“I told you it wouldn’t be several weeks,” Hew croaked. “Go to her.”
“Where is that bloody doctor?” Randall demanded, his voice bordering on panic. Lydia made a sound of pain and Hew felt himself lowered to the ground. He reached over to find the hilt of the knife again, and his hand brushed the wetness on his coat. His new coat.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Not the coat.”
The streetlights dimmed again, and the world went black.
Chapter Two
Belle Howard loved this time of the evening. The shop was closed, and the streets were all but empty. Her father had gone upstairs to sit by the fire and read, leaving her alone to close the shop and tidy all for the next day. She straightened and swept all day, so there was very little tidying to do, which meant she had time to indulge in her true passion—tea.
She walked the shelves, her hand reaching out to touch the cakes of oolong, wrapped carefully in paper and tied with twine. Next came the high quality, lighter teas, preferred by the upper classes. These were the Assam and the Ceylon, the Darjeeling and the Earl Grey. There were blends upon blends of each variety, and she knew and loved them all. Belle passed the green teas and the expensive white teas, displayed near the counter where her father and she could keep an eye on them, then moved to the herbal teas. She’d sent her father upstairs with a lavender tea to help with the headache she could see behind his eyes.
Finally, she stood on the side of the door with the darker, less expensive black teas. These were preferred by those who could not afford the lighter teas. It was common to add milk and sugar to these to make them less bitter. But Belle could appreciate the bitterness of a black tea, and rarely added anything to a cup.
She had dusted the teapots, cups, and saucers they sold as well as the tins of biscuits, but she ran a finger over them just to be sure they were free of dust. Having made her rounds, she returned to the counter and opened the lock box with the key she always kept tied at her waist. She emptied it of coins and bills—mostly coins—and placed all but what she would need for change the following day in a cloth bag. Then she locked the box again and carried the bag to the storeroom.
Like the front of the store, the back was ruthlessly organized and clean. Various teas lined the shelves, ready to be placed in the front of the shop should supplies run low. She unlocked a cabinet with another key at her waist then unlocked the padlock of the safe housed in the cabinet. She placed the bag of money next to the proceeds from the day before. Tomorrow she would take a chunk of those profits and pay the landlord as well as go to the docks and visit the warehouses owned by the importers from China and India. Her father said she had a nose like a bloodhound, only she could sniff out the best teas. She had the palate for it too and was able to identify over fifty blends and varieties of teas even with a blindfold. Or at least she had been able to when she’d been younger and her sister and she played what they called the “tasting game.”
The days when she visited the warehouse to choose the teas for the shop were her favorite. Most of the time, she found nothing unusual and purchased the usual Darjeeling, Ceylon, and Assam. But occasionally she found something extraordinary.
Her gaze fell on the small package of green tea from China. Howard’s Teas & Treats carried Pan Long Yin Hao. It was pricey, as the tea leaves were hand rolled and the tea was very smooth and came all the way from the Zhejiang Province. But never had she tasted a variety of Pan Long Yin Hao like this. The man she had bought it from insisted it was the blend preferred by the Emperor, and that the small quantity he sold her had come straight from the Emperor’s Court. He called the tea Curled Dragon Silver Tips, and when she poured the tea leaves into a bowl, she could see why. They did look like tiny sleeping dragons with whitish tails that might look silver in the candlelight. The handful of tea had cost her as much as fifty cakes of oolong, but she had bought it. The scent alone had been hard to resist, but when the merchant brewed her a small cup and she tasted it, she had known she would probably never again taste any tea as smooth and flavorful. Belle could well believe the Emperor drank this tea.
Naturally, her father had been dismayed when he’d seen the tea and the price, but he understood her too well to be angry. He simply remarked that they would need to sell this before purchasing more. That was over a month ago, and Belle had been looking for the perfect buyer ever since. It was unfortunate that most of the ton had left London for the country. On occasion a viscountess or baroness came into the shop. More regularly, the cook or housekeeper for a marquess or a duke came in. Those were her targets, but she would have to wait.
In the meantime, the tea tempted her every day. During slow afternoons, she would often stand at the counter and dream of brewing a cup—just a cup—of the Curled Dragon Tips. She was sorely tempted now. What would it hurt? One little cup?
But if she gave in now, what was to stop her from giving in tomorrow or the next night? Soon she’d have none of the Emperor’s Pan Long Yin Hao left to sell. She’d instead treat herself to a cup of white tea—perhaps the Pai Mu Tan or the SowMee White, as she had the taste for something sweet tonight.
Belle placed the Pan Long Yin Hao back in its pouch, but before she could replace it in the safe, a loud pounding startled her. She almost dropped the tea, but fumbled and caught it just in time.
“Miss Howard! Mr. Howard!” came a voice and more pounding. Belle’s heart had jumped in her throat. She frowned as she replaced the tea in the safe, locked it, closed the cupboard door, and locked it.
The pounding continued. No customer would come this late and demand entrance. Perhaps her sister or a neighbor had come to some harm?
Belle stepped out of the back just as her father descended the steps from their private residence upstairs. “Belle!” he said, out of breath. His hair was disheveled, and his face creased, indicating he had probably fallen asleep in front of the fire. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I was in the back.”
The pounding continued, and her father went to the door, pulled back the shade, and said, “Just a moment then.”
He patted his coat for his keys, found them, and unlocked the door, saying over his shoulder, “It’s one of the Randalls’ footmen.”
The Randalls? Why on earth would the Randalls send a footman with an urgent message to Belle and her father? They knew the Randalls, of course, but the acquaintance was only that—an acquaintance. Belle’s younger sister, Maggie, had married Lydia’s brother, a substantial step up in the world. The Randalls had been welcoming to Maggie, but they had never indicated they wished their association with the Howards to deepen any further. In fact, Belle thought of Lydia Randall as more of a customer than a relation. She sent one of her footmen to purchase tea every month. As Belle recalled, Lydia preferred an expensive blend of English Evening tea.
The door swung open, and the footman, dripping wet from the rain, stepped forward. “I am sorry to intrude, Mr. Howard. There’s an emergency at Mr. and Mrs. Randall’s residence.”
“Has something happened to Maggie—er, Mrs. Dormer?”
The footman peered at Belle, his gaze lingering just a little too long, and Belle felt her face flush. She had forgotten that she’d pulled the curls she wore about her face up and away with a ribbon. The footman looked away, seeming embarrassed, as though he had seen something he was not meant to see. “Not Mr. or Mrs. Dormer, no. To my knowledge, they are still in the country. But the doctor has been summoned to the Randalls’ residence, and Mr. Randall has called for you, Mr. Howard.”
“Is it the baby?” Belle asked. She couldn’t think why Charles or Lydia would want her father at the birth of their first child, but who could understand the minds of the upper classes? In any case, if the baby was coming, she would bring tea—perhaps chamomile or hibiscus?
“I’m not at liberty to say, miss,” the footman said, this time not looking at her. “But Mr. Randall did say it was urgent.” The footman indicated the Randalls’ coach, which was waiting just down the street. Belle hadn’t even noticed it until now, though the horses were blowing and stamping impatiently, probably unhappy to be pulled from their warm stalls and their dinner.
“I’ll get my coat,” her father said. “And your cloak, Belle.”
“Thank you. If you could give us a moment?” she said to the footman.
