1
If there was anything Mrs. Iris Rumford had no talent for, it was acting.
Well, she amended as she tugged at the cravat tied around her neck, she was not talented in a good many things.
But acting and anything remotely like it were at the top of that list. Especially when she was forced to don clothing she was unused to, which was akin to torture in her book.
She would put up with much more, however, if it meant she could study her beloved plants.
Gritting her teeth, she tugged once more on the offending cravat—which felt as if it were strangling her, though it had been tied as loosely as possible to keep Iris from crawling out of her skin—and dropped to her knees on the gravel path, the better to get a closer look at her latest specimen of interest. The lungwort plant looked unprepossessing enough without its crown of clustered pink and blue flowers.
Yet Iris loved the mottled leaves just as much as, if not more than, its showy early spring top.
Settling in, her discomfort forgotten in her growing excitement, she crossed her trouser-clad legs and pulled a small notebook and pencil from her bag.
Then, pushing the square-rimmed spectacles up her nose—not for any use, as her eyesight was pristine, but the heavy frames helped disguise her delicate features some—she opened the notebook and began work on a new sketch?. .? .
By the time she raised her head again, the sun was well overhead, the strong rays breaking through the ever-present haze of pollution.
She angled her head back, wincing at the pull of muscles held too long in place, and peered at the sky from under her wide-brimmed straw hat.
Even here, separate from the congested city center, the effects of a tightly compressed populace could be felt and seen.
She frowned as the position of the sun finally seeped into her distracted brain.
It truly was right overhead. She had arrived at the Chelsea Physic Garden quite early this morning, when her chances of being approached were significantly less—that lack of talent in acting playing a large part in it.
Yes, her godmother, Sylvia Lutton, Lady Vastkern, had applied to the curator so her young male friend might access the gardens, thereby providing the appropriate permissions to enter the place.
And yes, Mrs. Euphemia Blount, former theatrical dressmaker and one of the widows she resided with, had disguised her with her incredible abilities as a young apothecary’s assistant, giving her a suitable appearance to blend in and not attract unwanted attention.
Even so, she still preferred the gardens when they were at their quietest, when most were still abed or had not yet begun their day. When she could be assured the place, one of her favorites in the world, was as free from distraction as possible.
Now, however, she saw just what her submersion in the small lungwort plant had cost her.
The rumble of male voices reached her, a deep laugh, the sound of boots on the gravel path.
A quick glance around and she spied several gray-haired gentlemen deep in conversation close by, an older man explaining something to an entranced youth a bit farther down, two portly males in a heated discussion on another path.
Her ears started to ring. There were too many men, too many chances of being drawn into conversation, too many possibilities of her failing—and failing spectacularly—to keep up the persona she had donned.
Their presence should not affect her as it did, of course.
She knew that. Most would not give a young boy—for that was just what she looked to be—even a glance.
Even so, she couldn’t stop her mind from compiling all the ways she could be found out.
Hurriedly shoving her notebook and pencil into her bag she scrambled to her feet.
Her legs burst into sharp pinpricks of sensation from her long-held position, her feet nearly faltering under her.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to walk at an easy pace, down the path toward the gate.
As she rounded a curve, however, full attention on her escape, the same group of gray-haired gentlemen from before suddenly stepped into her path.
Swallowing a squeak of surprise, she stepped to the side, behind a particularly bushy Laurus nobilis , and held her breath.
The men’s voices droned on as they headed her way, blessedly oblivious to her presence.
“.? .? .? had previously believed the man to be nothing but a charlatan,” one said in a raspy voice. “But this latest news has me thinking I must have been wrong.”
“I agree,” the second joined in. “If it’s true, it’s impressive, really, what he has accomplished. Crossing ragwort with a common daisy and successfully mitigating the former’s toxicity, yet retaining its medicinal benefits? I see this making quite a wave in the botanical world.”
Iris, who had been in the process of slinking around to the far side of the bush, froze. Memories swelled over her head, her mother’s voice echoing in her ear.
“Imagine the benefits,” she had said, eyes glowing with that special fire that always burned so brightly in her when she was in the throes of her latest passion project.
“A plant with the curative properties of the ragwort, yet as harmless as the common daisy. Think of what it could mean for medicine as a whole.”
And she had succeeded, had been in the process of writing up a paper to present to the world.
But then her death, and the fire shortly after that, had destroyed everything.
Iris frowned. No, not everything. A vision of that empty drawer where her mother’s compiled research had lain took shape in her mind.
Sylvia had tried to unearth the truth of what had happened, to find out who had taken the papers, who had set the fire.
But every possible trail had gone cold. Now, five years later, they still had no answers to the devastation of that night.
Which only amplified Iris’s grief at not being able to finish the last bit of her mother’s research and posthumously publishing her final brilliant findings.
Now, however, here was someone discussing the very same work her mother had done, the very same specimens, the very same results.
It was too coincidental to be believed. There was a possibility, of course, that someone in the botanical community had decided to attempt her mother’s experiments themself.
While the hybridization had not been widely known, there had been some in her circle who were aware of the project and eagerly anticipated its results.
Perhaps someone had thought they could take up the torch, so to speak.
Though a person succeeding in such a truncated time—only five years—when it had taken her mother a full decade made that highly doubtful.
An image of that empty desk drawer took shape again, making her feel off-balance, just as one of the men spoke her mother’s name.
“Cannot quite believe Mrs. Fenwick was trying to claim the work herself before her death.”
Someone made a tsking sound. “Thought the woman was credible. Now we learn she was plagiarizing someone else’s experiment this whole time? It makes me question if any of her work was her own.”
A roaring started up in Iris’s ears. Before she knew what she was about, she stepped from behind the bush, right into the men’s path.
“Who is claiming such a thing?” she demanded, outrage suffocating all her previous caution.
The three men stopped, startled gazes flying to her. “What was that?” one of the men asked.
She planted her hands on her hips, stepping closer. “Who claims that Mrs. Fenwick stole another’s work in crossing Senecio jacobaea with Bellis perennis ?”
The sparse-haired man huffed, the sound like the exhale of an aggressive canine, his expression hardening as he considered her. “I say, young man, just who are you to talk to your elders in such a manner?”
Too late, she remembered where she was and who she was supposed to be. Blanching, she stumbled back a step, the gravel shifting under her boots.
The tallest of the trio glared at her. “Speak up, boy. What is the meaning of this?”
She should bow and apologize and escape. She knew she should. Anything else and she would surely give herself away.
And she nearly did turn tail and run. Until a memory flashed in her mind, her mother again, face glowing as she bent over a row of new shoots, eyes sparking with passion and pride as she described in immaculate detail the latest results of her experiments.
No, she could not run away. She had to stay, to learn who was destroying her mother’s name with lies.
Euphemia’s advice swirled through her agitated brain: If you are ever approached, don’t panic. First and foremost, lower your eyes.
She did so, dropping her gaze, focusing on the stark black waistcoat of the center man.
Euphemia’s voice continued: You are disguised as a youth, and so your voice would be higher than that of an adult male. But do try to lower it a bit if you can.
She cleared her throat, deepening her voice as much as she was able to—which, regrettably, was not much considering how paralyzed her vocal cords felt. “My apologies, sirs.”
Much can be overlooked if you add in a bit of flattery. Especially with men. Showering them with praise is the surest way of turning their attentions fully back to themselves, and away from you.
This she could understand. Hadn’t she observed during her one London season that the most successful debutantes were adept at stroking the male ego?
Yes, she understood it quite well. Or at least the theory of it.
What she did not comprehend, unfortunately, was how one gave false praise when it was not warranted.
She grabbed her wrist, worrying at the skin with her thumbnail as she considered the men.
Weren’t they looking angrier as the seconds ticked by?
Her silence must be infuriating them. But how else was she supposed to figure out what to do next if not by carefully considering all options?
Finally she came up with something plausible enough. “The subject of your conversation was so interesting I forgot myself.”
There, that should do it?.? .? .? perhaps. It wasn’t necessarily a compliment, but it certainly flirted with it. She waited, holding her breath, to see how they would take it.
They blinked, glancing at each other, their harsh features softening ever so slightly. Finally the gray-haired gent cleared his throat.
“Yes, well,” he mumbled. “I suppose it shows your passion for the subject, that your manners would be forgotten at such news. It’s a horrible thing to consider that Mrs. Fenwick would have done something of the sort, after all.
Though how you know of her, I don’t know.
You must have been in leading strings when she was alive. Well then, on your way, boy.”
With that, they moved around her. But Iris, though she had miraculously managed the situation and escaped their notice, realized she had not received an answer to her question. A question she desperately needed the answer to.
“But sirs,” she called out, “who is the one claiming such a thing?”
The tallest peered over his shoulder at her, his gaze somewhat more tolerant than before. And then he said a name that was like a punch to the gut.
“Lord Durand,” he replied.