11. Love Potion Loyalty
LOVE POTION LOYALTY
Three days was not enough to earn atonement for sins the size of Bran’s. So Guin’s seventy-two-hour silence certainly did not signal forgiveness. It likely signaled scheming, retribution. And if Bran were not so familiar with unidentified sounds and moving shadows, he’d be terrified.
Guin would eventually walk off into the London streets without a single look back at him. She’d set up a new shop and never again think his name. But for now, while she was trapped, she’d make sure he felt her wrath.
Three days of silence was just the beginning. He was not na?ve enough to think otherwise.
His office door creaked open, and Hesperus Grant strode in, closing the door behind him.
Bran had propped his feet on top of his desk and folded his arms behind his head.
His glamour was flashing in and out like he was a candle extinguished by the wind only to be lit again by some ill-fated housemaid whose Sisyphean task was to keep the flame going in a tornado.
“Still sparkling, I see,” Grant said, slipping with poker-stiff posture into the seat on the other side of the desk.
“Unfortunately.”
Grant slapped a stack of letters on the desk.
“Butler said to bring you these. I told him I’m a harbinger of death not a delivery boy.
He did not seem to care. There was another, left alone on the front step.
I did as you said and burned it on the spot.
Quite the useful potion you gave me. Liquid fire. I foresee a variety of uses for it.”
“Whoever’s after her has discovered her new address, then.” He’d hoped for a longer stretch of anonymity. “She still in the conservatory?”
“Only leaves to piss and sleep. Has her food brought to her. She’s a friendly sort. Shared her tart with me this afternoon. Not sure why you’re so scared of her.”
“You don’t know her well enough. Why are you here?”
“Two reasons. I must be in Hampstead tonight for a family gathering. I’ve called Pritchard in to replace me.”
“Fine.”
“And more interestingly, I’ve got some news about the red eyes.”
Ah, that was interesting. Bran dropped his feet to the floor and sat up taller. “Tell me.”
“There’s a new potion that seems to have originated out of the opium dens.
Like opium, it is supposed to dull the senses, but without the side effects or unsavory dependence.
I spoke with a man who has taken it, and he said all his pains simply floated away, but he wasn’t sleepy.
He was wide awake enough to enjoy the sensation. ”
“And the red eyes?”
“I’ve not seen it myself, but he says, yes. The blood vessels in his eyes burst, and he had to remain at home until they healed to avoid unwanted questioning from his mother.”
“How pervasive is it?”
“Growing in popularity, but it took me three days to find someone who would talk to me about it.”
“Hmm.” Bran drummed his fingers atop the desk. “Did he happen to mention who brews it?”
Grant leaned forward, grinned. “He did indeed. There’s a new shop, farther east than Guin’s old one, smaller, dingier.”
Guin was it? A rapid familiarity had grown up between Bran’s wife and this young man. He managed to keep his tone civil, even. “You’ve been?”
“It’s where I came from.” Grant extended a hand, fingers splayed, as if gesturing to a sign above a door. “Madame Poppy’s Potions Emporium.”
Bran rolled his eyes. “Find a new Shadow for the madame. I want to know more.”
Grant rolled to his feet. “Right.”
“And whomever hired the attackers from the other night? Have you located them?”
“Only one man survived, and he’s a common footpad. Doesn’t know who provided the money. I assume whoever hired him put multiple layers of contact between himself and his mercenaries.”
“Probably. Thank you, Grant. Enjoy your family.” And do not share tarts with my wife.
When Grant had gone, Bran reached for the letters.
The one on top was from his man of business, who wrote in regard to Bran’s questions from two days ago.
It would be cheaper to rent a new location than it would be to rebuild the potion shop at Finsbury Square.
He’d thought that would be the case, but…
renting elsewhere felt wrong. Finsbury Square was home for Guin.
And if she wanted the Square, she would have it.
Now, to surprise her or to ask her opinion? The latter was likely the wiser move, but the former more dramatic. And he needed every dramatic gesture he could muster to soften her.
Not that she would ever give in.
But it didn’t feel like he would ever stop trying, no matter the results. He couldn’t.
He reached for the second letter, paused, hand above the paper.
It was from the queen.
He opened it and scanned it quickly, then stood and made for the conservatory.
A short walk. When he’d had the conservatory built, he’d put it on the same side of the house as his study because even though she wasn’t there, he could imagine her there, easily within reach, working quietly, same as him.
She was at her worktable, her back to him, her hair a messy pile atop her head.
There was a spoon stuck into the mess on one side and a narrow silver spatula on the other.
She stretched her neck to one side, curving the elegant lines of her throat as if to taunt him.
He’d been able to withstand four years of sexual repression with little to no difficulty, but now he was on fire.
She’d let him lick her to climax, and now all he could think about was doing it again.
And she’d never let him.
That her torture. A cunning retribution indeed.
Artemis found him first and sailed through palms to perch on his shoulder and bring him something shiny. “Bran,” she squawked, dropping the shiny thing in his palm.
It was a ring, the very one he’d given Guin six years ago that she’d worn on a chain around her neck since leaving him.
She didn’t wear it anymore.
“Right.” He pocketed the ring and strode through the potted plants. He expected a clear and forceful go away, but it never came, and he was able to saunter right up to the work table and lean a hip against its edge beside his wife.
She didn’t look at him. “I assume there’s a reason you’re here.”
“Several.”
“Do get on with it.”
“Have you made any progress with the potion?”
“Not particularly. I had been experimenting with my faux glamour potion. It creates the appearance of a glamour using the body’s natural heat to throw off light.
But it’s always weak, and I never could brew it so that the user could manipulate what glamour they wore.
” She was talking to herself more than him, grinding leaves together in a small stone bowl with a pestle.
“People bought them according to illusion—a gown, a hair color, a smile. But the queen needs something that increases her ability to hold a glamour, not a prepackaged illusion.” She dropped the pestle and brushed a curl off her forehead with the back of her hand.
It bounced right back over her eye.
Risking the slice of her nails on his eyeballs, Bran wrapped the tendril around one finger, hooked it behind her ear.
She froze. Then she swatted his hand away. “What do you want?”
He straightened the cuffs of his sleeves, pleased to see the glamour at least wasn’t covering his body.
It had dissipated so much, released him so often, he needed to wear proper clothing now, so he was wrapped up in shirt, silk waistcoat, and cravat—all black, as he preferred.
The duke ensemble didn’t allow for as much movement as he liked.
Bran’s old clothes were more practical for guarding Guin, but he had a dual role to play these days.
With the queen’s new instructions, being a duke had become an integral part of keeping Guin safe. And that meant looking like one.
“A poisoned letter arrived this morning,” he said. “Grant burned it.”
She scowled. “I wish he’d shown me first. Did he even read it?”
Damn.
“You didn’t command him to read the letters, did you?
You just demanded he burn them.” He crossed his arms over his chest as she pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Why are men such… such lummoxes? You would think an elite collection of assassins would possess more than two brain cells to rub together, but apparently there’s only one, and you all share it. ”
“I’ll modify my command. Do you have a potion that nullifies the poison?”
“I can try to develop one. If I have the poison.”
“Ah. So bring the letter to you next time.”
“If it is not too much trouble, Braxton.” Said in her sweetest tones, and damn he hated it when she called him that.
“Bran.”
“Pardon?” She was sailing to the other end of the table, looking for something, snapping up a knife, then returning to her original spot and slicing open the stem of a rose.
“Call me Bran.”
“I’ll call you whatever I please.”
He ruffled his hands through his hair. “Grant also brought interesting information about our attackers.” He told her about the new potion, the new shop.
She remained entirely still until he’d finished talking, then her face scrunched up. “As soon as I close up shop, someone swoops in to replace me.” She sniffed. “They won’t last long once I reopen. And using opium as a base. Entirely unethical.”
He suppressed a grin. “So you will reopen?”
“Of course.”
“Rebuild the old place or… rent a new one?”
Her face looked hollow for a second, then it bloomed with hope. “Rebuild. It feels like defeat to do anything else. My life is in Finsbury Square.”
Right. He cleared his throat. “There’s another reason I’m here.”
“Do tell.”
This bit of news she would not like. “Queen Victoria has chosen a ball for you to make your debut.”
Guin cursed, slapped her palms on the table, and let her head hang limp. The spatula fell from her hair and clattered on the stone floor as half her hair fell out of the messy coiffure.