A Scent of Magic Page 2

  “Mon Dieu!”

  She blinked her eyes and released the lid, staring at the vessel as she was instantly overcome by the most startling sensation. She felt as if…she had just been embraced by a lover. Her cheeks burned and her heart raced as surely as if an intimate caress had ignited her passion. Her skin tingled, and she felt an ache building from deep within, a physical, sexual desire unlike any she’d experienced for years.

  Hastily and with shaking hands, she replaced the bottle in the box and took a seat on a tall stool behind the counter to regain her composure.

  What on earth?” she murmured stunned. Simone had no lover. She was unaccustomed to these kinds of sensual, almost erotic, feelings. And yet, she could not deny them.

  Had they been caused by the fragrance? Surely it could not be!

  And yet…

  She reached for the crystal bottle again and lifted the lid a fraction of an inch. Placing her nose close to the opening, she took a cautious sniff, hoping to identify the mysterious substance. Instead, she felt her body heat begin to rise again almost immediately.

  “What is this?” she said aloud this time, astounded. She inhaled another exploratory whiff, but her olfactory senses failed her utterly in identifying the scent. The only thing of which she felt certain was that this was a pure essential oil extracted from a single plant, not a blended fragrance.

  “Hmmm.” She replaced the vial in its holder. Whatever was in the old bottle, its scent was powerful. Potent. Alluring.

  The very qualities needed in a grand parfum.

  Excitement suddenly coursed through her, overcoming the residual tingle of sexuality. Today, when her aunt returned, she would take the bottle to the lab at the university. With the modern equipment available there, it shouldn’t take long to discover its identity. With its apparent power to “turn her on,” as they said in America, Simone knew she had the inspiration for her first grand parfum. She would include it in a blend, using only the finest, most expensive natural ingredients, and create a perfume more sensual than Houbigant’s Quelques Fleurs, more provocative than Caron’s Narcisse Noir, more mysterious even than Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue.

  Simone’s preoccupation over her fantasy perfume had removed her from all present reality, and when the metal chimes attached to the front door of the shop jingled loudly, announcing a visitor to the cluttered boutique perfumery, she nearly fell off the stool. Then she looked up to greet the customer, and her eyes widened.

  The man who entered was as astonishing as the perfume had been only moments before.

  He looked like something right out of Mardi Gras, only it was the middle of May, not February.

  But this was New Orleans, prone to attract the crazies at any time of year.

  He had to be almost seven feet tall, Simone surmised, and a large white turban coiling around his head afforded additional height. Made of a gauzy fabric, the headdress was twisted so it enshrouded his beard as well, giving him the appearance of a mummy. But the bright brown eyes that peered at her from beneath shaggy brows glittered with keen vitality.

  A mummy in drag, she thought, biting her lip to hide her amusement as she took in the outrageous robe that draped from his shoulders to his ankles. Made from a dark red fabric that shimmered slightly in the sunlight filtering through the front window, it was banded around the neck and down the edges with wide gold filigree braid that was literally encrusted with rhinestones in every color imaginable. Beneath the robe, his clothing was nondescript, something that looked like black pajamas, and he wore sandals on his coffee-colored feet. He was not altogether unhandsome, Simone decided, unable to determine his age. Just bizarre.

  “May I help you?” she said, remembering her duty as salesperson.

  “I seek Mademoiselle Simone Lefevre.” His voice was rich and deep, his tone polite, but the hair on Simone’s arms stood up in alarm. Why would this strange man be looking for her? She suddenly wished she wasn’t alone in the shop.

  “I am Simone Lefevre,” she replied tentatively, moving further behind the counter and drawing her overshirt together to cover her scantily clad figure.

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Can it be?” he whispered. “Have I found you at last?”

  “What can I do for you, Mr…?” Her stomach knotted, and she placed one hand on the telephone, just in case she might need to call 911.

  At her words, the man snapped out of his semi-trance. “A thousand pardons, Mademoiselle Lefevre,” he offered, bending into a deep bow. “Let me introduce myself.” He flowed rather than walked toward her. “I am Shamir, humble servant to one whose name I cannot reveal, but who once long ago contracted with your father for a personal fragrance.”

  Simone stared at him in shocked silence, then said, “My father is dead.”

  “So I have learned. I am sorry, mademoiselle.”

  “What do you want of me?”

  The elongated face softened into a kind smile. “Do not be afraid, Mademoiselle. I come only to see if you can complete the perfume for which my master paid your father.”

  “He paid my father…? But, sir, uh…Mr. Shamir, Papa has been dead for over ten years. I can hardly see how you can hold me responsible…” Panic replaced fear. What if he wanted his money back? She had no money. And for certain, she had no record of any proceedings between her father and any of his clients. Beads of perspiration broke out on her brow.

  “My master sent me to your father’s parfumerie in Grasse, longer than ten years ago. He wished to know if Monsieur Lefevre could synthesize a certain ingredient and recreate an ancient formula which called for the essence of a plant that appeared to be extinct. Your father agreed to attempt it, and he accepted a retainer.” The man tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “A rather large retainer.” He hesitated, then added with a solemn nod, “but I am not here about the money.”

  Simone knew better. “I have none of my father’s records,” she replied, her voice hard and even as it forced its way over the strained muscles inside her throat. “They…they were stolen. By…my father’s apprentice.” She could not bring to her lips the name of the thief, so great still was her rage over what had happened.

  The tall man’s brows rose. “Stolen? This is indeed bad news.”

  Simone found it hard to believe that after all this time, one of her father’s clients did not know the story. It had been the scandal and outrage of the French perfume industry for several years after the fact, especially when the British House of Rutledge flooded the market with its line of fragrances known as “Royalty,” each fragrance a cheap synthetic copy of those great, and expensive, natural perfumes developed by her father for his exclusive clientele.

  “I fear, sir, that your master’s formula, if my father indeed was able to determine the ingredient, is now on the shelf of every supermarket and discount store in Europe and America,” she told him, working hard to control her emotions. She raised her chin rather defiantly when she saw the dark look on Shamir’s face. “I am sorry, but if you wish to discuss the creation of the perfume, perhaps you should seek…Mr. Nicholas Rutledge, who once appeared in our home, presenting himself as Nathaniel Raleigh, asking to be taken in as an apprentice. My father…,” she paused to clear her throat, then started over. “Nat, or Nicholas rather, proved he had great talent as a perfumer, and my father took him in, treated him like a son. Trusted him. Agreed to teach him the secrets of the trade.”

  A flicker of guilt passed through her, for she knew her father had agreed to take on the apprentice because he had looked upon “Nathaniel Raleigh” as a potential son-in-law, a perception she herself had encouraged, for she had fallen in love with the handsome young Englishman the moment she laid eyes upon him. Papa was of the old ways, always wishing for a son, even though from the time she was old enough to understand the nuances of perfumery he had taught her, his only child, everything he knew about the family business. When he’d learned of Simone’s feelings toward “Nathaniel,” he had broken his own rules and shar
ed his secrets with an outsider.

  “In return for this kindness and trust, Mr. Rutledge stole every formula my father had created,” Simone continued, determined to get through the whole story. “It killed Papa. His heart could not stand the pain of such a betrayal. He died the morning the theft was discovered. Perhaps it was best, for he never had to know that a year or so later, his formulas would show up in stores everywhere as cheap imitations, packaged and priced to attract the bourgeoisie.”

  “But this cannot be,” murmured Shamir, obviously distraught. “It…it would be a terrible danger…” He straightened abruptly, piercing her with his angry gaze. “I do not believe your father was successful in determining a synthetic for the ingredient required by my master,” he said, and Simone detected a hopeful note in his voice. What terrible danger did he mean? Would his master beat him or something if his formula had been mass produced? This was getting stranger and stranger.

  “Perhaps not,” she agreed, hoping he would leave now.

  “Where can I find this Mr. Nicholas Rutledge?”

  “I suppose Mr. Rutledge is still the master perfumer at the House of Rutledge. I believe their headquarters are in London.”

  “Then I will go there.” His expression turned from angry to grave. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Lefevre, if this terrible thing has not come to pass, if your father did not have a completed formula when Mr. Rutledge committed his crime, and if my master’s perfume has never been created, will you fulfill your father’s obligation to make the potion? I have heard it said you are an even greater talent than Monsieur Lefevre, no disrespect intended toward your father.”

  Simone felt her face grow hot, and she was troubled, wondering how this very disturbing man had learned such things about her. “What makes you think I would be any more successful than he in coming up with the missing ingredient?”

  Shamir’s face remained impassive, but his eyes belied his composure. Behind them she saw a flicker of…what? Exultation? Or madness…?

  “Perhaps, Mademoiselle, that may no longer be necessary. For now, I bid you adieu.”

  Before Simone could question him further, he ended their interview with a brief bow, then swept out of the front door, leaving behind him the waning jingle of the door chimes and Simone, staring at him open-mouthed.

  Chapter Two

  London

  The deathly quiet in which Nicholas Rutledge worked was shattered by the unexpected sound of the front door buzzer, startling him so badly he knocked over his coffee. “Damn!” He moved a stack of papers away from the pool of dark liquid and rose abruptly, searching for a napkin or towel to wipe up the mess before it spread and made its way to the computer terminal.

  He’d been working alone, deep in concentration, setting up the accounting system for his new fragrance company on the computer. He was not expecting anyone, or anything, until the shipment arrived from Bombay, and he frowned as he went to unlock the door of the modest offices he’d rented in London’s Esher area. Nearby, other international perfume companies such as Givenchy, Lancaster and Giorgio Beverly Hills were housed in more elaborate quarters, but Nick counted himself lucky to have enough resources just to become their neighbor.

  Someday, he vowed, he would outsell them all.

  His first caller was the FedEx man, perspiring in the unusual warmth of the early spring morning. “Delivery for Mr. Nicholas Rutledge.”

  Nick’s frown furrowed more deeply as his eyes took in the large, square parcel that rested on the pavement next to the man’s feet. It was crated in pine boards and measured about three feet in each direction. He signed for the delivery, both curious and annoyed when he saw it had been sent by Pritchett. What could be so important, he wondered as he carried the heavy box inside, that the man had sent it by express delivery instead of shipping it more economically along with the rest of the items on board the freighter? He’d warned Pritchett against unnecessary expenditures. Every pound counted as he started his fledgling enterprise.

  Nick carried the crate into the back room of the office/warehouse space and placed it on a large table he’d bought recently at a jumble sale. The room was mostly empty at present, but he hoped that soon it would become the heartbeat of Britain’s newest, most innovative and successful fragrance company. Soon the scents of thousands of essences would mingle inside these walls of gray concrete, where he would create the most exciting perfumes and other scented products the marketplace had seen in years.

  And soon, after ten years of miserable enslavement to that French bastard, Antoine Dupuis, he would call his life his own once again.

  Soon.

  Maybe.

  He thrust the familiar anger and raging doubts from his mind, forcing himself to remain in the moment. Locating a hammer, he began prying loose the wide slats of the crate. The nails squealed in protest as he pulled them one by one from the wood. Whatever was inside must be either terribly important or quite fragile for it to have been so sturdily packaged.

  The inner box was made of cardboard, and inside that, Nick could feel still another box of some kind nestled among cushioning foam pellets which spilled onto the floor when he retrieved the object.

  It appeared to be a small trunk, very old. As he set it carefully on the table, the exterior metal crumbled into particles of golden brown rust beneath his touch. Suddenly, for no reason he could fathom, a shiver rippled involuntarily down Nick’s spine, and he was overcome by a strange premonition, as if the trunk held some kind of danger or threat.

  A foolish notion, he reproached himself, throwing it off with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Carefully, he set about opening the trunk. He released the old-fashioned buckles of the two straps that encircled it, then with his letter knife picked at the ancient lock that hung rusting in the center pad eye, breaking the fragile barrier with little effort. When he eased the lid open, the trunk seemed to exhale, releasing a pungent, musty odor into his face. He almost gagged as the scent of air imprisoned for a long, long time comingled with a strange, sweetly cloying smell.

  He coughed and stepped back, waiting a few moments for the reek to dissipate, then peered into the chest, his interest now thoroughly piqued. The trunk was lined in dark, faded satin, and against the fabric nestled several items…a book, a packet of what looked to be letters, a small amber bottle and a brooch on a thin golden chain.

  Nick felt his heart inexplicably pick up a beat, and he reached for the necklace. The old-fashioned locket was cool against his skin. A dainty cameo glowed on the front, a delicately carved image of a woman’s face in three-quarters view. He studied the miniature sculpture for a moment, wondering who it had belonged to and if it was the likeness of anyone in particular. Turning it over in the palm of his hand, he read the initials engraved on the back.

  M.R.H.

  Curious, he edged his nail into the groove and pried the locket open. Inside curled a slender braid, with strands of deep russet woven among threads of light brown. He raised a brow. Was this a lover’s token of some sort?

  The idea turned Nick’s thoughts abruptly and unexpectedly to his own love life. Or rather, lack thereof. His seven-year marriage to one of England’s most beautiful socialites had been little more than a sham, ending in divorce only last year. She’d grown tired of his obsession with restoring the House of Rutledge, accusing him of being wed to his work, not her. Nick hadn’t argued. Phyllis was a fine woman, deserving of a better husband than he could ever be. It had been a loveless match from the outset, one he’d made primarily to please his mother, to whom a place in society meant everything and who had lost so much upon her husband’s disgraceful exit from the world.

  Lady Rutledge had now departed this world as well, and with her had gone Nick’s primary, maybe his only, reason to remain in that hellish relationship.

  Besides Phyllis, there had been no other. Well, unless he counted Simone. The image of the young French beauty who had so unexpectedly captivated him during his summer as her father’s apprentice in Gra
sse sprang instantly to his mind, and simultaneously, a slash of guilt shot through his heart.

  Nick snapped the locket shut. He mustn’t think about Simone. She belonged to a past that was unspeakably painful, a past he’d worked very hard to bury in a far, unreachable corner of his heart.

  Annoyed that he’d allowed his thoughts to wander in such a dangerous direction, he laid the cameo locket roughly on the table. Reaching into the trunk again, he brought out a small book with a faded red cover. Stamped in gold on the aging leather were the words “A Gentleman’s Diary.” Nick opened the fragile volume, and his heart almost stopped beating when he read the inscription written on the flysheet in a strong, distinctive handwriting: “For the eyes only of John Hamilton Rutledge. Do not trespass.”

  “Holy man,” he uttered, astounded.

  John Hamilton Rutledge. His mysterious ancestor who had founded the Bombay Spice & Fragrance Company and who had provided generations of Rutledges with fireside tales about the unsolved puzzle of his sudden disappearance.

  Nick had hoped Pritchett might come across some historical artifacts as the ancient company was dismantled, perhaps something that would enlighten him about what had actually taken place in those long-ago days. That’s why he’d given the man explicit instructions to preserve any relics that might turn up. But a diary! Nick shook his head, astonished at his luck.

  According to the stories Nick had heard at his grandfather’s knee, sometime back in the middle of the nineteenth century John Rutledge, the second son of an Earl, had had an affair with a woman of whom his parents, Lord and Lady Rutledge, disapproved. Nick recalled that supposedly the woman had not only been a commoner, but also, some claimed, a witch. He found the concept quaint.

  The story went that because of their illicit liaison, his ancestor’s family had forced John into the military, and he had been sent posthaste to India. A couple of years later, he had vanished one night without a trace from his military quarters in Bombay. The local police and the British Army alike had turned the city upside down in their search for him. There had been no sign of foul play. No body was ever found, and eventually the case was closed.