The Last of Lady Lansdown Read Free Page B

back behind the counter. He reached underneath, brought up a brown paper packet and laid it before the earl. “Just arrived this morning.” Employing great care, he unfolded the paper. Within, cradled in cotton, lay a small vial filled with a black liquid.
    “Here it is. Not easy to come by, if I do say. Just as you ordered—genuine Spanish Fly.”
    Spanish Fly . The very words caused Lansdown’s heart to skip a beat. “You’re sure it’s genuine?”
    “Indeed, yes. ’Twas shipped direct from Spain through a most reliable source.” Felton held the vial up to the light. “Actually, flies have nothing to do with it. The substance comes from a powder made from the crushed dried wings of a greenish beetle found in Southern Europe called Lytta vesicatoria. It’s an aphrodisiac for men as well as women. Although it’s little known—”
    “I’m in a hurry.”
    “Of course, m’lord.” The apothecary hastened to rewrap the package. As he did so, he leaned forward, glanced around as if other ears might be listening and whispered, “It drives them wild.” He gave a lecherous wink. “A few drops of this and she will be on her knees begging for it. Dying to please you, to do whatever you want her to do. She will—”
    “Five crowns as agreed.” Lansdown drew out a bag of silver coins and unceremoniously poured them on the counter. “Good day, Felton.” He scooped up the package and turned to leave.
    “Use it with care,” Felton cried to the retreating figure. “No more than ten drops mixed with any liquid and not a drop more.” He heard a near-indistinguishable grunt from the earl, who did not bother to turn his head as he opened the door. “Mind, it is a most dangerous drug, m’lord, and must be used properly, else—”
    The door slammed. Felton shrugged and softly addressed the empty shop. “Else you could kill the poor girl.”
     
    At last he had his Spanish Fly. Back in the coach, Lansdown leaned back against the squabs and allowed himself a satisfied smile. The months of frustration were at an end. By God, his wife of a year, the high-and-mighty Jane, would soon receive the surprise of her life.
    Arthur gazed out the coach window, taking no notice of the beauty of the lush shades of green foliage lining the road to Chatfield Court, nor the ever-changing view of the River Hulm, which resembled a ribbon of sparkling blue on this warm summer day.
    I was cursed from birth . Everyone said he was the lucky one, the twin born first, the older son who inherited the title, mansion, vast estates, while James, born a minute later, was merely the second son, left with the dregs.
    So was James the unlucky twin? No, by God, not with a wife who had borne him eight children! With all the delicacy of a rabbit, Beatrice popped out a baby every other year or so, all of them healthy, not a runt in the bunch. Among them, five sons. Five! Whereas he, Arthur, the honored and revered Earl of Lansdown, remained childless. No sons. Childless, by God, and not only that, forced to beam with delight at the christenings of his brother’s brats while he seethed inside, his envy nearly tearing him apart. Galling!
    Of course Elizabeth was entirely to blame. His utterly barren first wife tried her best, he supposed, spending countless hours in useless prayer, stuffing herself with pomegranate seeds and God-knew-what concoctions. Nothing worked, and when she finally died, some said of desperation, he felt a certain amount of regret—yes, of course, he did—but even as he stood by her freshly dug grave, he vowed his next wife would be young, beautiful and fertile. Above all else, fertile .
    Jane had deceived him. Even he, as intelligent and perceptive as a man could be, was fooled by her beauty and surface charm. There was a time when he was so smitten he thought he could not do without her. Even married her without a dowry. She seemed perfect at first. Miss Jane Hart, daughter of a baronet, had a coming-out and a season in London