Page 3 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Two

“Forgive me, Miss Hartington,” an amused voice whispered in Flora’s ear. “I wasn’t expecting that. I think we’ve both been made use of as an advertisement for hats. To make amends, please accept a free bottle of Dr. L. E. Campaign’s Ethiopian Hair Tonic. It will save you hours of wrestling with the curling tongs and aid your hair’s natural curl.”

Flora felt a shock of heat when Campaign’s fingers brushed hers as he slipped the small bottle into her hand. Startled, she gazed up into a pair of eyes twinkling with humor, with irises so dark they were almost as black as the pupils. His smiling mouth was close enough for his breath to feather her cheek. She detected a smell of clove oil, evocative of fascinating foreign realms she’d only ever read about in journals.

The man exuded an air of mystery, which drew her in, making her hold his gaze much longer than she should. Much longer than was proper.

Pulling free of that hypnotic look, she stammered her thanks and retreated to the back of the crowd. As soon as she felt herself no longer the focus of everyone’s attention, she looked around for Thea.

Oh, no. Miss Dorothea Daniell had been joined by her parents. And all three were headed straight toward Flora.

“Miss Hartington.” Mrs. Daniell greeted her crisply, while Thea looked sheepish. “I’m disappointed to see that you’re not with my daughter. I’d hoped you would act as her chaperone when she offered to accompany you.”

Flora almost snorted at this. They both knew well enough who was supposed to be chaperoning whom, though no one had yet dared say it openly.

Mrs. Daniell continued, “What if my Dorothea were to find herself wandering alone on the heath, where footpads and highwaymen lurk? What if she were to get lost in the back streets, where off-duty soldiers slouch around in the taverns? It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

The temptation to say it would be Thea’s own fault if she did such things, was resisted.

“I can assure you,” Flora said, wishing she’d had time to take a sip of the nerve tonic, “that I have barely taken my eye off her. There’s no need for alarm.” Besides which, the fort with its soldiers was miles away, as was the heath. Mrs. Daniell’s ability to make a mountain out of a molehill was second to none.

“Very well, then,” huffed the other woman, shooting a look at her husband. “I can see there’s no harm done. But it’s time to leave for Fortuneswell now. Your sister tells me you always visit the Emburys on a Thursday.”

Flora repressed a shudder, as she did whenever that particular family was mentioned. Her last experience with the Emburys had not been one of her finest moments. “Well, I used to,” she muttered. “But not anymore.”

Until her sister and niece had joined Flora in the cottage left to her by Frank, she’d been more than happy to be charitable by knitting socks for sailors with a small group of friends around the tea table. However, Lucinda—keen to make her mark in Fortuneswell society—was full of zeal for good causes and insisted they all take succor directly into the homes of the needy and the sick.

Flora had been browbeaten into visiting the Emburys, a family of wild, motherless children watched over by their grizzled drunkard of a father. One particular visit involving flea bites, child vomit, and an attempted kiss from Mr. Embury had sent Flora scurrying for the door, vowing never to enter that horrid hovel again.

Declaring her a coward, Lucinda had undertaken the task of visiting the Emburys herself. She’d scrubbed the children to within an inch of their lives, bombarded Mr. Embury with so much prune juice he no longer had any stomach for drink, and given out helpful advice about the children’s diet—as well as further prune juice—which would prevent them from ever being sick again.

This episode had the effect—no doubt intended—of making Flora feel a failure. But despite her sister’s assurances that all was now resolved, she never offered to revisit the Emburys. Now it looked as if her hand might be forced.

“Miss Hartington! Madam!”

She was shaken from her reverie by Campaign’s voice. As one, she and her companions looked in the direction of the stage.

“You’ve forgotten your change.” The nostrum seller waved her forward.

Blushing furiously, she went, but not before seeing a look of utter distaste cross Mrs. Daniell’s features.

“What change?” she whispered, as soon as she reached the stage.

“There is none,” he whispered back. “But you looked as if you needed rescuing.”

“Not at all,” she answered primly, pretending to take a coin from his hand. “They’re my friends.”

“Enemies, more like,” he said, staring at the Daniells through a gap in the crowd. “The lady looks as if she’s been sucking lemons.”

There was no denying that, but how wicked of him to mention it! Flora hid her smile and replied, “I fear the reverend and his wife don’t much approve of itinerant medicine men.”

“That would explain why I’ve never seen them at any of my shows. A pity, as I’m sure my cure for constipation would benefit the lady greatly.”

Flora chuckled. Anything that improved Mrs. Daniell’s acerbic temperament would be most welcome. “Perhaps I should buy her some, as a gift,” she suggested.

“I’ll give you some for that very purpose. No charge,” he added with a wink. “You have been a stalwart customer in the past, and I must say, you’re looking very well.”

Flora’s mind was demanding to know how Campaign came to have such a cultured accent and the ability to speak just like a gentleman, a question that had greatly taxed her last year. Her body, on the other hand, was trying to make sense of its response to that wink.