After removing a Lucifer match and sandpaper, Belle lit the white candle. Then she waved the tiny bell above the pansy, its tinkling sound breaking the garden’s silence.
Belle placed her fingers against the pansy. “Ailing, ailing, ailing. Pansy, my touch is sealing, and thy illness is failing. Healing, healing, healing.”
Taking the Book of Common Prayer, she held it over the pansy and whispered, “It is written. It is so.”
Belle extinguished the candle’s flame and made the magic blessing to complete the ritual. The pansy perked up almost immediately.
A hand touched her shoulder.
“Enough interruptions,” Belle exclaimed, whirling around. “Charles, what a surprise.”
Baron Charles Wingate stared at her, amusement lighting his brown eyes. “What are you doing?”
Belle blushed at being caught kneeling in the dirt. “My pansy needed tending.”
The baron offered his hand to help her rise. When she reached for it, he dropped it to his side. “Your hands are dirty.”
“This is dirt, not dung.”
Charles shook his head in disapproval. “Playing in the dirt is unseemly behavior for a baroness, not to mention whispering to flowers.”
“Ooops, you just mentioned it,” she teased him, rising without his assistance.
“I do not consider that amusing. Once we marry—”
“Really, Charles, you are much too particular.” Belle put her hands on her hips. “Do not forget we met when your gardener hired me to revive that rosebush.”
“Darling, I don’t mean to scold.” He smiled, suddenly amenable. “Your meeting with my fastidious mother concerns me.”
“Concerns or worries?” Belle touched his arm, trying to soothe him. “I will behave properly.”
“Promise you won’t mention working for money.” Charles brushed the dirt off his sleeve where she had touched.
Belle smiled at that. “I promise.”
“Do not mention gardening, either.”
“My lips are locked.” She pretended to button her lips together.
“Above all else, do not mention your sister singing in the opera. Mother dislikes such women.”
Belle lost her good humor. Fingers of unease touched her spine. Was he embarrassed by her family?
“If you cannot be expensively attired,” Charles continued, “then be certain your gown is modest.”
Belle narrowed her violet gaze on him and brushed an ebony wisp off her forehead, leaving a smudge. “Are you implying—?”
“I have a sterling idea,” Charles interrupted. “We could contrive to mention your father.”
Belle gave him a blank stare. Was he serious? Or had he bumped his head, rattling his brain?
“You know, sweetheart, the duke?”
“That could prove awkward,” Belle said, “since I do not know which duke sired me and my sisters.”
“Doesn’t His Grace support you and your sisters?” Charles sounded annoyed. “His Grace’s barrister must mention him when he delivers your monthly allowance.”
“Percy Howell calls my father His Grace.”
“You said your sister knows the duke’s identity.”
“Fancy refuses to name him.”
“Then we will mention your deceased mother was a countess, albeit a penniless French refugee,” Charles said. “We can only pray that your anonymous noble bloodlines and your incredible beauty sway Mother into approving our union .”
Belle’s irritation rose, inciting her to sarcasm. “I will pass the whole evening in prayer.”
“I must leave now,” Charles said, reaching for her hands. “Mother doesn’t like waiting.” He lifted her hands to his lips but dropped them again when he saw the dirt.
“Where are you going?” Belle asked when he walked in the direction of the alley exit.
“That disreputable dog growled at me.” And then he disappeared into the alley.
The baron’s snobbishness made Belle uneasy. She feared his mother was worse. After all, the woman had raised him. Beneath that haughty exterior beat the heart of a decent man. If only she could snatch him away from his mother’s influence.
Belle sighed, knowing that was impossible. She only wished Charles was not so concerned with appearances.
One mile and a world away from the Flambeau residence stood the great mansions in Grosvenor Square. Offensive street odors did not dare assault aristocratic nostrils in this enclave of the wealthy. Here, fragrant gardens masked the occasional whiff from passing horses.
Prince Mikhail Kazanov sat at his thirty-foot dining table set with the finest porcelain, crystal, and silver. Perched on the chair beside his was his four-year-old daughter, Elizabeth.