“He is my family’s solicitor,” she said. “He’s exceedingly pleasant, don’t worry.”
It was not the notion of meeting with a solicitor that made Alexander wary, though it should have, but rather that this man was in business with Saffron’s family. Viscount Easting was her grandfather, something he’d been embarrassed to learn after Nick had mentioned it in their first meeting at the flat. Ellington was the estate where Saffron had grown up and had she been a man would have inherited. He’d not known of the Everleigh family’s status when he’d been taught by Professor Thomas Everleigh, for he’d never been called a lord or an honorable or anything other than “Professor.”
But that was a problem for another day. Saffron stood before him, offering assistance when she didn’t have to. He’d make do with what he had, then see what the next step was in making her see he felt something more than the friendship she kept bringing up.
Alexander cleared his throat. “Have you met him?”
“I have, several times,” she said. “He was a friend to my father in addition to managing the family’s legal affairs.” Her eyes clouded momentarily before flicking up to meet his again. “I should accompany you to see him. He’s a very busy man, but he always makes time for me.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“Noon?”
He agreed, and she gave him a small smile before bustling off to her own office.
The lunch hour came upon him sooner than expected, leaving him rushing to tidy his space before struggling through doing up his cufflinks and donning his jacket. He was just tugging on his overcoat when Saffron’s knock came upon his door again.
They caught a bus to Marylebone. Unfortunately, traffic left them at a standstill. Just outside the bus’s window stood a sign marking the Warren Street Underground station.
“We ought to just get off and take the Underground,” he said.
She shuddered next to him. “Absolutely not.”
He quirked a brow, and to his surprise, her cheeks flushed pink. “Why not?”
“I do not care for the Underground.”
“Because it’s crowded? Smelly? Did you have a bad experience with a train getting stuck?”
“I don’t like that it goes underground,” she said almost plaintively. “And don’t bother to poke fun at me, I’ve heard every jest about a botanist fearing being underground that could ever be told. Elizabeth has even invented new ones to make fun of me.”
Alexander chuckled. “And said them far better than I could, I’d wager. Why do you dislike that it goes underground?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “I used to think it was claustrophobia, actually.”
“Ah.” Alexander had done research into phobias, thinking it might help him overcome his own neurosis after his injury. His research had led him to Freud and his examinations of anxiety hysteria. He wondered if Saffron was aware that Freud believed claustrophobia had to do with an excess of libido, and decided not to mention it.
“But this,” she went on with a wave of her hand, “doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”
The bus wasn’t packed as it might have been later in the afternoon, but they were standing with a handful of others near the rear, with every seat filled.
“And the greenhouses are packed with plants,” Alexander added.
“Exactly. So it’s not to do with crowding or being in a place with a closed door. I believe it’s actually being underground that bothers me. Subterraphobia, if you will.”
Alexander laughed. “You’re mixing your roots. Phobia comes fromphobos, which is—”
“Greek. I am well aware,” she said wryly.
“It could bebathophobia,” he mused, emphasizing the Greek pronunciation of the words. “Fear of deep things. Or …ypógeiosmeans underground, soypógeiosphobiais the most accurate if you truly don’t like anything subterranean. Rather a mouthful, though.”
He couldn’t resist smiling at the way Saffron watched his mouth form the words.
The traffic eventually cleared, delivering them to New Cavendish Street. Saffron led him to a red brick building with white window trim and black wrought-iron lattice work around the door and transom window.
They were admitted to a parlor to wait but had barely sat on the comfortable couch before a man in his late forties or early fifties entered the room. He was dressed in a smart, dark suit with a ruby-red tie. His black hair was generously threaded with gray, and his skin was tanned and creased in a way that suggested he smiled widely and often. He reminded Alexander of Mr. Ferrand.
“Miss Saffron,” he said warmly, kissing the air next to Saffron’s cheek as she took his hand. “And you have brought a friend, I see.”
