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The flowers were in the works. They’d confirmed where the ceremony and wedding breakfast would take place. They knew who would be attending and who would lead the ceremony. But because of Trevor’s requested delay, the first of the banns hadn’t been read yet. That needed to happen soon, if they intended to marry in a matter of weeks—as did the arrangements for moving Seraphina from the Dalton residence to Nunhaven.

A knock on the door interrupted her thought process, and she frowned as she padded over to answer. The room smelled strongly of chemical solvents, and she was glad that at least one of them had a sweet aroma because it might stop whoever was at the door from asking questions.

She eased the door open and peered through the gap. “What is it, Smithers?”

Smithers sniffed, then recoiled. “Er, Mr. Dalton would like to see you in his office.”

Well, that was rather inconvenient.

“Is there any chance he could wait for a couple of hours? I’m midway through the preparation process for one of my perfumes, and stopping now would be a nuisance.”

“He was rather insistent. Apologies, miss.”

“No need for that.” It wasn’t Smithers’s fault that her father wanted her. “Wait a moment.”

She closed the door in his face, dashed over to remove the flasks from the heat, covered each with a concave glass lens, and doused the flame. She was halfway back to the door when she recalled what she was wearing and rapidly stripped off the apron and gloves, then spritzed on perfume, although she doubted it would be enough to cover the smell of solvents.

She followed Smithers to her father’s office and preceded him in, scarcely noticing their glossy wood surroundings because there was a man sitting opposite him. A man with dark blond hair, perfectly neat attire and, as he stood to greet her, cold blue eyes over full, smiling lips.

Mr. Emerson.

Her breath caught in the back of her throat, but she managed to hide her shock before it played across her face.

“Seraphina.”

At the curt snap of her name, she glanced at her father.

His eyebrows were drawn together, his lips pressed into a firm line, his expression thunderous. “Mr. Emerson has made a very serious accusation.”

That lying bastard. He’d given her two days to make a decision. It had only been one. He must have decided to come here early after his conversation with Trevor.

“What has Mr. Emerson accused us of?” she asked, hoping no one could hear the rapid thunk-thunk-thunk of her heart.

“Not us.” Her father stared at her unflinchingly. “You. He claims that you have been secretly preparing some kind of medication and peddling it to unwitting people who aren’t aware that it hasn’t been made by a licensed apothecary. I can scarcely credit it. Is there any truth to his claim?”

She gazed at her father as the seconds ticked by. She could tell by the way he held himself that he didn’t believe Mr. Emerson’s claims, but he had enough doubts to hear them out. After all, he’d never checked on what she actually did in her so-called perfumery.

She had two choices. She could deny it and hope for the best, but if he investigated further, anyone with more than a basic interest in science would be able to tell that the experiment in progress in her laboratory had nothing to do with perfume. Or she could tell him the truth and pray he understood.

If Trevor stood by his decision to marry her regardless of what Mr. Emerson did, then lying didn’t gain her anything other than a brief reprieve from her father’s disapproval. It would be best to get it out in the open now, and then Trevor could reassure her father, and all would be well.

Maybe.

Drawing in a lungful of air, she said, “I do make medicine. It’s called quinine, and it’s used to treat malaria. I save people like Mother.”

Mr. Dalton exploded to his feet, knocking a sealed inkpot to the ground. It rolled to the wall to his side and came to a stop against the bottom of a cabinet. “I don’t care why you’re doing it. You’ve been lying and engaging in extremely inappropriate activities under my roof. What if Mr. Emerson’s right, and people have become ill or died because your so-called medicine is dangerous?”

Emerson smirked, and her hand twitched. It was all she could do not to smack him across his smug face.

“I’m careful,” she protested, but it fell on deaf ears.

“Careful?” He scoffed. “What would you know about making medicine? You aren’t an apothecary, just a foolish girl.”

“Excuse me?” She reared back, offended. “My medicine is excellent, and there’s no evidence that it’s hurt anyone.”

Her father waved toward Mr. Emerson. “Didn’t you hear about his footman’s nephew?”

“I—”