A Botanist's Guide to Parties and Poisons （Saffron Everleigh Mystery #1）
Kate Khavari
For my very own biologist
CHAPTER 1
Light poured from the windows of the grand house, illuminating the front steps and graveled drive. The taxi rolled to a stop and Saffron emerged, then was led up the stairs by a liveried footman. A maid took her coat, and for a moment, Saffron stood in the doorway to the lavish sitting room, where about twenty people were gathered. The room was vast and cool despite a fire in the large marble hearth. With tall walls papered with green silk and countless pieces of highly polished heirloom furniture, it reminded her very much of her grandparents’ house; it was the sort of place that was heaped with family treasures that were ignored by everyone but the maids.
A ripple of anxiety went through her as she looked at the large group, scanning the faces for the one she wanted to avoid. It was hardly necessary; if Dr. Berking were already here, she would hear his booming voice. Scolding herself for her cowardice, Saffron straightened her shoulders. There was little danger in a dinner party.
Saffron stepped forward and offered her name to the butler. A few curious faces turned to her as he announced her arrival in dignified tones, and an older man moved to greet her. He introduced himself as Sir Edward Leister.
Saffron smiled at her host and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, sir. I understand that you are in large part to thank for making the Amazonian expedition possible.”
Sir Edward waved off her comment. His dull eyes barely took her in as he replied, “Of course, I’m happy to share my funds with University College.” He spoke a little too loudly to be genuine.
Sir Edward guided her toward several members of the university’s staff with whom Saffron was already acquainted. Their inquisitive eyes swept over her. Those that knew her were probably surprised to see her in clothing not marred by soil or dust. Saffron smoothed a hand over the beaded dress. Although the deep cornflower blue, the precise color of her eyes, was understated, the shimmering beading was definitely flashier than anything Saffron would have normally worn. Her limited wardrobe no longer stocked gowns for such occasions, so her flatmate had borrowed the frock from another receptionist in her office. It fell straight from shoulder to below the knees, flattening her figure and leaving her arms bare. She and Elizabeth, her flatmate and oldest friend, had done their best to curl and pin Saffron’s brunette hair into a stylish arrangement, and unearthed their best set of silk evening gloves for the occasion.
A tall man with dark hair was looking at her with a serious expression. As their eyes met, he joined her.
“I’m Alexander Ashton,” he said. “We’re on the same floor in the North Wing. I believe you’re Dr. Maxwell’s assistant.”
The introduction was unnecessary, as it would be nearly impossible for any member of the close-knit biology department of University College London to be unknown to another. Not only that, but Saffron was the only woman currently employed by the department and had been the topic of unpleasant rumors lately.
As for Mr. Ashton, Saffron knew exactly who he was. Saffron remembered him from the beginning of her days as a student, another vaguely intimidating figure in the background as she struggled to settle into her studies and then, in the past year, her work. People spoke of Alexander Ashton with respect, because he had completed his graduate courses in half the time others required, and had crossed the globe to complete studies in exotic locations. She hadn’t heard much about his current research, either because the gossips had little interest in his work or because Mr. Ashton didn’t bandy about his publications as others did.
Now, towering over her in a well-fitted dinner jacket, with his attention fixed on her, he was just as intimidating. Dark brows framed darker eyes, and his mouth was held firmly beneath a slightly curved nose. Compared to the other men in the room, his complexion stood out against the crisp white of his shirt, as if he’d recently come back from a holiday spent outdoors. The only part of his appearance that was less than tidy was the curl of his hair that his pomade fought against.
“Yes, I am Dr. Maxwell’s research assistant,” she said. Mr. Ashton took her offered hand, warming her gloved fingers with his. “Saffron Everleigh.”
He looked at her blankly. “Your name is Saffron?”
Saffron sighed. Apparently the department gossips did not include her Christian name when they churned the rumor mill. “Yes, of course, how appropriate. A botanist named for a stigma and style of a flower. Very amusing,” she said.