Page 12 of A Season for Scandal

It was painted in tall, bold black letters. I knew the quote –Jane Eyre. It stirred something inside me: not comfort but something sharper, spikier, something that felt like those plants – hot and alive.

I was so distracted by the artwork that I didn’t notice the other people in the room until someone cleared their throat behind me.

Whipping round, I saw Izzy, the young lady from last night, standing beside another woman. This must be Mrs Finch.

I don’t know what I had expected, given the strange way her name had suddenly popped up in my life, but it wasn’t the woman in front of me. She was – I would guess – in her late thirties, extremely pretty, and we shared the same soft, generous figure. She was clad in a shimmering blue silk gown that I coveted immediately, and she dressed in a way that highlighted and accentuated her ample curves, drawing the eye to the dip of her waist, the spread of her hips. She was not even trying to blend into the background. I wondered what Simon would think about that.

Her light brown hair was pulled tidily back, and her face was dominated by a pair of eyes the same colour as her dress. Those eyes were focused on me now, and despite her softness and the feminine prettiness of her appearance, her gaze was direct, almost fierce in its concentration. I felt myself standing straighter under her scrutiny, and although she didn’t actually smile, there was amusement in her expression.

“You must be Mrs Finch?” I asked, moving forward with my hand outstretched.

“Yes.” Mrs Finch took it, squeezed my fingers. “And you are Miss Bloom. I understand you’ve already met Her Grace, the Duchess of Roxton.”

I blinked. “I don’t…”

“She means me,” Izzy said with a sigh. “But don’t let the title throw you. It’s new and I’m not at all used to it either. I believe Mrs Finch is teasing you. And me.”

The woman in question only smirked.

“Oh – I mean, yes, Your Grace,” I said, stumbling over my words. Izzy, the woman who had stood with me in a dingy alleyway last night was aduchess? Wait – did that mean Max was a duke?

“Definitely not ‘Your Grace’.” Izzy grimaced. “We don’t go in for ceremony at the Aviary. Izzy is fine, thank you.”

“Izzy,” I repeated, dazed.

“Why don’t we sit and have some tea?” Mrs Finch gestured to one of the clusters of armchairs, and I noticed a tea service set up on a table between them. “I find that matters always seem so much less awkward when there’s tea. I think it’s because it gives you something to do with your hands.”

I managed a smile at that. “Tea would be lovely.”

Izzy and Mrs Finch both seemed utterly at ease, so I decided I wasn’t going to let the combination of this bizarre, clandestine meeting and the casual introduction of the upper echelons of the aristocracy throw me either.

“We were surprised to receive your card,” Mrs Finch said, once the tea had been served.

She was right: it was better to have something to do with my hands, and I swirled the silver teaspoon, slowly dissolving the lump of sugar in my amber tea.

“May I ask how you are acquainted with Oliver Lockhart?” she continued.

“I’m not,” I said, tapping the spoon gently against the side of my cup and laying it on my saucer. Not for the first time, my mind flashed to the man in question. In fact, his sulky, beautiful face had popped into my thoughts with worrying frequency over the last twenty-four hours. “I met him yesterday. At least, I assume it was him. The gentleman didn’t introduce himself.”

“Tall, fantastically handsome, stalks about like an ill-tempered cat?” Izzy lifted her brows.

“Yes.” I laughed at the perfect description. “That was him.”

“But you only met yesterday?” Mrs Finch’s question was cool.

“At the library.” I nodded. “It wasn’t exactly an auspicious meeting. I accidentally dropped a book on his head, and he was – understandably – displeased.”

“I’m surprised you ended the encounter on cordial terms,” said Izzy. “Oliver is not exactly known for being gracious.”

“I’m not sure what terms we left things on,” I admitted. “But I … poured out my problems to him, and he gave me the card, sending me here.”

“Hmmmm.” Mrs Finch tilted her head thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could tell us about the problems you shared with Mr Lockhart?”

I hesitated at that, my teacup lifted halfway to my lips.

“I realize it is a strange request.” Mrs Finch sat forward, her voice gentler now. “You don’t know us, but I assure you that you were sent here for a good reason. Whatever it is that troubles you may be something that we can assist with.”

“I truly don’t see how,” I said doubtfully, but after looking into their faces for another long moment, I decided to trust my instincts and lay out the whole sorry tale.