Page 60 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lawrence woke shuddering, chilled to the bone, with a mouth like sawdust. He was uncomfortably propped up on a dirt-spattered bench in some kind of outhouse, half-naked, and with a stinging pain in his arm. But that was nothing compared to the viselike agony that crashed through his head the instant he tried to move.

A soft groan escaped him, partly from the pain, partly from the memory of what he’d done last night—though some of his recollections were far from clear.

What time was it? He fumbled for his watch and stared at it, as it flickered in and out of focus. “Judas!” It was half past eight. Poor Charley would be howling for his breakfast. He needed to get home posthaste.

Plucking off the old apron and blanket which had served as his bed covering for the night, he eased himself up gingerly, careful not to dislodge the multitude of flowerpots strewn about his feet. Flora would not thank him for drawing the neighbors’ attention to his presence in her potting shed.

The blessed angel! She’d bound up his wound again—what a marvelous physician she would make. But his smile faded as he groped his way into his still-damp shirt and jacket. Damn this awful September weather! They shouldn’t be getting these autumnal downpours yet—they’d barely reached Michaelmas. At least the cool air had eased his fever, which would help him think straight.

Peering through the window, he could see no one in the cottage garden. A spider scuttled across his view, and, from habit, he looked up into the corner of the potting shed to see if there were any cobwebs worth having with which to seal wounds. No—too dusty. And he really shouldn’t linger here. The fewer people who saw him anywhere near Flora’s house the better. Especially if any of those people happened to be wreckers.

Closing the door softly behind him, he marched as swiftly toward the garden gate as his throbbing head would allow, then came to a sudden halt, arrested by the sound of raised voices within the house.

One of them was Flora’s, though he wasn’t used to hearing her speak so loudly. Concerned, he made sure he was unobserved, then stationed himself behind a thick clump of laurel bushes to hear what he could of the altercation.

“You will make your family a laughing stock!” said a voice he didn’t recognize. “Why you should think you needed a hair tonic, I don’t understand. What will your sister say? What will Lord Beckport think?”

“I have every right to buy hair tonic,” Flora replied heatedly. “I’d no notion of it turning my hair red. That was an accident, not a choice.”

Lawrence winced. Was he the only one who thought the color suited her?

“Your sister would not approve of you buying so many medicines from that charlatan. Anyone would think you were opening up a pharmacy.”

“The medicines are none of your business,” Flora argued. “And I’ve used them very effectively on poor Adam’s joints. Just think how much a physician would have cost if I’d had to send for one.”

“But your niece is married to an earl,” said the other woman, delivering the sentence like a trump card.

“Why should Beckport pay any of my expenses?” Flora queried. “I don’t wish to be a burden to anyone. Anyway, you said your piece last night when you first saw the red hair. I can see no reason why you need to come back first thing in the morning to ring a peal over me again. Unless, of course, your husband has come up with some biblical references to use against me.”

Bravo Flora, Lawrence thought. Why should she have to explain herself to anyone, let alone a busybody neighbor? Damn, the raised voices were making his head throb more violently. A decision needed to be made. He could either hurry back to the inn and feed Charley or stay here and take action.

He decided to take action. Making sure no one would see him leaving the potting shed, he approached the front door of the cottage. Despite his earlier chill, beads of sweat now stood out on his forehead as he smoothed down his hair, straightened his neckcloth, and knocked.

Waiting patiently, he schooled his expression to one of professional concern and hoped no one would feel the need to shout at him.

“Great heavens, Lawrence! Are you mad?” whispered Flora as she opened the door.

She made to step outside and close the door behind her, but he laid a hand on her shoulder, and said softly, “Let me in, Flora. I have a plan, and I need you to go along with it. Don’t ask any questions. Say nothing that would sow the seeds of doubt in your companion’s mind, understand? I’m assuming she’s your sister’s spy. Sounds like a total harridan. Ignore her insults. I think your hair makes you look radiant.”

He planted his lips briefly on her cheek, then gave her his most alluring look. He hoped. This so flustered her that he had no difficulty in easing her gently aside so he could step into the hallway. There in front of him, looking sour, stood Flora’s tormentor. He recognized her from one of his previous shows in the area.

“What is this?” the woman asked with such impressive hauteur that he felt as if he was meeting a countess in a castle. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

He felt Flora’s shoulders stiffen and shot her a warning look.

Bowing deeply in front of the lady, he assumed his most charming expression and stepped forward to take her hand.

“I, madam,” he said, “am Dr. Campaign. Have we met?”

“Mrs. Daniell. Wife to Reverend Daniell,” she replied, whipping her hand away.

He kept his smile in place as he continued, “Miss Hartington is a favored customer of mine. I recall being told her manservant had some ailment of the joints, so, as I was in the vicinity, I took the liberty of paying a call.”

He fashioned his speech as a gentleman would. Hopefully, that would be convincing enough to fool Mrs. Daniell into thinking him at least slightly respectable.

He shot a meaningful glance at Flora as he clasped his hat to his chest and bowed again. “You did invite me to look in on your elderly gentleman, didn’t you, Miss Hartington? Or has there been some unfortunate misunderstanding?”