Fortune's Flower (Passport to Romance Book 1)

by Anthea Lawson

  “Mud baths!” Richard laughed—the wretch—and Isabelle too.

  The so-witty Mr. Huntington smiled, humor sparking golden lights in his eyes. It was beyond mortifying.

  Lily could take no more. She swept them all with a glare, then turned on her heel and marched back across the pasture, dragging her ruined skirts as she went.

  ***

  James watched the woman’s retreating form. What an odd creature. She had charged off like some kind of bandit queen, riding astride and leaping ditches. All she lacked was a dagger clenched between her teeth. A dagger she would have used on him when he pursued her, no doubt.

  Richard smiled. “You caught Lily at a severe disadvantage, sir. You will find her far more agreeable once she has had her bath.”

  James doubted it. He did not intend to find her at all—agreeable or not. He would consult with Sir Edward and be gone before the admittedly shapely Miss Strathmore had finished rinsing out her hair. She had a lovely pair of legs and he would not soon forget their display, but his business had nothing to do with the beauty who had sat so brazenly astride her mount.

  “Come, we will bring you to the house. Father will be in the library.”

  “You are most kind. Despite the awkwardness of our introduction, my errand demands that I see him.”

  After the grooms had taken their horses, Richard escorted James inside and rapped on a mahogany door.

  “Hello, Father. You have a visitor. Mr. James Huntington of London.”

  “Yes, yes, come in.” A balding man, shorter than James, with bright blue eyes and a ruddy, genial face, waved a hand lens at him. “Welcome, Mr. Huntington. I received your uncle’s letter and have been expecting you. Do sit down.”

  Sir Edward settled in the chair opposite. “I knew your grandfather—a fine man. We exchanged correspondence on matters botanical. His passing was a great loss for the scientific community—but I’m sure you didn’t ride all the way out to Brookdale just to accept my condolences.”

  “No—although I thank you for them. I need your help locating a valley my grandfather visited on one of his expeditions to North Africa.” James reached into his coat pocket for the letter and handed it to Sir Edward. “I would be interested to know your opinion on this.”

  The botanist took it and began to read. “What misfortune,” he said when he had finished. “To discover a new bloom and be prevented from collecting it. That must have been one of his chief regrets.”

  “That and the loss of his friend, Mercer.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.”

  “Have you heard of the valley, or have any idea where it is?”

  Sir Edward shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  Well, James hadn’t expected it to be that easy. He settled back and looked about Sir Edward’s library. It reminded him of his grandfather’s study. The cheerful fire burning in the grate warmed what was clearly a working room—full bookshelves, sturdy tables given over to scattered notes, hand lenses, and stacks of pressed botanical specimens. The north wall was filled with framed watercolors. Leaf and stem, root and petal—all the glories of the plant kingdom rendered in exquisite detail. The vital quality of the illustrations caught his attention.

  Sir Edward followed his gaze. “Ah. Lily’s botanicals. My niece, Miss Lily Strathmore. She has quite a talent, don’t you think?”

  “There’s a remarkable spirit in her work.”

  Could it be that the same creature he had encountered had the talent and sensitivity to produce such paintings? It was said that only a fine line separated the artist from the madman—or in this case, the madwoman.

  Sir Edward nodded toward the paintings. “Lily captures the essence of the bloom without distorting the proportions or rendering the detail inaccurately. Her paintings are portraits rather than merely technical illustrations. You must meet her before you depart—a charming girl. In fact, you must meet the whole family.”

  “I would be delighted.” James mouthed the polite response. In truth, he would be delighted to find out where the valley was and take his leave, without causing further embarrassment to himself or Sir Edward’s peculiar niece.

  “Good. You will take tea with us. Now, concerning your grandfather’s letter—I am familiar with the Orchis mentioned. It is of the Mediterranean Orchidaceae family—all terrestrial, you know. The species described in the letter grows in hilly, upland terrain. We need a map.” Sir Edward rose and went to a large wooden case. He retrieved a roll of paper, cleared an area on one of the wooden tables, and unfurled the map.

  James rose and joined him, securing one edge with his hand. “North Africa. And a good map, too.” He ran his finger along the southern coast of the Mediterranean, through Morocco and Algeria, and halted. “Tunisia. My grandfather was here, in the northern mountains.”

  “That still leaves you with a very large area to search.”

  James traced a meandering blue line. “This is the river my grandfather followed from Tunis. Local tribesmen might be able to help, but I can’t count on it—not with the reception they gave my grandfather and his poor friend Mercer.”

  Sir Edward pointed. “Don’t forget the elevations. The flower grows in the uplands. That should narrow your search considerably. The valley might not be impossible to locate. Think of it, being the first to collect an entirely new species of flower—discovered by your grandfather, no less! Let me just see…” He turned his attention to a heavy, leather-bound volume on the next table and paged through, muttering Latin names and nodding occasionally to himself.

  James looked down at the map again, studying the mountains. At least he would not have to search the vast southern desert. He would be spared bad-tempered camels and blowing sand.

  Sir Edward closed his tome with a clap. “I can find no mention of anything that could be the flower your grandfather describes. Possibly in the Primulaceae family, but it is hard to say. You’re not thinking of going alone, are you?”

  “Actually, I am.”

  “With all respect, Huntington, that’s an absurd idea.”

  The corners of James’s lips quirked up. The man’s candor was refreshing after months of the London scene.

  “You must take a botanist with you,” Sir Edward said.

  “I hadn’t planned to.”

  “But my dear fellow. Not only would one be able to help you locate the valley, he could identify the unknown flower and help you bring back a viable specimen. You must take a botanist.”

  James imagined having to slow his pace to allow some scientist to inspect every leaf and petal along the way. He shook his head. “I’m departing soon. I doubt I can find someone on such short notice. And besides, it isn’t necessary.”

  “Truly, I beg to differ. Will you be able to recognize a valley full of Orchis boryi when you see it? A purple flower, yes. But how tall? How many petals? What distinguishes it from half a dozen other purple flowers that grow in the area? Look.” Sir Edward returned to the map. “I can already tell you that the southern side of the river will be much more promising—here, where the mountains come sweeping in. That is where you will find your valley.”

  James met his host’s bright gaze. “Are you certain?”

  “Well, not as certain as I will be when I get there.”

  “Are you offering to accompany me?”

  “Are you inviting me to go?”

  James studied Sir Edward. Not a young man, but robust, the botanist appeared fit to take to the field—although traveling with another person, particularly one of a scientific bent, would mean more baggage, slower travel, more complications altogether. His plan had been to ride light with just a local guide.

  On the other hand, with the man’s expertise, he might actually find the valley. Not that James imagined himself master of Somergate as a result. Too many years had passed for the journals to still be intact. He wasn’t going to cling to a false expectation. Still, it was almost impossible not to reach for the slice of hope Sir Edward held out. If he were go
ing all the way to Tunisia, he might as well do everything he could.

  “I need to depart within a fortnight. I doubt you could be ready in time.”

  “On the contrary! I am already preparing a foray to Italy. This trip will hardly take more by way of logistics. What do you think, Huntington? Will I do as your botanist?”

  James lifted his hand and let the map curl closed. It was not, after all, such a difficult decision to make. “I think you will—very well.”

  “Excellent!” Sir Edward clapped him on the shoulder. “We’d best get to work, then. Think of it—an undiscovered flower, an adventure into the wilds of North Africa. Simply splendid.”

  James grinned. His host’s enthusiasm was infectious, and the thought of having someone along to share the journey lifted his spirits. “How soon will you be able to leave?”

  “Two weeks should suffice. You must make arrangements to come stay here at Brookdale. We will coordinate our plans.” Sir Edward’s brows suddenly drew together. “Though there is one slight complication I failed to mention. A minor one, I assure you.”

  “Oh?”

  His host blew out a breath. “Well, it’s just that my family is expecting to accompany me. It wouldn’t do to leave them behind. They are all accustomed to travel—quite useful in the field.”

  “Your family? And just whom does that involve?”

  “My wife, of course. She takes care of most of the details of travel, you see. And my son Richard, and daughter Isabelle, couldn’t leave them behind, and Isabelle’s companion Mrs. Hodges, very reliable, and—”

  “Stop.” James held up his hand. “Your servants and dogs as well, no doubt. It won’t do, sir. I cannot be responsible for shepherding your family around North Africa—this is not some jaunt to Brighton.”

  Sir Edward drew himself up. “I believe you underestimate my family. They are accustomed to difficult travel. Why, only last year we went into the Pyrenees for five weeks. Quite off the beaten path. They have always accompanied me. If they are not allowed to come, I am forced to withdraw my offer.”

  Damnation. Taking along a botanist made sense, and Sir Edward was the only botanist James knew that was willing to travel. The only botanist he knew, period. If there was to be any hope of success, the man needed to be included. But his family?

  James thought of the fresh-faced Richard. He had handled his horse well this morning by the front gate, and without aid of a saddle. His sister, Isabelle, had also shown herself to be adept. But riding skills were not enough. In Africa they might well face things more dangerous than a charging artist with bared legs. At the very least, the family would make travel excruciatingly slow.

  He turned to Sir Edward. The man’s eyes shone with hope and desire. Perhaps the same desire that had led James’s grandfather to discover the valley in the first place. James brushed his hair back with his fingers.

  If the journals had by some miracle survived, then a delay of a week or two would hardly matter. If they had not, then speed would make no difference at all—except to his sanity.

  “Very well,” he said. “But your hounds are staying behind.”

  Sir Edward reached out and shook his hand heartily. “You will not regret it. We will find the valley, collect the flower, and perhaps even recover your grandfather’s lost journals. I do not doubt that we will be successful, Mr. Huntington. Not for a moment.”

  “We are agreed, then?”

  “We are agreed.” Sir Edward rolled the map and replaced it in its tube. “But enough business—my appetite tells me it is time for tea. Come and meet my niece, whose work you were admiring, and the rest of my family.”

  James walked with his host to the door of the library then paused. “There is one more thing. It, well, it has to do with the Duke of Hereford’s son…”

  “In the rump!” Sir Edward chuckled as he opened the door. “Yes, your uncle was kind enough to inform me.”

  ***

  Lily’s maid helped her peel the green riding habit off.

  “Toss it out, Bess. I never want to see that dress again.” It was too much a reminder of that mortifying meeting by the front gate. Lily stepped into the steaming bath and sank down with a sigh.

  “What happened, miss?”

  “I’d rather not discuss the matter. Please, bring more hot water from the kitchens.”

  Lily squeezed the sponge over herself, rinsing until the last memory of mud had left her skin. If only the memory of Mr. Huntington’s gaze could be washed away as easily. She lay back and rested her neck on the rolled rim, but could not relax. The humiliation still hummed through her. It simply was not done, to let an unknown gentleman see so much. What must he think of her!

  She prayed he had finished consulting with her uncle and returned to wherever it was he came from. She would feel more settled when she knew he was no longer beneath the same roof. And even better knowing that she would never have to encounter him again.

  “Miss? The family will be gathering for tea in a half-hour. I have heated towels for you.”

  Lily rose from the tub. It would be easier if she could plead a headache and remain in her room, but after her fall that would cause undue concern. Aunt Mary would insist on calling the doctor. No, she would have to join the family. Surely Mr. Huntington would be as eager as she to avoid an awkward second meeting.

  Or would he?

  There had been an unmistakable flash in his eyes as his gaze had followed the curve of her thigh. It was a look not easily forgotten. It haunted her still, causing the incident to play and replay in her mind.

  The tension in Lily’s shoulders eased as she entered the drawing room. There was no brown-haired man waiting to turn his knowing gaze on her, only her cousins and aunt, and Mrs. Hodges, Isabelle’s governess-turned-companion.

  “Come, sit, my dear,” Aunt Mary said. “I heard you had a difficult morning.”

  “Difficult may be understating it. But I feel much better now.”

  Mrs. Hodges glanced up from her knitting. “A good, strong cup of black tea, that’s what’s needed. Settles the nerves. Straightens the spine.” Her words were punctuated with the sharp click of her needles. “A pity the tea trolley has not yet arrived.”

  “Well, neither has Father,” Isabelle said from her place on the green and gold settee. “Lily, come play cards with me. I am dreadfully tired of playing by myself.”

  Lily took up her cards, but could not focus on the game. What was keeping Uncle Edward? The clock on the mantel seemed louder than usual.

  “Really, Lily.” Isabelle swooped up the hand. “If you are not interested in playing, just say so. I have not beaten you so easily in ages.”

  “Perhaps Richard will give you more of a challenge.” Lily glanced to the young man draped in the nearby wingback. Richard seemed absorbed in the magazine he was reading and made no response.

  Aunt Mary set down her needlework. “Isabelle, do rouse your brother. He seems to be lost in Mr. Dickens’ latest installment.”

  “Rubbish, if you ask me.” Mrs. Hodges frowned. “Horrid novels that fill young people’s minds with nonsense. Why, I never have met anyone as peculiar as those characters described by Mr. Dickens. The man is off his head.”

  “But entertainingly so.” Isabelle began teasing the pages from her brother’s hands. “Give over, Richard. It is my turn to read.”

  “Now, Isabelle—” Aunt Mary began, but halted as her husband entered the drawing room.

  Lily looked up—her uncle was not alone. Oh no. It appeared Mr. Huntington had been invited to tea after all. Just his tall presence in the room made her feel as though she had been caught in some wickedness. How awkward of him to have come here.

  “My dear, permit me to introduce Mr. James Huntington.” Uncle Edward led his guest forward. “He is the grandson of my colleague and mentor, the late Earl of Twickenham.”

  “Please be welcome,” her aunt said. “We were saddened to hear of your grandfather’s passing. I hope my husband has been of some
assistance.”

  “Your husband has been more than generous.” Mr. Huntington made her a bow. “Thank you for allowing me to monopolize his time on such short notice.”

  Uncle Edward offered Mr. Huntington a chair. “I understand you have already met my children, Isabelle and Richard. And my niece, Lily.”

  “I have had the pleasure.” A hint of a smile touched Mr. Huntington’s lips as he took a seat. “Miss Strathmore, I hope you were not harmed by your fall this morning.”

  Lily resisted the urge to draw her legs up beneath her, even though they were decently covered in her pale green tea gown. “I am quite recovered. Thank you.”

  He did smile then, an expression that looked so well on him that Lily almost wished she could forgive his presence. Her gaze lingered on the strong planes of his face. The light cast defining shadows beneath his clean jaw and along the column of his neck. Highlights bleached by the sun shone in his brown hair—burnt umber, yellow ochre; she mixed the colors in her mind’s eye.

  He raised an eyebrow at her.

  Drat the man. She was a painter, for heaven’s sake. She looked at things—flowers, landscapes, people. Her gaze had been entirely of a professional nature.

  “The tea trolley, at last,” she said, thankful for the distraction. “I find myself quite thirsty.”

  Aunt Mary poured out the tea. Lily took her cup with cream and sugar, studying Mr. Huntington more discreetly as he engaged the others in conversation. It was as she had thought. He could not be a true gentleman. His hair, for one thing. It was overlong, giving him a relaxed, insouciant air—as if he were just returned from some wild escapade. She pushed a strand of her own behind her ear.

  His clothing was equally telling—not in the first state of fashion at all. It was well tailored and of quality fabric, but hardly something a refined gentlemen would wear. In fact, if it were not for his broad shoulders showing off the coat to such advantage, the garment wouldn’t be worth mentioning. And it must be the striped fabric of his breeches that made his hips appear so narrow and his thighs so well muscled.