“But one of them is extraordinary,” Annabelle told him. “Have you seen it? The original vanilla orchid?”
“What makes that one special?”
She explained the historical mystery behind the orchid that hadn’t been seen in over a hundred years. “Botanists and orchid hunters have been looking for decades but can’t find it. Rumor claims that your brother has one, which would make it the only known survivor anywhere in the world.”
Luke leaned forward, his voice intrigued. “Do you mean my brother has some rare plant in that greenhouse and has yet to capitalize on it?”
“This has nothing to do with money,” she rushed to assure Gray, who remained annoyingly impassive. “It’s a scientificmystery we are dying to solve. We’d like to see what the original vanilla orchid was like before it was hybridized overseas.”
Gray said nothing, and the silence began to stretch. Only the sound of a grandfather clock ticking somewhere down the hall broke the quiet. She held her breath, for if she could find that orchid, a permanent job at the Smithsonian was waiting for her.
“I know you are loyal to the Smithsonian,” Gray finally said. “I know you consider them peaceable, harmless scientists. They aren’t. They have an agenda.”
“Yes!” she said passionately. “Their agenda is to unlock the mysteries of the world around us. There’s no profit motive involved, just the insatiable, unquenchable need to know. Curiosity is what makes us different from the animals. It’s what makes us strive to discover new things or come up with remarkable products like the spices and herbs that came out of your kitchen tonight. If you have that orchid in your greenhouse, it might be another piece of the grand, worldwide puzzle botanists are trying to piece together.”
He scrutinized her for so long it became uncomfortable. Candlelight flickered on the planes of his face, and it was impossible to read him. “All right,” he finally said. “Tomorrow morning I’ll show you everything I have.”
Relief flooded through her.
At the end of the meal, Annabelle wanted to thank the cook, for everything had been marvelous. The kitchen was modest, with copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling alongside bundles of dried herbs.
The housekeeper took her compliment in stride, nodding to a row of spices stored on a shelf above the counter. “It all comes from proper seasoning,” she said simply.
Gray gestured Annabelle over to the shelf containing dozens of identical bottles, all sporting the Delacroix label. In short order, he collected six bottles and set them on the counter.
“Take these home with you,” he said. “Aside from the cayenne, they are easy to use and won’t ruin your meal. Be brave.”
The bottles contained cardamom, cumin, sumac, paprika, turmeric, and cayenne pepper. She picked up a glass bottle that easily sat in the palm of her hand. “How much does a jar like this cost?”
“Fifty cents,” he said. “I still need to get the price lower and figure out a distribution system to get them affordably shipped all over the country. Soon even Kansas won’t be safe from properly seasoned food.”
She loved his dry sense of humor, but before she could reply, he opened a cabinet and retrieved a different sort of bottle. It was tiny and dark. He unscrewed the cap and extended it to her.
“Your collection would not be complete without this,” he said. “Smell.”
She took a whiff and almost fainted with pleasure. “Vanilla?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s liquid!”
“Yes,” he said again. “We’ve been working on it for a decade. Vanilla extract is a challenging process, but it stays fresh longer than the ground seeds.”
It was late, but when Gray escorted her to the base of the stairs, Annabelle didn’t want the evening to end. Darkness had fallen, allowing the kerosene lanterns to provide soft illumination in the hallway.
Gray paused, as though hesitant to speak. “That bottle of vanilla is for you alone,” he said. “No handing it over to the Smithsonian or the Department of Agriculture.”
She’d heard that vanilla extract was appallingly expensive, but something about his stern tone indicated his concern had nothing to do with its cost. “Is there something unique about this particular bottle of vanilla?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “It’s the real thing. I’m in a race against chemists who are working toward creating an imitation vanillaextract by distilling wood-tar creosote along with a little clove oil and chemicals.”
“Yuck,” she instinctively said.
“My thoughts exactly,” he replied. “The quest to develop real vanilla extract is the holy grail for spice manufacturers. The chemists can make a fake version cheaper than anything I can produce, but mine tastes better.”
She held the bottle aloft. “Is this what made the vanilla tart taste so good tonight?”
His eyes warmed. “It is. My father and I worked for years on a cold-pressed solution for vanilla extract. It’s the best in the world.” He reached out to fold her hand around the bottle of vanilla, triggering an involuntary thrill, for it felt wonderfully tender and intimate. “This is for you alone,” he repeated, his voice a rough whisper in the darkness. “Do what you wish with the spices, but don’t share the vanilla extract.”
