A Scent of Magic Read online

  Could she, after all this time, be seeking revenge? Nick decided that was a definite possibility, but if so, he couldn’t fathom what her plan could be. The questions hammered at him more rapidly as the horse broke into a gallop.

  Was her body as lush as he’d known it in his dreams? Why in hell had he ever listened to Dupuis?

  And why, oh God, why had he ever left her?

  Nick arrived at Brierley Hall without knowing how he got there. He was heartsick and filled suddenly with those old feelings of dread and defeat he had worked years to overcome. Damn, had he ever made one right decision in his life? Had he made such a mess of his life, dug his hole so deep that he could never climb out? Was he his father’s son after all?

  Seeing Simone again had brought it all back. Those exquisite warm summer days in sunny France, when as a young man, brash and eager to prove he was not cut from the same cowardly mold as his father, he’d managed to become Simone’s father’s apprentice. He shuddered to think now of the audacity of his behavior then. He hadn’t really wanted to undertake the plot, which had been outlined to him carefully by Antoine Dupuis. But at that time, he’d felt he had no choice. He should have backed off the moment he first laid eyes on the old perfumer’s daughter.

  Simone. He loved her still. He knew it. And the knowledge nearly ate him alive.

  With guilt.

  With grief.

  With longing for what could never be.

  Perhaps she was here with some plan for revenge. Perhaps she would destroy him. Perhaps if she did, he would at last be able to forgive himself for the terrible injury he had caused her.

  Absently, he turned his horse over to the trainer and walked on unsteady legs back into the house. His peace was shattered, his world turned dark all over again. He had to get out of here. He could not stand the idea that Simone Lefevre was at that very moment living, breathing, being, so close to him.

  He slammed the door, which brought the housekeeper shuffling into the large foyer to see what was the matter. “Would you like tea, Sir?” she asked, peering up at him through thick glasses.

  He glared at her, forgetting momentarily who she was. “What?”

  He saw her step away from him slightly, and recalled that Simone had done the same. God in heaven, did every little thing have to remind him of her?

  “Tea?” the servant squeaked.

  “I will be leaving immediately,” he informed her brusquely, but when he saw the confusion and disappointment on her face, he apologized. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I won’t be needing your services further, but I will pay you the amount we agreed upon for the full fortnight, and I do hope you will consider coming to work here when I open the house again.” Nick felt badly that he was treating the woman so inconsiderately, but maybe the money and the promise of future employment would assuage any ill feelings she might have.

  At any rate, she gave him a nod and a smile. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” she said, then shuffled back into the kitchen, where in a moment he heard the banging of pots and pans.

  The brief conversation with the housekeeper served to bring Nick back to the present, and to the reality of his life. He had a business to build. A life to get on with. That disagreeable encounter with Simone was only that…an encounter. Get over it. He gritted his teeth and went upstairs to pack his valise. He’d find out soon enough what she was up to. Until then, he must keep up his guard, both professionally and emotionally.

  Placing the diary and Mary Rose’s letters carefully in the trunk, Nick picked up the amber perfume bottle, now sealed tightly with a fresh cork. One thing was certain, he must never experiment with this stuff again, at least not to induce the evocative dreams. For he knew within the shrouds of the indigo mist, Simone Lefevre waited for him like a siren, calling him to his destruction.

  Simone felt as if she was going to be sick. She raced to the bathroom and stood over the sink, trembling, heaving, her skin clammy. Gulping several deep breaths, she gradually began to regain control, but not before tears welled and spilled down her cheeks. Damn him! First in her dreams, and then in the flesh! How could it be?

  Seeing him, being with him in both realms took her back to that night ten years ago when, restless and unable to sleep, she’d wandered in on him, known to her then as Nathaniel Raleigh, in the tiny office of the perfumery in Grasse and found him rummaging through her father’s rather disorganized filing cabinet. She should have followed her first instincts to cry out, to warn the household that a theft was taking place. But she could not believe it. Not Nat, her tender, passionate lover to whom she had given herself freely and willingly, whom she wished in her deepest heart to wed.

  It was bad enough that she had not alerted her family, but worse the reason why. Although he’d seemed disturbed that she’d discovered him, Nat had quickly covered himself in the cloak of both lover and trusted apprentice, assuring her as he took her in his arms and kissed her thoroughly that he was there at her father’s request, to help put the place in better order. It seemed reasonable to Simone, only seventeen at the time and not wise to the wickedness that existed in the world.

  Simone sank onto the bed, as crushed at the moment as she had been the morning following Nat’s deception, when she awoke and hurried eagerly down to breakfast, hoping to meet her lover before he began the day’s work. In the kitchen, she’d come upon her family in a state of extreme agitation and learned that the apprentice had not been in the office at her father’s request. When she’d come upon him the night before, he had indeed been in the middle of stealing everything Jean René had worked for his entire life. Simone had watched her father die right before her eyes when he learned what had happened.

  Why had fate brought her face to face with that despicable man again? And why in God’s name was she dreaming about him? Those kinds of dreams. For she knew somehow that even though she had not seen his face in the earlier fantasies, it had been him all along. Seducing her. Pleasuring her.

  Lying to her once again.

  Fury replaced despair at the thought, and she straightened. Mon Dieu! She would not allow that to happen again. In her loneliness, she’d been a fool to use the perfume oil to rendezvous with her unidentified lover, giving him her body in every intimate way imaginable as they lay together, hidden among the mists.

  The perfume oil.

  Her thoughts slammed into it like a brick wall. It was the sweetly scented oil that had brought her here, to this place owned by Nicholas Rutledge. Did he know about the fragrant essence?

  Déjà vu.

  What if Nicholas Rutledge somehow had the same substance? What if he used it to create a fragrance very much like Simone had designed in her mind to be her own debut grand parfum? Antoine Dupuis had told her he believed Nick would attempt something sensational in his desperation to make a comeback. Had he stolen “her” perfume already?

  No. Likely, he did not have the perfume oil. Or even if he did, she reasoned, like her, he possibly had not been able identify it. Dupuis had reported that Nick’s disassembly of the Bombay Spice & Fragrance Company had left him with no lab and no manufacturing facility, at least temporarily. If he had the essence, unless he had a better nose than hers, which Simone thought unlikely, he had probably not been able to replicate and mass produce it yet.

  Her mind raced. The essential oil she had discovered in the robin-crested perfume container had come from this very house. Who had created it? When? And of what? The bottle itself was of the Victorian age. Did that mean the fragrance was of that vintage as well, or had a more modern owner filled the antique bottle with a later concoction?

  Simone refused to give up, to lose to Nick Rutledge again. A smile slowly crept across her lips as it occurred to her that with the perfume oil, she had the perfect opportunity to exact the revenge upon him of which she’d always dreamed. Not only would she take his job at the House of Rutledge, she would also use the ultramodern labs and manufacturing facilities which Nick himself had set up there to dissect this essen
ce that itself was somehow connected with Nick’s property and create a truly grand parfum.

  A scent so sensational it would outsell Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps, or perhaps even surpass the world’s all-star perfume, Chanel No. 5.

  A scent that would capture the world’s wildest imagination.

  A scent so successful there would be no room for a has-been like Nicholas Rutledge to take even a tiny fragment of the market share.

  The idea made her laugh out loud.

  But, she remembered, sobering, first she had to learn the origin of the sensual oil. Well, she thought, this was the place to do it. Not here in Nick’s cottage, of course, but perhaps in Redford. She’d find someplace else to stay for a few days, or long enough to try to uncover some information about the essence so that when she met with Dupuis in London, she would be prepared not only to accept the position as master perfumer at the House of Rutledge, but also to move swiftly toward the fulfillment of her dreams—creating a grand parfum, and destroying Nicholas Rutledge.

  Chapter Seven

  Nick squelched the urge to kick the small car that absolutely, unequivocally refused to start. Triumph. He snorted. There was nothing triumphant about this vehicle. If he didn’t love it so much, he’d hate it. The damned thing didn’t work half the time, and Nick had never learned how to fix it. Auto mechanics was not a subject that was stressed at the elite boys’ school he’d attended. It was late Saturday afternoon. He was certain it would be Monday before he could get a mechanic from the village to take a look at it.

  Damn.

  Since seeing Simone, Nick’s mood had shifted several times, going from shock and confusion to dismay to wary concern, finally returning to a renewed resolve to get on with his plans for Bombay Fragrances, Ltd. and the development of the perfume. It was the only thing that gave his life meaning, and without it, all that had gone before would have been for nothing.

  Nick could not accept nothing. Mistakes and all, he’d worked too hard to accept anything less than total success. He was anxious to return to London immediately, and this latest car trouble only darkened his mood further.

  He slammed back into the house, which once again brought the now thoroughly confused housekeeper into the main hall to investigate the noise. “You’ll have to stay until Monday,” he informed rather than asked her.

  “Yes, Sir. That will be fine, Sir. I hadn’t had time t’ change my plans.”

  “I’ll take my evening meal upstairs in my room.”

  “Very good, Sir.”

  “But not for another hour.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Dining was the last thing on Nick’s mind, but he knew the woman loved to prepare food, and he’d already treated her in a beastly manner. His mother, God rest her soul, would have been appalled. Rutledges, in spite of their financial impoverishment, were Rutledges, after all. And Rutledges did not behave like boors. He could almost hear her voice.

  At the moment, he wished he’d never been born a Rutledge. He wished he wasn’t haunted by this obsessive need to restore the Rutledge name, to prove to the world and perhaps even more to himself that Rutledge blood was still blue. Nick climbed the wide stairs and made his way to his room at the far end of the house, remembering a passage from his ancestor’s diary. In his anger and pain, John Rutledge had written…A great deal of good that birthright is to me!

  Nick could relate.

  He poured a Scotch whisky neat and stood looking out of the window, his gaze traversing the wide meadow that stretched behind the house. His minds’ eye entered the forest beyond and made its way to the carriage house. To Mary Rose’s house. To Simone. Was she still there?

  Nick tossed back the tot, consuming it in one swallow, and the whisky burned all the way to his gut. He poured himself another. How in hell had she turned up at Brierley Hall? He was still astounded at the improbability. And still suspicious of it being an innocent coincidence.

  Stop thinking about her, he commanded himself, pacing the room. It was an unfortunate accident, nothing more. But his thoughts would not leave her. He needed action. Something to keep his mind occupied. He wished he could call up the club and schedule a tennis match. Or go to the polo fields where he could act out his aggression like a gentleman. Instead, he felt like a prisoner in his own home.

  He picked up the Gentleman’s Diary, and it fell open to an entry Nick had marked with a bit of paper. Although he knew the story well already, he read it again:

  I have just returned from a remarkable journey. After long avoiding the entreaties of my loyal Indian servant, I succumbed to his insistence that I visit his relative in the monastery. It was a difficult journey of several days’ duration. We stayed two nights behind the walls of the sanctuary, guests of the strange, quiet men who go about their lives in the cloistered environment in the foothills of the mighty Himalayas.

  The trip was worth it just to gaze upon the majesty of those mountains. The view was breathtaking—I wish I could have shared it with Mary Rose. But the journey has resulted in something even more intriguing. I was initially reluctant believe that any ointment on earth could assuage my anguish and loneliness, as my assistant had assured me the monk’s potion would. But in truth, the sweetly-scented oil with which my body was anointed by one of the young neophytes infused me with such equanimity of spirit and peace of mind, I nearly lost my senses. I found I did not wish to return to this hellhole that is my existence, and had not my good assistant led me away from the monastery almost by force, I would have become a runaway from the Army.

  Use of the balm is forbidden outside the monastery, for my assistant tells me the monks believe it contains the secret to life eternal, a benefit only those holy few are worthy of. Being of rational mind, I doubt that claim, but the effect of the redolent unguent on my misery was so remarkable I wish to attempt to set it in writing.

  At first I fell into a deep and pleasant sleep, not remarkable after a long journey, a soothing bath and the application of the oil. I dreamed that I was home again, at Brierley Hall. I rode across the meadow and entered the forest wherein I encountered Mary Rose, pretty as a woodland sprite kneeling by the beck, gathering herbs. Again, not remarkable, as I dream of her every night. But this dream was different, and I find at the moment I cannot bring myself to record it openly upon these pages after all, for in it, we were together as only husband and wife should be, and then the most daring!

  Upon awakening, I thought at first my longing for Mary Rose would only become worse, our separation underscored by the very reality of the dream. But it was not so! Instead, it seemed as if she had become somehow physically closer to me, as if the thousands of miles between us meant nothing.

  The next morning, I asked for another treatment with the liniment, to which the monk agreed in hesitation. He warned me that it was not to be used to avoid reality, only to temporarily relieve private pain. I did not understand fully his meaning, but for many days upon my return to Bombay I longed for its extraordinary gratification, and I can see that it would be easy to fall into habitual use, much like with opiates.

  Although the monks jealously guard their mahja plants, which supposedly will not grow anywhere else on earth, I managed to nip several pods from one of the bushes that grow in abundance on the monastery grounds. I planted some of the seeds here, but having seen the resplendent results of the nurturing touch of my lady love in her garden, I have decided to send the rest to her in England. Even if my specimens do not grow, with her ability to cultivate plants, I may obtain the mahja oil after all. Perhaps there will be a use for it in my new enterprise, which I am calling the Bombay Spice & Fragrance Company.

  The more she thought about Nicholas Rutledge, the angrier Simone became. Swearing furiously in French, she flung the last of her belongings into her bag and dug in her purse for the number of the estate agent she’d decided to call to come get her. Of all the improbable coincidences that this cottage belonged to Nicholas Rutledge.

  A knock sounded at the door and Si
mone froze. Had Nick come back? Damn it all. If he’d just waited a few more minutes, she would have made her escape.

  “What do you want?” she yelled, yanking the door open, expecting another confrontation. But before her stood a woman who looked like somebody’s benign little grandmother.

  The woman’s expression reflected bewildered uncertainty, but then she laughed. “I beg your pardon,” she said, “but I walk this way frequently, and I was in the lane and saw the, uh, scene that occurred a few moments ago. I don’t mean to intrude on your business, but if you are in need of other lodging arrangements, I have a few rooms in my home that I rent out.”

  The Fairy Godmother. Simone smiled at the woman. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do need other arrangements.”

  An hour later, the pair sat across from one another over tea. “So you are a perfumer?” The elderly woman’s eyebrows rose right into the silver blue waves of hair that rolled across her wide, lined forehead. “Isn’t that just something!”

  Simone felt her face burn at the woman’s almost childlike enthusiasm. Granted, being a perfumer was something of an unusual occupation, but Esther Brown seemed unduly excited about it. Perhaps she was just trying to make her guest feel welcome and important.

  “My father was also a perfumer,” Simone added, sipping the excellent Earl Grey. “In Grasse, in the south of France.”

  The round little woman opposite her let out another exclamation of delight. “Oh, dear, this is just too, too much. My spells are working, they’re working…”

  Her voice trailed off into some invisible thought, and Simone shifted uncomfortably. Spells?

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Wait here just a minute, my dear. I want to show you something.”