She’d seen him at a salon organized by Lady Barbara Smith Bibichon, where he passionately spoke his support for women’s enfranchisement. He’d impressed her, but she never imagined she’d see him again, and certainly not in her shop. Not only did he look to be in exceptionally good health, but even if he did need her services, he did not seem the type to do his own shopping.
He cleared his throat, bringing her musings to a stop. “Am I to wait much longer?”
That haughty tone should’ve irritated her, but instead prompted an irritating pulsing in her chest. After years of dealing with all kinds of ill-mannered patrons, Marena had trained herself to maintain a veneer of placid detachment. It usually worked, but occasionally there would be someone who would walk in and pique her curiosity.
On the rare occasions she felt that urge, she’d play a game she’d invented. She would take the person in slowly from head to toe, and imagine the labor of the many hands involved in dressing a grown, capable, and able-bodied adult. Usually by the time she got down to the lustrous leather-clad feet, she could scarcely come up with anything more than tepid disdain. The problem was it did not seem to be working with Arlo Kenworthy.
She stayed behind the counter, feeling reassured by the solid wooden structure that kept him at a distance, and finally revealed herself. “I’m Marena.”
He widened his eyes, probably surprised that the proprietor of the apothecary was a Black woman. Or maybe it was the way she’d said her name. She’d pronounced it in Spanish, surprising herself. She usually gave shop patrons the anglicized version, turning her name into a harsh sound for the benefit of British sensibilities. That, and it was a better alternative than subjecting herself to hearing her given name be butchered a dozen times a day.
Marena guarded her real name like a treasured secret. It was a fanciful combination of the words for sand and sea her mother had come up with, and felt like a tangible connection to the tropical beaches that shaped her childhood. She never uttered it for people she didn’t think would treat it kindly, but somehow for this stranger, she had.
After another moment of charged silence, Linley dipped his head, eyes still unnervingly focused on her face. “Marena.”
He came as close to a proper pronunciation as she’d heard from a Brit in the fifteen years since her family had touched upon the shores of Bristol. And no, that absolutely could not be a shiver of pleasure running down her spine. It was exhaustion and exasperation, because how dare he get it right on the first try?
“How may I help you?” she asked brusquely. In response, he offered her his hand, which was unexpectedly personable…and discomfiting. One thing she’d learned in the time since her store’s popularity had surged was that to London’s high society, she was the help. “Your Grace.”
He raised an eyebrow at the deference. He hadn’t revealed his title, but it wasn’t like he was an unknown. Arlo Kenworthy was notorious. The son of the accidental Duke of Linley. Fifteen years ago, Hubert Kenworthy had come into a duchy when a distant cousin died without an heir. Before his rise to the very top of the nobility, he’d been a career foreign office man who’d married an American woman—a Quaker, of all things—and, for the most part, avoided Britain as much as he possibly could. The man had been an unorthodox aristocrat in every way possible except when it came to his penchant for excess.
After his son Arlo took the reins of the estate ten years ago, the dukedom had flourished and was now one of the most prosperous in the Commonwealth. To the befuddlement of every landed aristocrat in England, Arlo had achieved this feat by working. He was a financier, a cunning investor, an advocate for workers’ rights, and a suffragist. He brazenly spoke out against archaic, redundant systems. He was thoroughly despised by most of his peers and he seemed to thrive because of it. His father’s passing had made him duke less than a year ago, and to the ton’s dismay—and morbid fascination—Arlo continued to be as irreverent as ever.
“Ms. Baine.” She jumped at the sharpness of his tone, not that she could blame him. She’d been gawking at the man like he was a showpiece at a museum.
“My apologies,” she said, flustered, her face hot from embarrassment. “The shop is closed for the day, but if you’d like to place an order, I can have a messenger see it to you once it’s ready.” She was proud of managing to sound mostly normal. “We would, of course, make sure that your privacy was guarded.”
His eyebrow rose slightly further up on his forehead at that, and she swore he was biting back a smile. “There seems to be such a furor for your products I am almost curious to try them.”
“I’d be happy to put your name on the list,” she informed him as she stepped around the counter, ruthlessly ignoring the fluttering in her chest. She almost brushed against him before reaching the door. She locked it before realizing she was now alone in the shop with a notorious nobleman.
“I require a bit more from you today, Miss Baine.” His voice was warm and rough, and his eyes on her made every piece of clothing on her body feel constraining. As she usually did at the end of the day, she had already taken her apron off and slipped the pins out of her hair. He was seeing her without her armor.
“My sister is about to return,” she blurted out untruthfully.
“Your sister? Lluvia Baine, the physician?” His mention of her sister’s name brought Marena’s back up.
“How do you know my sister?” She sounded defensive, but she was tired of whatever cat and mouse game the man was playing. The end of the day was no time for subterfuge.
“I don’t.” He let that sit for a breath, then a second one, and she was ready to scream in frustration by the time he opened his mouth again. “Know her. That is.”
“Your Grace, with the utmost respect…” After deciding there was no polite way to say it she muttered, “Get on with it.”
To Marena’s confusion, her rudeness seemed to elicit an amused glint in the man’s eyes. “I’m looking for your friend, the midwife Delfine Boncouer.” The words razed through her weariness, and instantly she was completely alert. She almost wished he’d come to see her about a prick potion. He cleared his throat again. This time, the sound was one of discomfort. “I need to find her.”
Judging from the set of his shoulders and the furrow on his brow, the Duke of Linley was not here for a social call with Delfine, and this could only mean trouble. “I’m not certain how I can help you. Delfine doesn’t live here.”
“I’m aware of that. She lives with Lluvia Baine, your sister, who has also disappeared. I’ve been looking for Delfine for almost a year, but she seems to have left London without a trace. Since Delfine has no family, I wondered if you had information on her whereabouts.”
“It’s ‘You-be-ah,’” she corrected sharply, irritated by the way he mispronounced her sister’s name. “It means rain.”
“Lluvia,” he repeated, pronouncing it perfectly, while Marena hastily tried to deduce what the man wanted.
A year ago, Delfine had to leave London in haste after the family of a young woman who’d come to her for treatment almost managed to have her thrown in gaol. Apparently, emboldened by the understanding and validation she found under Delfine’s care, the young woman had gone to the police and accused an older and powerful male family member of rape.