The path to the southern glade was one Alistair Beaumont knew by heart.
He could have walked it blindfolded, cataloging the flora by the texture of the earth beneath his boots and the shifting scents on the air: the damp, peaty smell of the bog myrtle near the stream, the sharp tang of pine in the upper woods, and finally, the delicate, almost sweet perfume of the mosses that carpeted the glade itself.
This path was his sanctuary, a living library he had curated and protected since he was a boy.
Today, however, each step was laced with a cold dread. Mr. Finch’s words echoed in his mind, stoking the embers of an old, familiar paranoia. A woman, my lord. With a sketchbook. Making drawings.
It was just as he had always feared. Another scavenger. Another Vulture like Prescott.
The memory of Thomas Prescott was a wound that had never properly healed.
His former colleague, his supposed friend, who had lauded Alistair’s groundbreaking work on cross-pollination one day, only to publish it under his own name the next.
The betrayal had sent Alistair retreating from the competitive halls of the Royal Society into the humid solitude of his glasshouses.
Here, within these green and silent walls, his work could not be stolen. Here, he was in control.
But the orchid—the magnificent, impossible orchid he’d been observing for weeks—was not in his glasshouse.
It was out here, vulnerable, in a sun-dappled glade he had foolishly believed was his secret alone.
As he neared the clearing, the low hum of insects was punctuated by the delicate scratch of charcoal on paper. He slowed his pace, his boots sinking silently into the moss.
He moved behind the broad trunk of an ancient oak and peered into the glade.
There she was.
She was kneeling in the grass, her back to him.
A simple bonnet of straw and green ribbon lay discarded beside her, revealing a cascade of unruly auburn hair pinned in a loose chignon, with several rebellious strands catching the afternoon light like threads of copper.
Her dress was a practical, dark blue muslin, its hem stained with earth.
She was utterly absorbed in her work, her head bent over a large leather-bound sketchbook, her hand moving with a swift, confident grace.
She was not some village girl picking flowers. She was, as Finch had described, a scholar.
And that, Alistair thought with a twist of his gut, was infinitely worse.
A poacher of specimens could be run off with threats. A poacher of knowledge was a far more dangerous creature.
He stepped out from behind the tree, the snap of a twig under his heel deliberately loud.
The woman startled, her head jerking up. Her eyes, the colour of moss after a rain, widened first in alarm, then narrowed in appraisal.
She scrambled to her feet, clutching the sketchbook to her chest like a shield.
For a fleeting moment, Alistair registered that she was younger than he’d expected, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Then the moment passed, replaced by the cold certainty of his purpose.
“This is private land,” he said. His voice was flat, devoid of warmth. “You are trespassing.”
Beatrice Holloway’s heart hammered against her ribs.
The man who had emerged from the woods was tall and imposing, dressed not in the rough tweed of a gamekeeper but in the tailored coat and polished boots of a gentleman.
His hair was dark as loam, his jaw sharp, and his eyes—a startling, glacial blue—were fixed on her with an expression of profound disapproval.
This had to be him. The reclusive Earl of Blackwood.
She drew herself up to her full height, which was still a good head shorter than his. “My apologies, my lord, if I have strayed. I was merely engaged in some botanical observation.”
His gaze flicked from her face to the sketchbook she held. A flicker of something—contempt? confirmation?—crossed his features
“Observation,” he repeated, the word tasting like an accusation on his tongue. “Is that what you call it? Cataloging a specimen you intend to claim as your own discovery?”
Beatrice bristled. The raw, arrogant assumption in his tone was like a spark to dry tinder.
“I intend to claim it because it is my discovery. I found this flower three days ago. It is unclassified. I have seen nothing like it in any of my texts.”
A humourless smile touched his lips.
“Your texts? Forgive me, madam, but the library at Blackwood Manor is rather more extensive than what a… lady hobbyist might possess. I can assure you, I have been aware of this particular Cymbidium hybrid for quite some time.”
Lady hobbyist.
The phrase struck her with the force of a physical blow, dredging up years of thinly veiled condescension from university professors and dismissive sneers from members of the Royal Society.
Her indignation boiled over, hot and sharp.
“A hobbyist, my lord?” she shot back, her voice ringing with newfound steel.
“A hobbyist would admire the colour and sketch a pretty picture for her parlour. I have been documenting its unique labellum morphology and the specific venation on the petals, which suggests a possible genetic link to the Cymbidium lowianum of Burma, though its psuedobulb structure is entirely anomalous. A hobbyist does not sit in the mud for six hours to observe its specific pollinator, which, for your information, appears to be a species of solitary bee I have also not yet been able to identify.”
She took a breath, her chest heaving. The litany of facts, her shield and her sword, hung in the air between them.
For the first time, the Earl’s glacial composure seemed to crack. A flicker of surprise registered in his eyes before being swiftly suppressed.
He had clearly expected a stammering apology, not a lecture.
“Your grasp of the terminology is… commendable,” he allowed, his tone still dripping with condescension.
“It does not, however, change the fact that this orchid is growing on my land. It is, therefore, my property. As is any discovery associated with it.”
“Property?” Beatrice’s laugh was incredulous, sharp.
“You cannot claim ownership of a scientific discovery as if it were a prize sow at a county fair! Knowledge belongs to the world, not to the man whose soil it happens to spring from.”
“I am not claiming knowledge,” Alistair countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. He took a step closer, invading her space, forcing her to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze.
“I am protecting it. I am protecting my work from intellectual thieves who would trespass and exploit it for their own gain.”
The personal venom in his words was unmistakable. This wasn’t merely about property law; it was something deeper, more wounded. But Beatrice was too incensed by the accusation to feel any pity.
“You dare accuse me of being a thief?” she cried, her knuckles white where she gripped her sketchbook.
“You, who would use your title and your fences to lay claim to the work of others? I am a scientist! My name is Beatrice Holloway. My father was Alistair Holloway, a Fellow of the Royal Society, and I have dedicated my life to continuing his work. My integrity is all I have.”
The mention of her father’s name gave him pause, but only for a second. “Integrity does not grant you the right to trespass. Your father’s name does not give you permission to poach my research.”
“It is not your research!”
“It is now.”
The finality in his tone was absolute. He had drawn a line in the rich soil of the glade, and she was on the wrong side of it.
He stood there, a dark, immovable figure against the gentle greens and yellows of the clearing, the very picture of aristocratic tyranny.
Everything she had fought against—privilege, prejudice, the casual dismissal of her mind—was embodied in this man.
“You will leave my estate at once,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.
“You will not return. I will see to the classification and presentation of this orchid myself. Do not imagine for a moment that you can contest this. You have no legal standing, no proof, and no right to be here.”
The injustice of it stole her breath. He was erasing her.
With a few arrogant words, he was wiping away her discovery, her hope, her one chance to save her family from ruin. He was stealing her lifeline and calling her the thief.
A cold, hard fury settled in her chest, displacing the hot rage. It was a feeling she knew well, a feeling that had fueled her through every closed door and every patronizing smile. It was the feeling of resolve.
She met his icy gaze without flinching. Her own eyes, he thought with a strange, detached part of his mind, were like chips of emerald. Hard and brilliant.
“This is not over, my lord,” she said, her voice quiet but vibrating with an intensity that startled him.
“You may have fences and titles, but you have severely underestimated my determination. You have made a declaration of war, and I assure you, it is a war you will not so easily win.”
Without another word, she bent down, snatched her bonnet from the grass, and turning her back on him and her orchid, marched away.
Alistair watched her go, her spine ramrod straight, until the dark blue of her dress was swallowed by the shadows of the woods.
He was left alone in the silent glade.
The breathtaking flower, the cause of it all, swayed gently in the breeze, its colours vibrant and serene. But the peace of the sanctuary was shattered.
The woman’s parting words echoed in the air, a promise and a threat. He had come here to expel an intruder, to secure his domain.
Instead, he felt as though he had just locked the gates after the enemy was already inside.