Page 11 of A Season for Scandal

I nodded. “That’s right. Be there in the morning at eight sharp. Ask for Suzy.”

“Why?” The suspicion was back.

“Because you need a job, and I need a delivery girl who is fast on her feet.”

Scout’s head dipped so that I couldn’t see her face. “S’pose I could do that,” she said gruffly, “if the price is right.”

“Good. Mind you aren’t late.” I tucked a coin into her hand. “Now go and get yourself something to eat … from a different stall, I think.”

Scout flashed me a brief, wary look, then dashed off. I hoped she would come to the shop, but at least for tonight she would be well fed.

I turned to the two strangers who were watching in silence.

“Thank you for your help,” I said, trying not to be too dazzled by the handsomeness of the man before me. “I think that was about to turn ugly.”

“Horrible man.” The girl sighed. “You should have let me punch him.” This was directed at her husband. “Still” – her eyes narrowed thoughtfully – “I suppose there are morecreativeways to deal with such bullies…”

She turned her attention to me, and the calculating look dropped from her face, her expression crinkling into a grin that was pure mischief. “I’m Izzy.” She held out her hand for me to shake. “This lovely bit of window dressing is my husband, Max.”

Max’s eyes lit with fond amusement as I shook Izzy’s hand and then his.

“Marigold,” I said.

“Oh, we know.” Izzy’s look was measuring. “I’ve come with an invitation.”

“An invitation?” The adrenaline from my confrontation with Scullen was wearing off, and I was starting to feel dizzy.

“From Mrs Finch.” Izzy’s smile grew. “What time can you be free tomorrow?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next day I was back at the Aviary, wondering just what, precisely, I was getting myself into. This time, the red-headed girl behind the counter greeted me with a grin of recognition.

“You’re to go straight up,” she said, holding the velvet curtain to one side. “Just follow the stairs to the top; you can’t miss it.”

When I hesitated for a moment, the girl’s smile softened. “It will only be a short meeting. We know you’re busy. I think you’ll be glad you came when you hear what Mrs Finch has to say.”

Still not sure what to think, I nodded, then I stepped past the curtain and began the climb.

The stairwell was bare and dark, though it smelled pleasantly of lavender. When I reached the top, I was met with another door: this one had a brass sign nailed to it with no words at all, only the image of a small bird.

I knocked.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice called, and I turned the handle.

I had been expecting some sort of office, but the room into which I stepped was more like the inside of a gentleman’s clubhouse. An enormous chimney breast dominated the centre of the space and groups of moss-green chairs and velvet sofas the colour of violets were arranged cosily around the double-sided fireplace. There were also tables holding chess sets, bookcases brimming untidily with books and periodicals, and a slightly battered piano in one corner. The whole room felt like an invitation from a host who cared only about warmth and comfort.

My attention turned to the walls. They had been painted white, but someone had covered them in tall, twining murals of plants and flowers. I saw splashy flame lilies, saw-toothed succulents, dancing lady orchids, delicate pink-tinged caladium leaves – all so beautifully rendered that they seemed to move, rippling across the paint.

Along the back wall, the flowers vanished, replaced instead with the words:

I am no bird; and no

net ensnares me:

I am a free human being

with an independent will.