put her hands on her hips, her mouth hard.

He assumed a look of innocent outrage. “You take that woman’s word over mine?”

“This lady is a respectable shopkeeper,” the soldier said. “She has no reason to lie.”

“I concur,” said the other redcoat, who held Lawrence’s left elbow in an unrelenting grip. “This is, indeed, the so-called doctor.”

Lawrence turned his head slowly, dread crashing through him. He recognized the voice, though he wished he didn’t. It was one of the redcoats from the Dorchester fair. The ones he and Flora had duped with the improvised tooth pulling.

There was no escaping now.

If Death had finally come looking for him, or the Devil to take him to hell, Lawrence vowed he would at least go to meet them with his dignity intact.

Though his heart and feet felt like lead, he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Very well. I am who you seek. But I’ve done nothing wrong, so what can you possibly want with me?”

Whatever it was, he hoped to wriggle out of it, or like as not, he’d never see Flora again.

And that would be a punishment worse than death.