Powder of Love (I) Read Free Page A

sorting letters, when Miss Renshaw knocked firmly on the door and strode in without waiting for a response.
    “Is something the matter?” Rosalie asked. Miss Renshaw usually scratched at a door and entered a room as if unsure of her welcome.
    “Ah, Rosalie! Isn’t it all marvelous?”
    Rosalie had been requesting Miss Renshaw use her Christian name for a year, without success. She put down the letters and examined her companion. As always, Miss Renshaw wore a cheerful expression, but not her usual unfocused smile. Her eyes were hungry and alert. With her rather beaky nose, she resembled a fierce hunting bird.
    Miss Renshaw closed her eyes and shivered as if she had twisted her whole body into some kind of new, tight-fitting gown. Her cheeks, normally rather pale, were almost as rosy as her pink brocade gown.
    “Miss Renshaw? Are you well?” A sudden unpleasant suspicion seized Rosalie. “What have you been doing since dinner?”
    “I was straightening your desk. And looking through two crates of his lordship’s…er… There is a sculpture that quite made me blush.”
    Beels came in with the fresh bottle of ink Rosalie had asked him to fetch. Miss Renshaw, already glowing like a lamp, brightened. “Beels.” She gave him a wide, toothy smile. He put down the bottle and took a step back. Miss Renshaw laughed, a loud peal unlike her usual polite ripple of laughter. “No really, I shan’t harm you. I declare, you are skittish. Mr. Beels.”
    “Miss Renshaw. Emily.” Rosalie spoke sharply to get her attention. “This is important. Did you look in the box? I mean, a red, well-polished little box on my desk?”
    “The wooden one. Yes. My dear Rosalie. What is your Christian name, Beels? Yes, yes, I recall. Horace. The so-wise poet. A lovely name.”
    Beels started to edge toward the door. Miss Renshaw went after him and clasped his sleeve with her pale fingers. “Please. Do stay. I would so like something cool and refreshing.” Her gaze fixed on his mouth, she inched closer to him.
    “Ma’am. Miss,” he pleaded, looking over Miss Renshaw’s head at Rosalie.
    Rosalie nodded to him. “You may go. Please bring us some lemonade.” Panic and laughter clawed at her throat—she wasn’t sure which was going to win the battle inside her.
    Miss Renshaw’s overbright eyes gleamed. Rosalie called after Beels. “And if Cook can spare some ice, please put a few shards in the lemonade. I believe it should be made as cold as possible.”
    He left. Miss Renshaw stood swaying for a moment before she drifted to the sofa.
    “Miss Renshaw, this is important. Did you open the box?” Rosalie asked as soon as the door closed.
    “Yes. And the other box inside was difficult to open too. I couldn’t even open the little container. When I shook it, I heard a tiny rattle. Perhaps they were beans? I do wonder what was in that, my dear. I feel so very odd.” Miss Renshaw ran her fingertips over her mouth, as if feeling the shape and texture of her thin lips. “Some dust was on the outside of the container. It was so…” Her voice trailed off, and she heaved another deep sigh. “It’s lovely. Gold and purple dust. Heavy substance, light dust. Whatever is inside created that dust, I believe, but I don’t think it’s an opiate, for I’m not at all sleepy. I do think it contains something powerful, however.”
    “I think so as well.” Rosalie remembered Mr. Dorsey and his dire warnings. Perhaps he hadn’t exaggerated after all.
    Her companion was back on her feet. She spread her thin arms wide and threw back her head, tottering a little like a child who’d turned in circles until she was too dizzy to stand upright. As a rule, Miss Renshaw had very little conversation. She was even quieter than Mr. Reed. Now she chattered and looked about, alert and without a trace of her sleepy manner.
    “I don’t believe I’ve felt this alive in years. I’m so very hungry.”
    “Please, sit down. I’ll order some food as well as